The Bull Slayer - By Bruce Macbain Page 0,40

objection to that. Balbus, Balbus, what do I know about Balbus?” He lifted his gaze to the ceiling as though seeking inspiration. “I know he had a mistress—” Suetonius slapped his fist into his hand with a sound that made the prophet startle, “—quite a beautiful widow, and rich too. Her name is Sophronia. Have you heard of her?”

“Not the brothel-keeper?” said Suetonius, who for some time had been acquainting himself with the city’s lower depths in the interests of research.

“The same. And not just any brothel. Elysium, as it’s known, is a veritable palace of delights. She trains her hetaeras herself in all the arts of Aphrodite. In addition, the woman has investments in a dye works, a brick yard, several tenements, and a merchant ship. She and the fiscal procurator were lovers for more than a year. There was even talk of him divorcing his wife and marrying her.”

“And you know this how?” Pliny demanded.

“Please, Governor, allow me to keep a few secrets. In return for certain favors, I did not tell his wife about their affair.”

“Blackmail.”

“If you like.”

“Is it possible that Fabia found out anyway?” Suetonius said.

“That I don’t know. The lady has never consulted me.”

“What else do you know about Balbus?” Pliny asked.

“Nothing comes to mind. But I will, of course, keep my ears open. Now that he’s gone, I am more than happy to exchange information in return for your favor. Do we have an understanding? Don’t look so pained, Gaius Plinius, you’re the one who invited me here.”

Pliny scowled. “I will contact you from time to time through an intermediary. And, Pancrates, never, never set foot in the palace again unless I send for you.”

The prophet bowed his way out.

“This could be it!” Pliny jumped off his stool and began pacing. “We have the motive.”

“But only if Fabia knew,” his friend replied. “She’ll deny it, of course.”

“For the moment, let’s work at it from the other end. I want you to find out everything you can about this Sophronia. Imagine it, Balbus planning to marry a whore!”

“But a rich and independent one. I wonder, what he could offer her that she couldn’t buy herself?”

“Maybe it wasn’t about money.”

“What are you suggesting, true love?”

“Roman citizenship. Worth more to these provincials than anything.”

“Makes sense,” Suetonius conceded. “Here’s another thought, though, for what it’s worth. Pancrates was blackmailing Balbus. Blackmail often leads to murder. Pancrates is no weakling, and he grew up rough by his own account. They quarreled, fought, things went too far.”

“Out in the woods?”

“Well, by any theory of the case we don’t know why he was out in the woods.”

“Hmpf, I suppose. But no, the man’s a swindler, not a killer. No, Sophronia’s the key to this. You’ve got your work cut out for you, my friend. Introduce yourself to her. That monograph on famous whores you’re always talking about writing—perhaps she’ll be flattered.”

“You’d be surprised how many are,” Suetonius grinned.

Chapter Nineteen

The third hour of the night

“Come on, Agathon, don’t hold out on your friends. What’s she like, this Roman bitch of yours?” The girl, naked to the waist, laughed and leaned across to refill his wine cup, brushing his face with her breasts.

The three young men and their hetaeras reclined around a table strewn with the wreckage of an expensive meal. They had been there all evening and were quite drunk.

“You’re a naughty boy, Agathon.” One of the youths, whose flowered wreath had slipped over one eye, punched his shoulder. “You’d best take care. Trifling with their women? You could end up food for the lions.”

“Come on, then,” the girl insisted. “Don’t be mysterious, what’s she like? Has she got a pair like these?” She pushed her breasts in his face again. “How is she in bed, or haven’t you got that far?”

Agathon put his finger to his lips. “Locked behin’ th’ hedge of my teeth, as th’ poet says.” His tongue was thick with drink. “Said too much already. Anyway, ’s all over. Over an’ done with. But since you asked, darling”—he held his cupped hands to his chest—“they’re this big!” A laugh started in his throat and then died. With a sudden lunge he grabbed the girl and buried his face against her. “Don’t wan’ him to see me!” he mumbled into her shoulder.

All around the room conversation died.

How is it, Suetonius reflected, as he stepped through the door and handed his outdoor cloak to a boy, that they recognize a Roman before I even open my mouth? Something noble in