Roman Games(33)
“Iatrides and I went to the temple of Serapis in Ostia and asked for help. They arranged for us to stay here with Ingentius Verpa, who is a notable devotee, until I can make other arrangements. Scortilla has been kind enough to send one of her servants to Lugdunum to contact my son-in-law and arrange for more money to be sent. But now with this murder, I…I’m afraid. I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know where Iatrides has gone off to either.” Her voice faltered. She clutched her chest and her breath came hard.
“I’m sure he’ll turn up. I will have my men make inquiries. In the meantime, my house is at your disposal, ma’am.”
“It’s very kind of you. But an invalid is a burden, sir. Are you sure?” She searched his face.
“I insist upon it. It’s quite impossible for you to stay here another night.”
“Then I accept gratefully.”
“Here, let me help you up. Valens!” Pliny yelled down the hall. “I need you. We’re taking this woman to my house.”
The centurion and two of his men carried Amatia, couch and all, into the vestibule while another followed behind with a bag containing her few possessions. Pliny’s litter bearers ran up to assist.
Lucius watched them silently, not appearing to care whether the woman stayed or went.
And then Turpia Scortilla appeared, accompanied by Iarbas and his monkey. She took a step forward, swayed on her feet, and put a hand on a column to steady herself. If Amatia looked ill, Scortilla looked worse. This was the first time Pliny had had a good look at her in full daylight. He strained to see the young bareback rider in this ravaged body. The red slash of mouth in the chalk-white face, the straining tendons of the neck, the blue-veined hands.
“You’re not leaving? But we took you in, I offered you my friendship, I wanted us to be…” Her eyes seemed to plead.
“I’m sorry, Turpia Scortilla. This gentleman has offered…Under the circumstances…” She looked away.
Scortilla turned on Pliny, her voice shrill. “You’ve no right!”
“Lady, calm yourself.” Pliny held up his hands to ward her off. He was honestly a little frightened of her. “I remind you that Verpa’s murderer has yet to be identified. It simply isn’t safe.”
“You policeman.” She spat out the word. “Think you can do whatever you like. We’ll see.”
Amatia raised herself on an elbow. “My condolences on your tragedy, lady, and my gratitude for your hospitality. We will see each other at the temple?”
Scortilla shot a venomous look at both of them, turned and walked away with a lurching, stiff-legged gait. The dwarf held on to her dress, and the monkey on his shoulder looked back and grimaced, showing all its sharp little teeth.
Lucius stood in the doorway and watched them until they were out of sight.
The eighth hour of the day.
Pliny had wondered at his own impulsiveness in inviting this strange woman into his home. But as soon as he saw her and his darling Calpurnia together, he knew he had made the right decision. There was an instantaneous bond between the two women. Amatia almost seemed to have been sent by some benevolent goddess to be the mother that Calpurnia scarcely remembered.
His wife proudly displayed her swelling abdomen and asked, “How many children have you, Lady?”
“Please, call me Amatia. Five—all daughters, if you can believe it.”
Everyone at the dinner table that evening exclaimed over this prodigy of fertility.
“I will have a son,” said Calpurnia, setting her mouth firmly. “For my husband.”
Pliny gazed at his wife anxiously. “The dear girl has had a difficult time,” he confessed. “She has a doctor of course, a good man. Soranus, recently arrived from Ephesus. A specialist in women’s complaints. Still, he can’t be here all the time. Anything you could do to instruct her, calm her fears, ma’am…”
“Dear Pliny, I will treat her like one of my own.” The two women reclined side by side on the dining couch. Amatia took the girl’s hand and squeezed it. “I only hope I won’t impose on your hospitality too long.”
Pliny waved this aside. “Lugdunum is weeks away. In the meantime, this is your home.”
“Yes, please,” said Calpurnia.
Amatia smiled and nodded graciously.
At that moment, Martial burst into the dining room. His face was flushed with wine, a garland sat askew on his shaggy head, and he smelled of scent. Clearly he was coming from a day’s drinking with his fellow poets and their hangers-on. Pliny gave him an indulgent smile. “You’re just in time for the braised leeks.”