unconvinced.
“And if the cult is anti-Roman,” Pliny went on, “how could Balbus have belonged to it? The man may have been many things, but turncoat is surely not one of them.
“And yet,” said Nymphidius, “he was knowingly breaking the law by belonging to it. Wouldn’t this cult fall under Trajan’s ban on voluntary associations?”
“Indeed it does,” said Pliny, reminding them that Nicomedia was not even permitted a volunteer fire brigade. “Somehow, we must find out who the other members are. For all we know, they’re people we pass in the street every day. What do they do out in this cave of theirs? What purpose binds them together?”
“They’re a small group surely,” said Marinus. “The boy said there were seven ranks. Lion and Raven are two. Persian and presumably Bridegroom, Glaucon’s rank, are two others. Of course, there may be more than one holder of a given rank, but I’d guess there aren’t many more to be discovered. How many people can fit into a cave, after all?”
They sat for a minute in thoughtful silence.
“Where do we go from here then, Governor?” Nymphidius said at last.
“I’ll interview Glaucon’s brother again,” Pliny replied. “Is it conceivable that he knew Silvanus, or Argyrus? Who were his particular friends? Although Theron is so embittered that I don’t expect much cooperation on that front. And we’ll search for the cave.”
“A big task. The hillsides out that way are riddled with caves, so I’m told,” Nymphidius said.
“Nevertheless, we must try. It’s somewhere not far from where Balbus was killed. That leather merchant who brought us to the village where the horses were found. Aquila, go find him again. We’re going to need his villagers plus every soldier you can spare. Get started at once.”
Aquila stood and clapped his fist to his chest; happy to be doing something at last.
“And,” Pliny arched his back and stretched. “I can’t think of anything else. Unless one of you—”
“Who owns it?”
“What? What was that?”
Zosimus had been working up the courage to ask his question for some time.
“Owns what, my boy?”
“The land out that way, sir.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
“What a question!” Nymphidius shouted. “It’s wasteland, scrub, nobody owns it.”
“No, wait,” said Pliny. “He’s got something here. Think about it. These cultists—they aren’t peasants, they’re city men, wealthy men, if Glaucon is typical. They don’t just go out in the woods and squat in some cave. They own things, improve them, pass them on. It’s the kind of people they are—the kind of people we are. I believe this cave is on land that someone owns and has used for a purpose.”
“It’s a long shot,” Nymphidius muttered.
“Yes, well what isn’t here?” Pliny retorted. “Zosimus, my boy, I’m proud of you. And, as it’s your idea, I’m putting you in charge of it. Go off to the city record office tomorrow and start looking at land deeds for parcels east of the city to a distance of, say, a hundred stades. If it was legally acquired, there’ll be a record. Take Caelianus to help you. Counting the coin in the treasury can wait.”
***
“Of course, I respect your modesty, Calpurnia, but you must understand that I am a physician. If I had a trained nurse, I would employ her. Unfortunately, I do not have such a person. Now please relax, there is absolutely no danger, the pain is slight, and the marks will disappear within a day or two. And you will feel much, much better for it, I assure you.”
Calpurnia watched him with staring eyes as he heated the brass cupping vessels over a candle flame. Her hands, white-knuckled, gripped the arms of her chair.
Ione hovered beside her. “I had it done once, matrona, it isn’t so bad.”
“If I refuse?”
Marinus looked at her sternly. “Lady, it is your husband’s wish. He’s worried about you. We all are. It’s plain your humors are unbalanced. Every physician from Hippocrates to our own time has advocated this procedure. Now please let us have no more difficulties.” He spread out his instruments on the side table, selected a lancet and tested its edge against his thumb. “Ione, kindly pull your mistress’ gown up to uncover her thighs.”
Calpurnia looked away. What could she do but submit to this man?
Her flesh quivered under his fingers, touching her where no man but her husband—and her lover—had ever touched her. Brisk, businesslike, Marinus made an incision on the inside of each thigh and, as the blood flowed, pressed a cup over the wounds. She gasped as the hot metal burned her. He