the Pontic fleet, road repairs, earthquake damage, and the amount we have to send to Rome.”
Pliny left the chief accountant still protesting—the man seemed to have found his voice at last—and returned to the palace, suddenly overcome with a feeling of infinite weariness.
***
He found Calpurnia in the garden, reading in the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. It was early October yet the weather continued unseasonably mild. Soon enough, though, they would be driven indoors by frigid winds blowing in off the sea. She put down her scroll when she saw him and offered her mouth to be kissed.
“I’m so glad you’re home,” she said, “why didn’t you wake me this morning?” He sank down on the bench beside her. She took his hand. “You look tired.”
“And you look more beautiful than I even remembered. You’re thriving here, aren’t you? I knew you would. What are you reading? Homer?” He picked up the capsa and read the label: “Chaireas and Callirhoe by Chariton of Aphrodisias. One of those romances the Greeklings are so fond of?” He put it down with an indulgent smile. “Is it any good?”
“It’s silly. A girl who’s captured by pirates on her wedding day. Husband goes searching for her.”
“Where did you get it?”
“At a book stall.”
How easy the lie. She had not premeditated it, yet there it was on her tongue as though only waiting to be spoken. “Gaius, tell me what’s going on. Balbus is missing? I couldn’t get much out of Suetonius.”
“I’m calling the staff together now. We have to do something, though damn me if I know what. I’ll leave you to your book. We’ll talk at dinner.”
***
Pliny paced up and down the room with his hands behind his back while the others followed him with their eyes. Nymphidius, the old soldier, scarred and lame, who had come out of retirement to serve with him; Postumius Marinus, his physician, always frowning through his tangle of gray beard; Caelianus, his clerk, a precise, observant little man; Aquila, his chief centurion, a hard-featured man, armored in greaves and a corselet of bronze scales; Suetonius, a shade too clever and rather too full of himself, the object of the others’ jealousy; and Zosimus, the lowest in status but the closest to Pliny in affection.
Pliny had just finished the recitation of his interviews with Fabia and Silvanus.
“You’re thinking he’s embezzled tax money and run off?” said Caelianus. “Why?”
“Because if we assume that he’s disappeared of his own volition, it has to be something at least that serious. And it will be your job to see if he has. I’m sending you over to the treasury tomorrow. I want it all counted down to the last obol and compared to the tallies. Take as many men as you need but work fast.”
Suetonius adjusted the fold of a new cloak so that it hung just so. “And if he hasn’t disappeared on purpose?”
“That is an alternative I would rather not contemplate. The assassination of a Roman official could set this province on fire.”
“Still, I just don’t see it. Balbus has been in public service for twenty-some years and no one’s ever accused him of anything, so far as we know. The emperor appointed him, after all, and Trajan is scrupulous about these things. And does he strike you as a runner? Running is a last resort. Surely he’d try other ways to protect himself first—trying to bribe you, for example. He hasn’t has he?”
Pliny gave him a wry smile. “I like to think my reputation for probity has preceded me.”
“Oh, quite.” Only Suetonius could banter with him like this.
“Still,” said Zosimus. He was careful to raise his hand and wait to be called on like a bashful schoolboy, conscious that the others wondered why Pliny included him in these meetings at all. “Still, that villa, all that art? Could he afford all that on a procurator’s salary?”
“Excellent point, my boy,” said Pliny. Zosimus, at thirty-four, was far from being a boy, but to Pliny he was still “my boy” and probably would be until he sprouted grey hairs. “But not conclusive. No one doubts that a procurator squeezes people, accepts presents, maybe persuades his friends to sell him things at knockdown prices. You know how it goes. It’s a fine line, and I’m sure Balbus knows how to walk it carefully. Helping himself to the taxes, however, is another thing.”
Nymphidius massaged his swollen knee; he suffered cruelly from arthritis. “I agree with Suetonius, I don’t think he’s run.