Roman Games(18)

“Two upstairs guarding the slaves, sir. Two more at the front and back doors, one more for relief.”



“Quarters comfortable enough? You may be here for several days.”



Valens smiled crookedly. “Compared to the camp, sir? This is a holiday.”



The City Battalions, under the command of Aurelius Fulvus, the prefect, shared a camp with the Praetorian Guard on the outskirts of Rome. Rivalry between the two forces was intense; insults and fistfights were a common occurrence. The five thousand Praetorians, pampered and well-paid, were the emperor’s household troops. The troopers of the City Battalions, on the other hand, were the poor relations—understaffed, underpaid, with little chance of promotion. But it was they, nonetheless, who did the hard work of policing this great, teeming beehive of a city with its million inhabitants, half a dozen languages, festering slums, and casual brutality, to the extent that it could be policed at all.

“Hardly a holiday,” Pliny said, maintaining his scowl. “We’ve serious business to do here.”



“Quite so, sir.” Again, the mocking tone.



“And where’s the new master, what’s his name, Lucius?”



“Sleeping late, sir. I’ve sent one of the lads to rouse him. With the slaves all locked up, the house has stopped running.”



“And where have you put them?”



“We’ve crammed ’em into two large rooms upstairs. Forty-six all told, about equally male and female with some kids. The prefect has ordered them all shackled and collared, just to be on the safe side. If they all decided to make a break for it we aren’t enough to hold ’em.”

“Hardly likely, Centurion.” Pliny found this business of chaining distasteful, but he couldn’t countermand Fulvus’ order. While they waited for Lucius to appear, Pliny looked around the atrium. It was twice the size of his own and ornamented everywhere with symbols of the cult of Isis. One whole wall offered a crowded panorama of imaginary Nile scenes done in exquisite mosaic: reed boats plied the river, crocodiles yawned, palm trees swayed, throngs of happy worshipers crowded little temples. Elsewhere in the room stood statues of Queen Isis holding her sistrum and water jug, and bearded Serapis, her consort, and jackal-headed Anubis.

It was no surprise, Pliny reflected, that Verpa and his family had become enthusiastic devotees of the cult which the emperor himself favored. All of it mere fawning imitation probably. As far as he knew, Verpa didn’t have a spiritual bone in his body. Of Lucius and Scortilla he was uncertain.

Lotus flowers floated in the impluvium and a couple of fat carp could be seen gulping at the surface. There was no sign of the carnivorous lampreys which, it was rumored, Verpa fed his unlucky slaves to. Still, one never knew. The man had a sinister reputation.

“What about Verpa’s papers? I’d better have a look around the tablinum.”



“Already done, sir. Two men from the prefect’s office were here at the crack of dawn and left with a bushel basket of stuff.”



“I see.” But he didn’t see. If the investigation had been given to him, why were things being done behind his back?



At that moment Lucius Ingentius Verpa shuffled into their presence, sleepy-eyed and unshaven. He looked like a man who had spent the night drinking and dicing, which, in fact, he had. The last of his friends had shuffled off at day break and he had thrown himself on his bed still in his clothes. He was in no mood to be awakened at this ungodly hour, whatever it was.

Pliny guessed he was in his late twenties and thought he could see the father’s dissoluteness in him but nothing of the old man’s thrusting, bullying energy. He took an instant dislike to him.

It seemed to be reciprocated. Lucius glared in open hostility and acknowledged Pliny with a sullen nod. As custom required, they gripped forearms; Lucius’ grip was as weak as a girl’s. There followed an uncomfortable silence.

“Yes, well,” said Pliny finally, “let’s have a look at the body.”

“Not possible,” Lucius said. “It’s gone to the embalmer’s. There’s to be a funeral according to the rites of Isis—mummification and all that rigmarole. Scortilla’s idea, not mine.”

“I see. Well I’ll have a look at the bedroom anyway.” He resumed his frown of authority. “Come along, centurion. You’ve seen the room already, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes sir.” Valens’ eyes glinted with amusement. “All the lads have seen it.”

With a shrug, Lucius led them through a series of public chambers off the atrium which brought them to the east wing of the house and a grand staircase that led to an upper story. Along the way they passed columns and walls in every hue of the rainbow. Fine old mosaics covered the floors, and painted vistas seemed to make the walls dissolve. Verpa had amassed Corinthian bronze vases and massive candelabra, marble statuettes on onyx pedestals, and bric-a-brac of jasper and agate. Here priceless citrus-wood tables stood on spindly ivory legs, there water tinkled in silver fountains.