helpless shrug. “If the man is willing to die rather than expose his family to the wrath of the others, and the Sun-Runner, I don’t know what I can do to change his mind.”
“With good reason,” Suetonius added. “If Didymus didn’t murder the high priest Barzanes then there’s another murderer out there and he must be desperate, thinking what the banker might tell us. I trust he’s safely stowed away where even this mysterious Sun-Runner can’t get at him?”
“I’ll double the guard on his cell,” said Pliny. “Mehercule, I almost feel like we’re fighting a ghost!”
“And you must be careful too, Gaius. I’m afraid for you.” Calpurnia touched his arm.
“Now, now, nothing at all to worry about, my dear.” And again his heart leapt.
“So now we just wait to see what will happen next?” said Nymphidius without enthusiasm.
“What I propose to do,” Pliny replied, “is resume my tour of the province.”
“What?” Marinus was alarmed. “You’re exhausted, man. As your physician I can’t—”
“Nonsense. Do me a world of good to get back to my proper work again. The weather’s turned unseasonably mild again and I shall take advantage of it. Look, we’ve solved Balbus’ murder and that’s all anyone outside this room needs to know. If I continue to hang around Nicomedia people will start to wonder why. No, I’ve made up my mind to set out tomorrow, in fact. Suetonius, as before, I leave you in charge of things here. ’Purnia, I hope you’ll keep a kindly eye on Aulus, he—I say, ’Purnia…”
***
The next morning
Calpurnia sat at her dressing table while Ione brushed her hair with long, vigorous strokes.
“’Purnia, this is your chance! But no more hanging about the temples, please. I’ll take him another letter if you want.”
“Oh, Ione, I’ve given up. It’s over,” she lied. She’d been badly frightened when she learned that Zosimus had spoken to her husband about Ione. Maybe the girl would never let anything slip, but the less she knew now the better.
“You don’t mean that.” There was an edge to Ione’s voice; something almost accusing in her tone.
“I’m afraid I do.”
“But—“
“I’m actually not feeling very well today, dear. I’ll spend the day alone with a book. You may leave me now.” With her back to her, Calpurnia could not see that look that passed over Ione’s face. And if she had, could she have guessed what lay behind it?
“As you wish, Mistress.”
Calpurnia had lain awake most of the night while Pliny snored peacefully beside her. In the past month, since she had seen him for that brief moment in the temple of Zeus, she had, indeed, struggled to forget Agathon, had almost persuaded herself that she could. How foolish! She was powerless—a weak, foolish woman, a slave to her love, her need. She must see him again, only once, she told herself, just once so that they might part friends. But she knew this was a lie. She would send him another message. Not like the last one, complaining, threatening—of course, he hadn’t answered her. No, she would be dignified, reasonable—but not cold, no, she would tell him how much she loved him, she would ask him to spare her an afternoon, an hour even, to be with him. But who would deliver her note? If not Ione, then who? One of the household slaves? Could she trust any of them to keep her secret? They were Pliny’s slaves, not hers. She thought for a long time and then she knew whom she would entrust it to. She’d never asked him for a favor but why should he refuse? People like him were useful for this sort of thing. Of course she was taking a risk, but that would be true no matter what she did. She would go out of her way to be charming to him today.
***
Timotheus sat in his chamber—the mean, shabby little chamber they had given him for his quarters—and eyed the pair of tablets, bound with cord and sealed, that she had placed in his hands, smiling (when had she ever done that before?) and asking, oh so prettily, if he wouldn’t mind delivering it to a certain town house. Messenger boy! It had come to this. Bad enough he had to live on their scraps, but to be sent on a slave’s errand! What should he do with the thing? He would not stoop to opening and reading it himself. He was a gentleman, after all. But just possibly his patron Diocles would find it interesting. Wasn’t