“Secretly,” she sneered.
“Dammit, they went too far. They would have plunged us into civil war!”
“For the last time,” she demanded, “what will you do? There is no more room for excuses. Are you going straight to denounce me? If you don’t then you are one of us.”
The room seemed to contract around him. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. How easy it would be to do nothing…But no. His duty was clear. Not even for Amatia—and his heart ached for her—could he allow this reckless attempt to go forward.
“Zosimus,” he called out, “come here.”
The young man appeared in the doorway. “Patrone?”
“You will prevent the Lady Amatia from leaving until I return. I’m going to the palace. I’ll knock Parthenius down if I have to, but I’ll get to the emperor’s ear.”
“So he can reward you yet again?” Her lip curled. “And just what will you tell your precious Lord and God? That Verpa raped me and I killed him? Go ahead then. But I’ll deny everything else. I don’t fear torture or death. And you have no proof, no evidence of any conspiracy.”
“Oh, but there is evidence, madam. The horoscope and Domitilla’s letter, naming all of you. Where are they?”
“I told you I couldn’t find them. The night Verpa died, I searched the tablinum in vain. So did Lucius—I nearly collided with him in the dark. The next morning men from the Prefecture came and carted everything away.”
“But the prefect couldn’t find them either. I suspect they never were in the tablinum. Come now, you haven’t told me quite the whole story of that night in Verpa’s bedroom, have you? What did you do during those long hours alone with his corpse. Merely tremble? No. You noticed his bedside table with its locked drawer, the only place in the house where neither you, nor Lucius, nor the prefect’s men had looked. You had the dagger that Ganymede dropped and you had plenty of time. You pried open the drawer—we’ve seen the gouges in the wood—you found those dangerous papers there and you took them out with you. When I brought you here you wouldn’t have left them behind and, since you haven’t left my house since you came here you have them still. I ask you again, where are they?”
“And I tell you again, I don’t have them!”
“I don’t believe you. They’re here and I will find them. Zosimus, keep an eye on her.”
The room he had given Amatia for her bed chamber was small and uncluttered. It had hardly a place to hide anything. She had brought with her a bag containing some belongings. Pliny dumped it out on the bed. There wasn’t much—combs, a few pieces of jewelry, some coins, an amulet. He tossed them on the floor and ripped off the bedclothes. He shook the sheets and coverlet, tore open her pillow. Nothing. He flung it away from him. He got on his knees and looked under the bed, he peered into her chamber pot, felt along the top of the doorjamb. His eyes darted everywhere. Where had the damned woman put them? He felt no pity at all for her now. Anger had driven pity out.
He ran back to where he had left her. “Give them to me!”
Young Zosimus blinked, he had never seen his master in a rage before. But Amatia did not flinch and, after a moment, Pliny sank into his chair, baffled, not knowing what to do next. He had been so sure. Just then a slave appeared in the doorway. “Master, that doctor, the one you just chased away—he’s back. He begs to see you.”
“Send him away, I’ve no time for him.”
“Yes, master.”
But Soranus pushed past the slave. Pliny glowered at him.
“Look, sir, I am sorry. You’re quite right to be angry with me.” He avoided looking at Amatia. “I wouldn’t trouble you further but for this.” He held out a small roll of papyrus, tied with a string. “When I loosened the lady’s girdle, it fell from her underclothes.”
Amatia drew a sharp breath. Her hand went to her waist.
“I tucked it in my belt,” he explained, “meaning to give it back to her later. But then you, ah, requested me to leave your house. On my way home, I realized I still had it. Allow me to return it to her now together with my apologies.”
“I will take charge of it, doctor. Thank you for your trouble. I was too hasty with you. Good night.”
Pliny undid the string and spread the two sheets out on his knees. The horoscope, the letter. He felt Amatia’s eyes on him as he read. Then he let the papers fall and buried his face in his hands. Amatia retrieved them.
“Does this change anything for you, Gaius Plinius?” Her voice was almost gentle; there was no mockery in it, and no triumph. “You know these names, don’t you? The empress, the senators, your friend Corellius Rufus—I’ve heard you mention him. Will you send them all to their deaths? You can’t do it, can you?” When he made no reply, she stood beside him and touched his arm. “I was wrong to hide this from you. I should have shown it to you straightaway. I should have trusted you. In a little less than three hours the deed will be done. You only need to wait…”