“The usual sad story,” Pliny said. “Getting too old, losing his looks, and so jealous of Hylas, the other cinaedus, that he couldn’t conceal it. It occurred to me that he might have killed his rival under cover of the other stranglings. And he might well have had reason to kill Verpa, too, if the master was getting ready to throw him out in the street to starve, which is the sort of beastliness Verpa was famous for.
“And yet plainly, he didn’t act alone. It must have been Lucius who showed him how to draw the candelabrum on the wall and convinced him that, by deflecting blame onto the Jews, the other slaves, including himself, would be let off.”
“Hold on, though,” Martial objected, “Lucius couldn’t have reckoned on you, with your rather eccentric views on slavery, taking charge of the investigation.”
“That wouldn’t have stopped him from lying to Ganymede. What does an ignorant slave boy know of Roman law? He’d believe whatever he was told because he’d want to believe it. No doubt Lucius promised the boy a life of ease and security for the rest of his days if they carried it off.”
“All right, but could he have done it, physically?”
Pliny chewed thoughtfully on a stalk of asparagus. “Excellent point. I can scarcely imagine that sorry creature overpowering Verpa in a fight.”
“Well, as to that we’ll never know, but it would be something if we could prove that the boy has the ability to make that extraordinary climb.”
“And just how would we do that? He’ll hardly cooperate.”
“No, but an idea occurs to me.”
When Martial had finished laying out his plan, Pliny slapped the table with delight. “By Jupiter, we’ll do it tomorrow morning—no, better tomorrow night; to be fair we must see if he could do it in the dark. You’ll come with me, of course. What would I ever do without you, my friend?”
The hour was growing late. The poet yawned, stood up and called for his shoes. “Oh, by the way,” he said to Pliny, his manner studiously casual, “have you, ah, spoken to Parthenius yet—I mean about my poems? An invitation to the palace?”
“Ah, well, actually no.” Pliny tried and failed to cover his embarrassment. “The emperor is much preoccupied these days; they all are, in fact. Don’t know why, really. Silly rumors of conspiracies. But we’ll see. In a few months I’m sure I can arrange something. In the meantime, Statius—well, you know he’s my friend.”
“Of course, Patrone, don’t trouble about it.” Martial looked away.
“Well, see you tomorrow.”
The second hour of the night.
The forecourt of the temple was silent but for the susurrus of breathing, the intermittent sighs and grunts of the sleepers, the dreamers. Behind his jackal mask, Alexandrinus’ eyes swept over them. Then one, a dark shadow against the wall, stirred, stood up, and came toward him, stepping carefully among the recumbent forms.
He hurried her into his private room. Her face was tear-streaked.
“I can’t stay there another night, Alex. He rants, he threatens to kill me, he’s going to challenge the will, he’s even talking about hiring that odious Pliny for his lawyer.” She clung to him.
With difficulty, the priest unlocked her arms and stepped back. “Calm yourself, my dear. Let Lucius say what he likes. The seal and the forged numeral were perfect! And the emperor will support us, if it comes to that. He’s a devotee and he has a financial interest in the will going unchallenged. We’ve won, do you understand? Isis is with us. Feel her power.”
But Turpia Scortilla would not be reasoned with. “Lucius will kill me. He’s half out of his mind.”
“He won’t. The house is full of soldiers, isn’t it? Let him threaten, he doesn’t dare do anything.”
“Please, let me stay here in the temple with you. I can’t go back there.”
“Absolutely not. We can’t be seen together until all this dies down. Lucius would have grounds for challenging the will if he could prove something about us. We’re about to inherit two million. Just be patient a little longer.”
“Alex—Lord Anubis—don’t forget that it was I who got it for you. You won’t will you? I love you. Make love to me.”
But he took off the long-snouted mask and set it aside, exposing his beautiful skull. He wouldn’t play the lusty god with her tonight; he wasn’t in the mood.
Soon she left, walking with her head down and moaning softly. In the stillness of the night, it was a sound that Nectanebo, working late as usual in his embalming shop, was bound to hear.