Roman Games(23)
The garden was quite lovely: boxwood hedges, tall elms, and fruit trees; stone benches round a pool where fountains splashed. Here a miscellany of divine images had been assembled. There was, besides the head of Domitian Lord and God, a bronze figurine of Hercules, a lovely marble Diana, a bust of Jupiter, a statuette of Isis, and the inevitable statue of Priapus, godling of vegetation and sex, who leered mischievously here as in every Roman garden.
The slaves were brought out in batches of ten, shoved along by the troopers, with swords drawn, who cursed at them and struck them with the flat of their blades. Eager to prove their piety, they stumbled forward one by one, dropped incense and wine on the altar fire and mouthed a prayer at Pliny’s dictation.
Finally it was the turn of Pollux, whom Pliny had saved for last, and four others who clung to the man: an older woman, his mate, said Lucius, and two young women and a boy. All of them tried to shelter behind the boxer’s broad back. There was fear in their eyes. Pollux’s lips moved soundlessly. If it was a prayer, it was not directed at those lifeless statues arrayed before them. Like a statue himself, his ugly face unmoving as a mask, Pollux stood before the altar and did nothing with the incense and wine cup handed to him. For a long moment there was dead silence save for the chirping of song birds in the trees.
Then, before Pliny could stop him, Lucius dashed forward and struck the slave in the face with all his strength. Pollux, who had been hit by tougher men than Lucius in his time, did not flinch but continued to look straight ahead of him. His fellow slaves stood by, stunned to silence. Then, one after another, they began to murmur: “Atheist, traitor, you’ll get us all killed!”
One of the young women broke and ran forward to the altar, crying “Please, Masters, I’ll burn the incense!” But Pollux caught her by the arm and pulled her back. “Sister, be brave, in the name of the True God.” In an agony of doubt, the girl looked from the altar to Pollux’s face and back again. The older woman came and put her arms around her and drew her back into their circle. The murmurs of the other slaves rose to angry, menacing shouts. The City Troopers cast nervous looks at their centurion.
“Murderer of my father!” screamed Lucius. “Heat irons. I’ll have the truth out of him!”
Pliny felt the situation slipping out of control. “I give the orders here,” he warned Lucius. “Stand back.”
The young man looked mutinous.
Stepping close to Pollux, Pliny said in a low voice, “You have put yourself and these others in grave danger. I give you one day to think it over.” The boxer only stared back impassively.
“Centurion, take them back to their quarters,” Pliny ordered, “and double the guard.” And to Lucius he confided, “I am encouraged that the poison seems to have spread to only a few. I wish I could release the rest of your slaves now but I haven’t the authority. They will have to remain under guard until the Games are over and a trial before the prefect can be conducted. No doubt, you have other slaves in your country estates. By all means bring them in. And now,” he said, “I am leaving.” The urge to be gone from this place was suddenly overwhelming.
Lucius expressed sullen thanks.
“But sir,” Valens interrupted. “The lady of the house, Turpia Scortilla. Shouldn’t you have a word with her?”
“Mehercule,” cried Pliny in exasperation, “haven’t I done enough here today?”
“It’s procedure, sir. She might just know something.” He used the tone of voice one would in speaking to a dull child.
Pliny let out a sigh. “Conduct me to the lady, then.”
Standing guard outside her chamber door, the dwarf Iarbas tried to block their way, hopping from one flat foot to the other and mouthing insults at them. He was the most extraordinary creature that Pliny had ever seen: a black dwarf, fat-headed, with tiny mole’s eyes, a big belly, and short, muscular legs. Golden torques and armlets gleamed against his dusky skin. On his shoulder perched a monkey, equally bejeweled, and making savage grimaces at them with yellow, pointed teeth. Valens pushed man and beast roughly aside. “We tried locking this one up with the others,” he explained, “but the lady was so distressed we let him loose. Seems harmless enough, the ugly little imp.”
“Harmless?” As soon as he laid eyes on him, an image sprang to Pliny’s mind of the dwarf scrambling monkey-like up the column and through the narrow window of Verpa’s bedroom. And who but Scortilla would have sent him on that mission?
The lady lay propped on her bed, bone thin and bone white, the tendons in her neck standing out like ropes, her towering red wig askew. But it was her eyes that held him. He thought back to this morning’s sacrifice on the Capitolium—the look in the ox’s eye when the victimarius stunned it with a blow of his hammer. Turpia Scortilla had that same stunned, glassy-eyed look. And the dead whiteness of her face wasn’t just the effect of cosmetics.