“Only family members are permitted in the gynekeion—”
But Pliny had already pushed past him. Marinus met him at her bedroom door. “They ordered me to leave,” the physician said. “I politely refused.”
“Probably not so politely,” Pliny smiled ruefully. Postumius Marinus did not suffer fools lightly.
“She is very weak, though. Don’t tire her. Her name’s Berenice, by the way. And she doesn’t know yet that the others are dead.”
Berenice lay in bed, a veined and fragile dry leaf of a woman, her white hair spread out on the pillow, a coverlet pulled up to her chin.
“Berenice,” Pliny leaned over her and spoke softly in her ear, “I am the governor. Can you tell me what happened to you?”
“She looked up with watery, unfocused eyes. “Who are you?”
“The governor. I’m here to help. Tell me about dinner last night. Did you eat anything out of the ordinary? Anything not made in your own kitchen?”
She was quiet for so long he was afraid she was past understanding. Then she whispered, “Yes.” Her story came out in wheezing phrases, broken by pauses when her eyes fluttered and her mind seemed to wander. Pliny put his ear to her lips to catch her words. They had just finished dinner when someone came to the door carrying a covered tray of dates stuffed with pine nuts. The man handed the tray to her son and she heard what he said: A gift from the Persian to the bridegroom. Pliny made her repeat this. She was certain those were the words: Perses and nymphios. She asked her son what the man had meant, but he wouldn’t answer her and he seemed suddenly in a bad mood. Nevertheless, they passed the dates around, they were very large and sweet, and everyone had some. Glaucon ate the most. She only had one, though, not being very hungry.
“Did you recognize the man who brought the dates?”
“No.”
“A Persian, he said? Did—does your son know any Persians?”
“I don’t know, I don’t think so.”
“And he isn’t a bridegroom is he? He’s been married for years.”
“No. No. He’ll tell you himself.” Suddenly her eyes widened and she tried to raise her head. “Where is he? Where is my son, my daughter-in-law? Why aren’t they here? Who are you?”
Pliny told her as gently as he could. She turned her face to the wall and began to weep soundlessly.
“I’d give her a sleeping draught,” said Marinus, “but in her condition it could kill her.”
“That might be a mercy,” Pliny answered.
The two men stole quietly out of the room and returned to the megaron where Diocles and Theron were waiting.
“Well—?” Diocles began.
Pliny ignored him and turned to the brother. The man appeared to be deep in shock, sitting speechless with his head in his hands. “Theron, your brother and his family were murdered. I’m sorry, I know it’s a heavy blow, I don’t say it lightly. I will do everything in my power to find out who did this—”
“We will find out who did it!” Diocles was on his feet, the blood rising in his face. “I insist you accept our help, Governor.”
Finally, Pliny had had enough of this pompous nuisance. “Sit down!”
The two men glared at each other until Diocles snorted and turned away.
Then Theron spoke, mumbling to himself. “We were invited for dinner, my wife and I. Had another party to go to first—never got here.”
“Theron.” Pliny put a hand on his shoulder. “Kindly show me to your brother’s office or wherever he kept his papers. There may be something there.”
Diocles opened his mouth.
“Don’t!” said Pliny
The office was a small room at the back of the house. There wasn’t much in it. Glaucon, it seemed, had not been much of a reader or a writer. A few scrolls, a few wax tablets. Pliny scooped them up and handed them to Galeo. Then one item on the desk caught his eye. A handbook of astrology.
He had seen its twin before.
***
The Sun-Runner to the Father, greetings:
You have heard by now that the Bridegroom is dead—surely murdered. The conclusion is inescapable that one of our number is the killer. I say this although I know it pains you to hear it. I am doing everything I can to learn more. I pray we find him before the Romans do. This governor is no fool. Guard yourself well, Father. Nama Mithras.
***
“’Purnia, we’ve been here too long, give it up for today. People will start to wonder. We’ll try again tomorrow.”