missing, work at the treasury had come to a standstill, and rumors were turning ugly. What could have happened to the man?
A glowering janitor met them at the door. Pliny remembered him. The man was built like an ox, with massive shoulders, folds of fat around his neck, and a chin that jutted like a boulder. He had the look of a retired gladiator; Pliny imagined him with the secutor’s head-enveloping helmet and mail-clad sword arm, stalking his opponent in the arena. He led them to the atrium. If Pliny had expected to find Fabia distraught, red-eyed from weeping, angry even, he was disappointed. Her face was a mask, the eyes opaque. He didn’t know her well enough to know what to make of this. Did the woman ever show emotion?
She settled her bulk onto a slender-legged chair that looked too fragile to support her and dismissed the slave with a wave of her ring-heavy hand. He hesitated a moment as though he were reluctant to leave her alone.
“Do we need them?” She indicated Pliny’s attendants. He sent Galeo outside but motioned to the shorthand writer to keep his seat.
“I assure you, lady, I will do everything possible to find your husband. I appreciate how difficult—”
“I’ve already told your man, Suetonius, everything I know.” Sharp, almost offensive.
Pliny was reminded again of her odd accent. Her tone took him aback, but he pressed on. “Yes, well perhaps something has been overlooked. When did you realize that your husband was missing? Be as precise as you can.”
“Ten days ago, the fourth day before the Ides, the Day of the Sun. I saw him off in the morning. He didn’t return for dinner.”
“The Day of the Sun? That’s a Chaldean custom, I believe, to name the days after the seven planets. Was your husband interested in that sort of thing?”
“He had an interest.”
“Did he show any signs of unusual behavior in the days before he disappeared?”
She hesitated a fraction. “What do you mean, unusual?”
“What sort of mood was he in—worried, irritable, distracted? Did he say anything that struck you as out of the ordinary? Was he in difficulties of some sort? Are any of his belongings missing, any money?”
“What are you suggesting? You think he’s run off?”
“Let’s be frank with each other. Such things happen. Has he done anything like this before?”
“Anything like what? My husband was a good man and a loyal servant of the government. I defy you to prove he wasn’t.”
The short hand writer scratched away furiously on his tablet.
“I notice you just spoke of him in the past tense. You believe he’s dead, then?”
“Well, what else?” Her color darkened, she half rose out of her chair.
“Then I must ask you who his enemies are.”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, what do you think happened to him?”
“Murdered by bandits, obviously. None of us is safe in this wretched country. They’re all itching to cut our throats. I told him so but he wouldn’t listen, not him.”
“And yet the coast road is a busy thoroughfare all the way from here to the city, I’ve just been on it. And we’ve had no reports of bandits in the area.”
She glared at him in silence. He felt as though he were interrogating a hostile witness on the stand instead of a woman who wanted her husband found. Pliny was more than a lawyer; he was the servant of an autocratic regime—even if, at the moment, it wore a benevolent face. Survival in this world meant being sensitive to every look, every word—spoken and unspoken, from a rival, a palace official, even a slave. Pliny had survived and thrived. His thoughts turned back to the Verpa case—that senatorial informer whose murder he had investigated fourteen years ago. How naïve he had been then, how easily taken in by appearances. He had learned much in the years since then. He felt certain she was concealing something, but pressing her further now would accomplish nothing. Unsympathetic as she was, she was still the wife of a high-ranking official who, one hoped, was still alive somewhere. There was nothing to be gained by making an enemy of her.
“May I just have a look in the tablinum?”
She looked for a moment as if she would refuse, then shrugged, got heavily to her feet, and led him into Balbus’ office. The procurator plainly did not share Pliny’s tidy habits. The room was strewn with scrolls, tabellae, and heaps of loose sheets piled everywhere. While Fabia stood watching him, Pliny made an