dogs ran along, sniffing hopefully at piles of refuse.
He turned a corner and found himself in the midst of a noisy procession of Isis worshippers—shaven-headed men carrying tall palm fronds and priestesses jangling their rattles. They passed by, leaving a trail of flower petals.
He came down at last to the harbor. The fishermen had come in with their catch and were spreading their nets out on the quays to dry. The water in the bay was grey and choppy. The fishing boats stayed close to shore now and soon would not go out at all. The big merchantmen were already berthed. The city was preparing itself for winter. The walls of the big warehouses bore a load of scrawlings: prostitutes advertisements (I’m yours for two obols), election slogans (Elpenor for archon), the faded announcement for a gladiatorial show in which men had died and were, by now, forgotten. And among them the occasional So-and-so kisses Roman ass. And worse. Zosimus was not beyond blushing.
And finally he had stopped into this sailor’s grog shop that smelled of seaweed, and sedition. He’d heard enough for one day. He threw some coins on the counter and left. The sun was sloping down to late afternoon as he mounted the street of the leather workers up toward the treasury and the great temple of Rome and Augustus that overlooked a wide plaza: the soaring Corinthian columns and painted architrave, the vast gilded bronze doors, and within, the gold and ivory statue of the Deified Augustus. It dwarfed the buildings around it. It breathed Roman power, Roman pride.
There was a crowd gathered in front—fifty, or maybe a hundred, men surrounding a speaker who stood on the lowest step of the temple podium. Over the hubbub of voices, Zosimus could not make out the man’s words, but there was no mistaking the shrill and angry tone. Sighing resignedly—for this was certainly what Pliny had sent him out to look for—Zosimus worked his way to the front. It was one of those ragged street corner ranters of the Cynic sect, troublemakers of the worst sort, who spewed out their hatred of all lawful authority. The crowd was cheering him on.
Suddenly, Zosimus had a premonition and turned to look for a way out. And, at that instant, with a clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, a score of Roman cavalrymen galloped into the square and charged the crowd, swinging their long-bladed swords. Some fled in panic, but others stood their ground. Stones flew through the air, a trooper was dragged from his horse. The blades flashed up and down. A trumpet blast rang out and then more soldiers appeared, infantrymen with their shields locked together and spears thrusting. Zosimus was lifted off his feet in the press of bodies, forced up against the flank of a horse. He never saw the blow that caught the side of his head and sent him sinking down unconscious amid a tangle of legs.
Chapter Sixteen
The 7th day before the Kalends of November
The ninth hour of the day
A blustery wind bent the branches of the poplars that lined the path leading from the house to the riding paddock. A sudden gust made a whirlpool of leaves along the ground and pressed their grey mourning clothes against their legs. An ideal day for the business at hand, Pliny reflected. The wind would fan the flames of the pyre and dissipate the greasy smoke: all that would soon remain of Fiscal Procurator Marcus Vibius Balbus.
Pliny and Calpurnia, his staff and their wives stood together in a show of solidarity. The Greeks—Diocles and his entourage with a few others whom Pliny did not recognize—formed their own little knot some distance away. Each ignored the other. Pliny understood why. Since the riot of three days earlier the city was seething. Pliny had had sharp words for Aquila and the other centurions. He was surprised the Greeks had come at all: perhaps only to enjoy the spectacle of Balbus’ death.
Pliny was on the point of expressing this thought to Calpurnia when a shriek, long and ululating, pierced the air and all eyes turned toward the house. The doors swung open and the hired mourners emerged—a procession of women, led by flute players and trumpeters, their hair unbound, beating their breasts and wailing. Pliny had hired the best undertaker in Nicomedia and spared no expense.
Behind them came the catafalque swaying on the shoulders of eight pallbearers. As it drew near, Pliny recognized one of them: the bulging muscles, the