“You say he taunted you with some papers. What were they, where are they?”
“One looked like a letter, the other was covered with signs and symbols, a horoscope maybe. I searched the tablinum for them the night he died but I couldn’t find them. I surprised someone else there in the dark. Scortilla, I’ll bet. Why don’t you ask her? Anyway, I couldn’t find anything. Then early next morning, before you got here, men from the Prefecture came and carted off all his files. They probably have them.”
“No one’s said anything to me about it.”
“Yes, well just possibly the prefect doesn’t think it’s any of your business!”
That stung. “Search the house,” Pliny barked at Valens. From top to bottom. Search Verpa’s bedroom. The tablinum is too accessible. If these papers were important, I’ll wager he hid them some place more private.”
A few minutes later, Valens reported that a locked drawer in Verpa’s bedside table had been broken open with some sort of tool, leaving gouges on the wood. The drawer, however, was empty.
“Another puzzle,” Pliny said glumly to Martial. “And one we’ll never solve. I’ll mention it to the prefect. But the main thing is that we’ve got our murderer, and that was all I set out to do. Centurion, place Lucius under house arrest and guard him well.”
Three things remained to be done. The first was to inform the city prefect of his success. The thought of going there himself was too distasteful. He scribbled a note and handed it to one of the troopers.
The second was to inform Scortilla. He found her in her apartment. “Ganymede and Lucius?” Her voice cracked, broke into a high-pitched cackle. Her eyes glittered. With what—relief, triumph, stark madness? He asked her about the missing papers but got nothing but a blank stare. How he loathed this woman! He left quickly.
The third, was to address the slaves. He had avoided visiting them lately; their misery was more than he could bear. But now he had a purpose. As the door swung open, the stench of urine and sweat hit him like a blow to the belly. “Valens,” he gasped, “this is an atrocity! I want this place cleaned up and the slaves let out in batches for a wash and some exercise.”
“Yes, sir.”
Watched by forty pairs of dull and sunken eyes, Pliny sucked air behind his hand and stepped into the big room. “Humble friends, hear me! The murderers have been exposed! Ganymede and Lucius conspired together to murder your master. The rest of you are entirely innocent. The Roman Games close in just eight days. This case will go to trial soon after, and I promise you that your imprisonment will end on that day. Be patient only a little longer!”
Like one writhing mass, they crawled to him on their bellies. Croaking voices cried out, “You are our god!” Filthy hands touched his feet, caught at the hem of his cloak. Overcome, Pliny fled.
At home Pliny announced his triumph to the family, sparing no detail of Lucius’ diabolical ingenuity and his own clear-sighted penetration. He had suspected Lucius from the start! Of course, he couldn’t have solved the matter so quickly without the collaboration of his friend Martial. He threw an arm around him.
The poet, with uncharacteristic modesty, smiled but said nothing. Pliny’s slaves ran to kiss his hands in gratitude for their fellows. Calpurnia sang his praises. To Amatia the news seemed like a tonic. Her pale cheeks took on color, she became positively gay and drank a glass of wine. Before dinner was served, Martial excused himself, pleading fatigue, and left them all in high spirits.
The third hour of the night.
Martial walked along the Via Triumphalis to the arch which carried the Claudian Aquaduct. The popina was a narrow, low-ceilinged establishment where big copper cauldrons of stews and chowders sat in holes cut in the stone counter top. The poet had no appetite, but he took a wooden bowl and spoon and was served a steaming mess of stringy meat and vegetables by a woman whose forearms were the size and color of hams. He threw a coin on the counter. He scanned the room. The place was not crowded. Some young men played a noisy game of dice in one corner. Others, a group of working men in leather aprons, sat together at a table and shoveled food mechanically into their mouths, not talking. It was a moment before he noticed the solitary figure at the back. The man sat hunched over his plate, cutting his meat clumsily with one hand, for the other was pressed to his side in a sling. Martial slid onto the bench beside him.
Who was this fellow and what had he to do with the exalted Parthenius? Martial did as he had been instructed: took from his pouch a waxed tablet on which he had scratched a few hasty lines and tucked it into the man’s sling, trying to touch him as little as possible. The man never looked up. So, Parthenius would learn that Lucius was the murderer of his father; that Verpa had possessed a couple of papers, one of which might be a horoscope, but no one could find them; that Pliny was satisfied he had solved the case; and that Amatia, the lady from Lugdunum, was, as far as he could tell, in good health and good spirits. He had tried pumping her without success. If something about her bothered him it was too insubstantial to be put into words. And that was that. May the grand chamberlain be glad of it.