The Bull Slayer - By Bruce Macbain Page 0,49

the men are so busy.” Fannia was afraid she might have gone too far.

“We’ll see.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Pliny thumped the table. “We have hold of a new clew, gentlemen, and this one may finally lead us out of the labyrinth!”

The staff was once again gathered in his office and this time their expressions were eager and engaged. Their chief’s excitement was contagious.

“You think Glaucon killed Balbus, then?” Suetonius asked.

“Balbus’ neck was crushed. Not many men have the strength to do that, but Glaucon, the ex-wrestler, did. And then, for some reason, he began to worry about what he’d done.”

“And his question to the oracle provoked his murder,” Marinus finished the thought.

“Will I be punished for slaying the lion? Those were his words?” said Aquila. But why ‘lion’? It’s a damned peculiar expression.”

“Brave as a lion?” Suetonius offered. “Balbus was a tough ex-soldier; it could fit. Still, we really don’t have anything concrete that connects Glaucon to Balbus.”

“But we do,” said Pliny triumphantly. From the jumble of scrolls that he had taken from Glaucon’s house and which now covered his desk, he withdrew the little handbook of astrology and unrolled it. “This is identical to the one I took from Balbus’ house. I’ve just been comparing them side by side, they’re copies of the same text. Fabia told me that Balbus studied it diligently although it ‘made his head hurt.’ I’d guess that Glaucon, who by all accounts was no genius, suffered the same ache. The question is, why were both of them intent on studying this little book and how did they come to possess it?”

“Interesting,” said Nymphidius. He massaged his knee “But that’s only one piece of the puzzle. The poisoned dates were a gift ‘from the Persian to the bridegroom.’ But Glaucon had been married for years, and who is this Persian?”

“Just like a Persian,” said Aquila angrily, “to slaughter a whole family. They haven’t got human feelings like us.”

“There are Persians in the city,” said Suetonius. “A few hundred. They have their own quarter together with the Jews and Armenians.” According to Sophronia, he was about to add, but suddenly felt reluctant to bring her name into the discussion.

“And this Persian who wanted Glaucon dead,” said Marinus, “must therefore be complicit in the murder of Balbus. A Persian murdering a Roman official? A bad business—especially if it’s the prelude to something worse.”

“You don’t mean—?” Zosimus blurted out, fear in his voice.

“A second Mithridates!” Aquila growled. “Another massacre!”

“None of that talk now!” said Pliny sharply. But he was more worried than he let on. Could Persian spies have somehow learned of Trajan’s plans to launch an invasion of their empire from Bithynia-Pontus? Was Pacorus, King of Kings, planning to strike first?

“Anything in Glaucon’s papers that mentions Persians?” Marinus asked.

“Not so far,” Pliny admitted. “I haven’t read everything yet.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Suetonius asked, “What do you propose, Gaius Plinius?”

“I will talk to these Persians.”

***

They wore the baggy trousers and long-sleeved, embroidered tunics of their nation. Their long hair and beards were oiled and curled. They were shop-keepers and merchants, the leaders of their community. They stood, a dozen of them, in Pliny’s antechamber, muttering in their beards. They were frightened. Persia and Rome had been enemies for generations. Roman legions had invaded their land once and been massacred. There had been wars over the possession of Armenia and the frontier was a scene of constant skirmishes. They had no reason to trust a Roman governor.

They pushed forward their spokesman, Arsames, an elderly, dignified man with grey in his beard, an importer of eastern spices and perfumes. He sank to his knees, stretched out his arms, and knocked his forehead on the floor.

“Stand up, man, I’m not one of your barbarian kings,” Pliny said sharply.

With the help of two of his comrades, Arsames struggled to his feet. If he heard the snickers from the Romans in the room, he ignored them.

“Forgive me, master—our custom.” He spoke passable Greek.

“Nor am I your master,” said Pliny sharply. “What I require from you is information, not cringing obeisance.” In a few words he told them that a prominent Greek and his family had been poisoned by a Persian. “I want that man, and I expect you to produce him.”

Arsames translated for the others. With one voice they cried out their innocence, raising their hands to heaven. No Persian had done—would ever do—such a thing! Who was Glaucon? They did not know him. Why would they wish him dead?

Pliny held up his hands