The Gods Help Those Page 9

  “I think so.” As we stood she pointed to a spot on the wall. “Do you remember when we did that?”

  “I’ll never forget it. I hope it’s prophetic.”

  On the wall beside the steps, when we were twelve, we had scratched the word SEMPER vertically into the rock. We attached PLIN to the P and AUR to the R, with the word ET between us. “Pliny and Aurora always.”

  At that time we meant it as a gesture of friendship, because we couldn’t imagine being more than friends. I wonder, though, if we did not, even then, somehow sense that there was more of a connection between us.

  “I just hope Livia never sees it,” Aurora said.

  VI

  Regulus’ ianitor bowed and stepped aside to allow Merione and me to enter the atrium of his master’s house, followed by four of my servants, who stopped just inside the door. I motioned for Merione to stay with me.

  Like everything else about Regulus, the atrium was large and overstated. His oratorical style is florid, tending toward what he thinks is dramatic but is in fact merely bombastic. The atrium revealed the man. It was so large that it required columns at each corner of the impluvium to support the roof. Today the space was filled with scaffolding and workmen, busy painting new frescoes. They had finished one side and were conferring with Regulus about something near the back of the atrium.

  Regulus turned away and crossed the atrium. We met beside the impluvium.

  “Welcome, Gaius Pliny, my good neighbor. I apologize for the mess, but what do you think?” He spread his arms to indicate the walls on the finished side.

  “Impressive,” I said. And it was, since even something dreadful can be described with that word. Between the doors of the rooms opening off the atrium, frescoes depicted scenes from early Roman history, the era of the kings. Because his name means “little king,” Regulus was within his rights to choose such a theme, as long as he did not show himself as a monarch. Instead, the kings tended to look like Domitian. “Did the princeps himself serve as your model?”

  Regulus laughed. “We’re using the bust at the rear of the atrium. It’s a good likeness.”

  His son, now about five years old, was playing with a boat on the other side of the impluvium, which was quite full due to all the rain we’d been having. I remembered doing the same thing when I was a child. What I did not remember was giving orders to a servant whose task it was to retrieve the boat when it floated out of reach. The boy’s whining caused Regulus and me to look in his direction. He had a silver rod with which he prodded the servant. When the man slipped and fell in the water, young Regulus let out a cascade of nasty laughter, which his father echoed before turning back to me.

  “Well, Gaius Pliny, what brings you to see me?” Regulus rested his hand on his belly.

  “I’ve come to return your servant, the wet nurse you so graciously lent me.” I took Merione’s arm and brought her up beside me.

  Regulus pursed his lips and examined Merione’s bandage, turning her head so he could see it better. “You’re returning damaged goods, it seems, Gaius Pliny.” He addressed Merione. “What happened?”

  “I slipped in the garden, my lord,” Merione said. “It was dark, the stones were wet and I wasn’t familiar with the place.” That was the story we’d agreed on so she wouldn’t have to explain how she’d failed in her mission to kidnap the baby—I still believed that was her assignment—and I wouldn’t have to reveal that one of my servants had attacked her.

  “Is the baby all right?” Regulus asked with some actual concern in his voice.

  “The child is fine,” I said.

  “She hasn’t run dry then?” Regulus pinched Merione’s breasts, causing her to flinch. Instinctively she started to bring her hands up to protect herself, but Regulus slapped them away.

  “No,” I said. “Merione did her job admirably.”

  “Then why are you bringing her back? And why in person? Why not just send one of your servants?”

  “I wanted to thank you in person, but also to tell you that I’ve decided I don’t want a spy in my house.”

  Regulus chuckled and put a clammy hand on my shoulder. “We’re surrounded by spies, Gaius Pliny. Why, every time I send old Nestor on an errand, I know the first place he stops is your house.”

  Nestor is Regulus’ steward. He’s Jewish, and his real name is Jacob, which is what I call him. We became acquainted several years ago, through our shared concern over Regulus’ slave, the flute player Lorcis. Naomi and Phineas will have nothing to do with Jacob because he is some different sort of Jew—what’s called a Christian. I’m not sure Regulus knows that, and I’m not quite sure of the full significance of the name, even though I’ve encountered a few of them recently. Whatever it means, Jacob is absolutely trustworthy. He’s no spy of mine and has never told me anything incriminating about Regulus, but I’m not about to disabuse Regulus of the notion that he is a spy.

  “So, how do you plan to feed the child?” Regulus asked.

  “One of my servant women has found a nurse.” When Malachi brought some men to take away Berenicianus’ body, Naomi had asked him if he knew of anyone who could help us. Within the hour a woman who spoke only Hebrew was at my door. Naomi was convinced that the milk of a Jewish woman would nourish a circumcised baby better than “Gentile” milk. The child could also hear lullabies in his people’s tongue.

  “Very well, then,” Regulus said. “I know you distrust me, Gaius Pliny. I hope for once you can accept that sending the wet nurse was simply an act of kindness.”

  I blinked but gave no other reaction.

  “Do you think I’m entirely incapable of such a thing? Perhaps now you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt.”

  Or perhaps you’re trying to make me doubt my own opinion of you so that I’ll be caught unawares in your next plot, I thought.

  “May I offer you some refreshment? You must be tired after your long and arduous trek to the top of the hill.” As thoroughly as I despise the man, I had to appreciate the sarcasm. I hadn’t walked fifty paces. I managed to smile.

  “No, thank you.” Over my shoulder I noticed Jacob talking to my servants. It was not out of place for him to do so, but I turned back to face Regulus again, to distract him so he would not have further reason to suspect Jacob. “Do you have any idea of your losses in the warehouse?”

  “I’m still figuring them up. Unlike yours, my warehouse was nearly full.”

  “Is that why you got an earlier warning than I did? Is it why the captain of the vigiles removed the dead man’s signet ring and brought it to you?”

  Regulus gave me his oiliest smile. “You’re a man of the world, Gaius Pliny, though a young one. Surely you know how the vigiles work.”

  I knew perfectly well. Everyone in Rome expects to be paid over and above their salary just to do what they’re paid to do, but I wanted to see if Regulus, while he was gloating, would let anything drop about Berenicianus or the signet ring that the captain of the vigiles had brought to him. “I thought they guarded our property, but I must be too naive.”

  “Well, they, like anyone else, appreciate some ‘recognition’ of their work. And those who give them more ‘recognition’ get more service. I’ve told them that I want to know of anything unusual or suspicious that happens around my property. A dead man wearing an equestrian stripe qualifies.”

  “May I see the ring? It might help to identify him. Since he was found in my warehouse, not yours, I think I have a right to know who he is.” I didn’t have to tell Regulus that I already knew his identity.

  Regulus shook his head. “His ring won’t help you. All it had on it was a couple of odd marks. In this case the ‘recognition’ wasn’t any help.”

  “What’s the going rate for ‘recognition’ these days?”

  Regulus waved his bejeweled hand. As rich as he is, bribes must be of little concern to him, a minor cost of doing business. “I’m sure the captain will be happy to discuss the matter with you. Before you go there is one more ma
tter I need to talk over with you.”

  I hadn’t realized I was going. I guess he was being more polite than pointing me toward the door and giving me a push, but barely.

  “What might that be?”

  “We’re planning the funeral for Lucullus. I assume you know that he is my wife’s cousin and he was murdered a couple of days ago.”

  “By one of his servants, I’ve been told.”

  “As far as we know, yes. Since he only recently moved to Rome and bought that house, he does not have a large clientela—hardly any, in fact. It would be embarrassing for Sempronia and me if the turnout at his funeral was small. After all, he was a consul-designate and would have had Domitian as his colleague. I’m bringing my clients, and she will have hers there. Would you be willing to attend with as many of your people as you can muster? You can consider it a return on my favor of a wet nurse, even if she did not work out to your satisfaction. My intentions were honorable.”

  As my friend, the poet Martial, likes to say, every gift from a wealthy man has a hook hidden in it. I didn’t see that I had any choice but to open my mouth and bite down.

  “A consul-designate certainly deserves a respectable funeral,” I said. “When will Lucullus’ be held?”

  “The pyre has been built in the Licinian Gardens—named for some distant relative of his—and covered to keep it dry. Lucullus’ body is below ground here. It’s the coolest place we know of. We hope the rain will let up enough by tomorrow to allow us to proceed. We don’t want to just dump him in the Tiber. I will do the eulogy, of course.”

  “He didn’t have a son?” Delivering the eulogy was usually the responsibility of the deceased man’s son, if he was old enough. I had not been old enough to speak at my father’s funeral, but I had delivered what I thought was a fine eulogy at my uncle’s funeral.

  “No,” Regulus said. “He had very young children by his current wife. By an earlier wife he had a daughter, who must be about eighteen by now. But no one has seen her since her father was killed.”

  “Isn’t anyone concerned about her?”

  “From what I understand she’s a very unpredictable person. She has a poor relationship, to say the least, with her stepmother. We believe she’ll turn up when it suits her. So, may I count on you and your clients?”

  “All right. I’ll be there with my people.”

  “Thank you.” He put a hand on my shoulder and did in fact turn me toward the door. “Now, I need to get back to my workmen. Good day, Gaius Pliny.”

  When we were out of sight of the house, I turned to my servants. “What was Jacob talking to you about?”

  One of them handed me a piece of papyrus, folded and sealed. “He gave me this and asked me to give it to you once we were away from the house.”

  The wax seal lacked any insignia. I broke it and opened the note. Jacob had written, “The signet ring bore two Hebrew characters, yodh and beth, equivalent to J and B in Latin letters.”

  Perhaps I did have a spy in Regulus’ house after all.

  When I reached my house Tacitus was waiting in the garden, with a rolled-up scroll in his hand. I had sent him word, as I promised to do, when I found Aurora and the baby. On a bench beside the piscina the Hebrew woman was nursing the baby, with Naomi on one side of her and Aurora on the other. I had countermanded my mother’s order and put Aurora in charge of the baby’s care. Demetrius’ daughters, Hashep and Dakla, sat on the ground in front of the bench, touching the baby’s feet and cooing to him. As Tacitus and I approached them, Naomi and Aurora started to stand, but I motioned for them to remain seated.

  “How is he doing?” I asked.

  “He’s well, my lord,” Naomi said. “This is Miriam. She speaks no Greek or Latin, but she seems to have a plentiful supply for the little fellow.”

  Miriam must have recognized her name. She smiled and nodded, apparently not at all self-conscious. I nodded back to her.

  “We’ve been thinking, my lord,” Naomi said, “that the baby ought to have a name.”

  “That seems reasonable.”

  “ ‘Lucius’ and ‘Publius’ are common names in Rome,” Tacitus said. “You don’t have either in your house. Would one of those do?”

  Naomi smiled at him the way one smiles at an impertinent child. “We think, my lord, that he ought to have a Hebrew name.”

  I sighed. “I see. Well, we already have Egyptian names”—I patted the girls on their heads—“and Hebrew names floating around here, so one more won’t hurt, I guess. What did you have in mind?”

  Naomi looked at the others, as if to be sure of their agreement, then said, “We like Joshua, my lord.”

  I pronounced the name a couple of times. “I don’t particularly like it, but it doesn’t matter to me, as long as the word has no political overtones—‘death to the king,’ anything like that.”

  Naomi put a hand on her heart. “Oh, certainly not, my lord. It’s just an old and honorable name. It was my father’s name.”

  “Very well, then. Joshua he shall be.”

  Naomi bowed her head. “Thank you, my lord.”

  As Tacitus and I turned away, he lowered his voice and said, “I warned you, Gaius Pliny. ‘If you let them name that child,’ I said, ‘you’ll never get rid of it.’ ”

  “He’s not an ‘it,’ ” I snapped, though I feared his prediction might come true. “Now, what’s in that scroll?”

  “I had a scribe take down everything Josephus could tell me about Berenice and her family. It’s a lot to sort through, with her various marriages. And he was quite certain she lived as a wife with her brother. No matter how many marriages were arranged for her, she always went back to her brother, if you understand me.”

  “I do, as revolting as that idea is. May I see this?”

  Tacitus was about to hand me the scroll when I saw Thalia, the servant woman who was watching over the injured woman from my warehouse, approaching.

  “My lord,” she said, “I believe the woman is waking up. Her eyes are open. Do you want to see her?”

  “By all means.” Tacitus and I followed Thalia back to the room. Several lamps hung from a lamp tree, making the room reasonably bright.

  The woman was still lying on her back, but her eyes were open and her head moved slowly from side to side. She gasped when she saw us.

  “Who are you?” she asked slowly. “Where…where am I?”

  “It’s all right,” I said, not standing too close to the bed. I didn’t want to make her any more afraid than she already was. “My name is Gaius Pliny. You were in my warehouse when it collapsed. Now you’re in my house. We’re going to take care of you. You’re safe now.”

  “What happened to the others?”

  I sat down in the chair Thalia had been using and placed my hand on the woman’s arm. Aurora had been accurate. The arm was one of the scrawniest I’d ever touched. “I’m afraid they were all killed when the building collapsed.”

  The woman let out a keening wail. “Oh, gods! No!”

  When she was quiet again I asked, “What is your name?”

  “My name is…Clymene.” She raised her head off the pillow.

  “Who were the people with you?”

  “They were my father and his wife and my two brothers.”

  “You say your father’s wife. Was she not your mother?”

  “No, sir. My mother died some years ago. This wife was near my age. She was more like a sister to me than a stepmother.” She laid her head back down, her breath coming in short, rapid gasps.

  “We have some soup here. You need to eat.”

  “No meat, please. That’s how I was raised.”

  “You spat out the broth we tried to feed you. This is lentil soup.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I stepped aside so Thalia could bring the bowl close to the bed and spoon-feed the poor woman.

  After Clymene had swallowed a few spoonfuls Tacitus said, “Probably better not to give her too much at one time. I suspect she’s no
t eaten in days. Her stomach may not be able to hold a full meal.”

  Thalia wiped Clymene’s mouth and stepped back so I could sit by the bed again. “Can I ask you a few more questions? Then we’ll let you eat a bit more and get some sleep, if that’s what you need.”

  “Yes, sir. I’d like that.”

  “All right. What do you know about the baby we found in the warehouse? Whose was he?”

  “Baby? What baby, sir?”

  “You didn’t see or hear a baby?”

  “We didn’t see one, sir. We heard what we thought were the squeaks of an animal, most likely rats. We just hoped they would stay away from us.”

  That wasn’t an unreasonable assumption. “How did you come to be in my warehouse?”

  “We were trying to find passage on a ship, sir.”

  “Passage to where?”

  “Back to Spain, sir. That’s where we came from.”

  “You didn’t have any money on you when we found you.”

  “No, sir. We were robbed. My father and brothers hoped they could find work on a ship to pay our passage. That’s why we were staying close to the docks, but we couldn’t afford any place to stay, or anything to eat.”

  “Why were you in Rome?” Tacitus asked from behind me.

  “Six months ago, sir, my uncle—my father’s brother—wrote and said we should come here. There was more work here than in Cadiz. That’s where we lived.”

  “What sort of work?” Tacitus asked. I let him take the lead while I studied the woman’s facial expressions and the movements of her hands and body. Such things can often reveal how truthful a person is being when answering questions.

  “My father is…was a fuller, sir.” She wiped away tears. “My brothers worked with him.”

  “That confirms your deduction about the stains on their hands, from the dyes,” Tacitus said, turning to me.

  I nodded. I had never known a cloth-worker whose hands didn’t immediately reveal his occupation. Nothing in Clymene’s expression or movements made me suspect she was lying, but my experiences of the past few years have left me basically mistrustful of anything people tell me. “Would you like more to eat?”