The atrium was mobbed. The rich, the envious, the senator and the freedman; the pinch-faced legacy hunter and the humble, hopeful sycophant; the clergy of Isis, bone-thin, brown and bald; the matrons, painted and coiffed, and many decked out with jeweled scarab beetles or other Egyptian gewgaws. In the midst of these, receiving their fawning condolences, was Turpia Scortilla. For the occasion she wore a new wig, tier upon tier of massed blond curls for which a dozen German captives must have given up their hair. She held to her thin bosom Iarbas’ monkey, who rejoiced in a new collar of lapis lazuli and gold. It leapt out of her arms at Pliny’s approach and disappeared in a forest of legs. She extended a heavy-ringed hand to him.
“And how is my poor Amatia?” she simpered. “Tell her that I am thinking of her.” Pliny said that he would do so. “I am aware,” she went on, “of the deaths of Pollux and the other atheists. It’s just what they deserved, don’t you agree with me, Vice Prefect? May we not call the case closed at this point? Lucius feels that we should.”
The elapse of two days had improved her appearance and manners. She wasn’t drunk, at any rate, and, perhaps, was in a mood to make peace.
“I am growing steadily less certain that Jews had anything to do with Ingentius Verpa’s murder.”
Her face enacted a mimicry of surprise. “Then who?”
It was far too soon for accusations. Pliny spread his hands. “The man must have had other enemies; what informer does not?”
At the word “informer” she bristled. “Just because he showed himself loyal and useful to his emperor, as every senator should do, instead of carping and caviling, and scheming behind his back, you call him that! Tell me, Gaius Plinius, if Sextus Ingentius was an informer, exactly what are you?”
“I don’t understand you, woman,” Pliny replied frostily.
“Don’t you? You serve the same master. You come here snooping and asking questions. Your policemen spy on us. And in the end, you hope to denounce one of us and get your reward. I’ve lived long in this society, I know better than a small-town provincial like you how it works.”
Pliny turned from her in exasperation. How dare the hag talk to him that way! He was an officer of the Prefecture, doing his duty, and not willingly either.
And yet, something of what she said lodged under his skin and stuck there.
He caught sight of Valens standing at the edge of the crowd, looking glum. “How goes it, centurion?”
The centurion was unhappy. “The lads are bored, getting into trouble. I had to cudgel two of them last night for breaking into the wine locker. Now that more slaves have arrived from Verpa’s estate in Apulia, there’s nothing for them to do all day. Bad for discipline, sir, and it’s not likely there’s going to be any more murders.”
“I understand. Do the best you can. I want as many pairs of eyes and ears in this house as possible. It may still have things to tell us.”
Valens cocked an eyebrow.
“While we’re waiting for the will to be read, I want to talk to a couple of the slaves. Find the girl, Phyllis, and bring her into one of the vacant rooms upstairs, I’ll question her there.” Amatia had said that Verpa quarreled with his son over Phyllis; had actually threatened to kill the young man, which, according to law, he had the right to do, if he didn’t leave the girl alone. It would not be the first time that sexual jealousy involving a slave had led to murder in a Roman household.
He didn’t know what to expect from her. Some slave mistresses, sensing their power, could be bold and brassy, putting on airs as though they were the virtual mistress of the house. But Phyllis turned out to be quite different. She looked about sixteen or seventeen, was fair-haired and rather fragile. She might have been beautiful, but six days of confinement on short rations had obviously taken its toll of her. She was pale and her eyes sunk deep in their sockets. The acrid smell of sweat and unwashed bodies clung to her. Valens sat her down roughly on a stool and then left them alone. Pliny’s heart went out to her.
“You shared your master’s bed?”
“Yes.”
“Often?”
“Yes.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. She stared at the floor.
“But you weren’t in his bed the night he died? Why not?”
She shrugged. “He didn’t send for me.”
“Did he send for any of the other girls?”
“No. Maybe one of the boys—the cinaedi—or maybe he slept alone. He sometimes did.”
“The cinaedi. You mean like Ganymede?”
“Hylas, more likely. The one they killed. Master had gotten tired of Ganymede, everyone said.”