attempt to sort through the mess in the hope that something would catch his eye. And something did: a sheaf of star charts and, underneath these, what appeared to be a handbook of astrology.
“Your husband is a mathematicus? You mentioned he counts the days as the Chaldeans do. Frankly, I wouldn’t have suspected it of him. He strikes me as too practical a man for this sort of thing.” Pliny, like his idol Cicero, was not a believer in that arcane science.
“He tries. He says it makes his head hurt. I don’t know why he bothers.” Pliny noted that Fabia was now being careful to speak of her husband in the present tense.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow this.”
“Whatever for?”
“I’m not sure. There may just be something helpful in it.”
She shrugged. “Take it then.”
“Well, I think I’ve seen enough for the moment. Might I just go out to your stables before I leave and speak to the stable hands.”
“Why?”
“You have some objection?”
“I’ll come with you.”
“If you like.”
“Mother—!” Just then a figure darted into the room. Pliny, with only a moment to observe him, got the impression of a youth of about sixteen, tall and painfully thin, the muscles and tendons like knotted cords under his skin. When the boy saw Pliny, he stifled a cry, turned and fled. Almost without thinking, Pliny rose and started after him but Fabia blocked his way, looking as if she might fight him. He stepped back and spread his hands in a placating gesture.
“Your son?” He recalled the figure that he and Calpurnia had glimpsed on the night of the dinner party.
“He isn’t well. You’ll leave him alone.”
“I meant him no harm. May I talk with him?”
“You wanted to see the stables. Come, then.”
The stableman and three young grooms leapt to their feet as Pliny and Fabia and the shorthand writer appeared in the wide doorway. They had been playing knucklebones on the floor. Pliny loved horses and passed many happy hours in his own stables, trading advice with his grooms. The stableman, a swarthy, bewhiskered man of middle age, came forward and ducked his head in respect. Pliny gave him an encouraging smile.
“How did your master travel to the city? By carriage?” There was no carriage anywhere that he could see.
The stableman shook his head. “Horseback, your honor. He liked to ride, for the exercise. Always said the city streets were too crowded for a carriage anyways.”
“And who would ride with him?”
The man’s eyes flickered for a second. “He rode alone.”
“Always?”
“Yes.”
“Where is his horse?”
“Missing.”
“Really. In my experience, a riderless horse will nearly always find its way home. Was there anything unusual about that particular day when he left for the last time?”
The stableman studied his feet.
Fabia struck in, “I’ve already told you there was nothing unusual. If you don’t mind, Governor, these men have work to do.”
“Of course, madam. I have no more questions for the moment.” He looked at her levelly. “If anyone has done harm to an officer of the Roman State, I will not rest until I bring that person to book. Rely upon it.”
Fabia stood in the doorway and watched Pliny and his men mount their carriage and drive off. The boy came up silently and stood beside her. She circled his thin shoulders with a vast, protecting arm. “It’s all right, my baby,” she said.
Chapter Nine
Suspicion was written across Silvanus’ beaky face. Pliny and his two attendants had gone straight from interviewing Fabia to the treasury building in the precinct of the Temple of Rome and Augustus in the center of the city. Sentries at the door had jumped to attention and Pliny sent one of them to fetch the chief accountant.
He eyed Pliny warily. “This is no place for you, Governor.”
“That is not for you to say,” Pliny snapped. “I’m here to learn what’s become of your procurator.” They sat in the accountant’s cramped office. There was no chair for the shorthand writer, who was forced to take his notes standing up. Towering bookcases, crammed with scrolls, lined every wall. Only a small window admitted any light. A fit habitation for a mole, perhaps; scarcely for a human. No wonder the man was so pasty-faced. “Did you see Balbus the day he disappeared?”
Silvanus’ jaws ground as though he were masticating food. It was a disconcerting habit that Pliny had noticed that night at Balbus’ dinner party. His words came slowly as though each one must be thoroughly chewed before it could be spat out. “He