The Bull Slayer - By Bruce Macbain Page 0,92
conversation. Pliny guessed there must be thirty guests or more, the elite of Nicomedia and nearby Prusa. The big landowners, the richest merchants, city councilors and magistrates, the priests of the great temples—all summoned at short notice by this one man. It was unmistakable how they all deferred to him. Not for the first time, an image presented itself to Pliny’s mind of a spider sitting at the center of its web; a taut and sensitive network whose filaments were built of obligation and influence, of favors owed and favors promised. Most of these men he knew, if only slightly. One face in the crowd surprised him—Pancrates. What was that hustling charlatan doing in this sleek and well-fed company? He acknowledged him with a nod.
Diocles entertained like a prince. An army of servants scurried back and forth, bearing course after steaming course of rich food—roast crane and boar, broiled eel and mullet, sow’s womb and hare’s liver, blood sausage and milk-fed snails, fricassee of veal, truffles in wine sauce, and all of it seasoned with coriander and cumin, fenugreek and silphium and garum. Pliny had no appetite for any of it, but ate what politeness demanded. He had no appetite either for the young hetaera who reclined beside him and attempted witty conversation. There were more than a dozen attractive women in the company—none of them anyone’s wife. Diocles’ womenfolk were confined to the gynekeion at the back of the house and never seen by strangers
The laughter was forced, the conviviality ice-thin. Diocles’ golden throat delivered an unending string of sententious dicta on philosophy, morality, and the virtues of simplicity, all adorned with quotations from Homer and other poets. Pliny had never felt more alone. The absence of Calpurnia from his side was an aching wound.
When at last the dishes were cleared away and the hetaeras dismissed, the synposion began, the serious drinking and serious conversation. After the Greek fashion, wine was mixed with water in a gigantic bronze krater of beautiful workmanship and shallow drinking bowls handed round. Pliny had already drunk too much; with an effort he focused his mind. He needed to be sharp now, careful, alert. He, who had interrogated so many in the past weeks, was now to be interrogated.
Why was their friend Didymus under arrest? Surely the charge of murder was preposterous. Had he been tortured into confessing? Were others to be entrapped like this? Were any of them safe? Was Pliny not overstepping his authority? Had the emperor been consulted? The voices grew louder, more insistent, veering close to insolence. Diocles himself was uncharacteristically silent, letting the others talk; his lips relaxed in a half-smile, his gaze fixed on Pliny like a spectator at a bearbaiting.
The hour grew late and Pliny felt his strength ebbing away, his self-control wearing dangerously thin. At last Diocles called a halt. “I’m afraid we’re wearying our guest. Where are our manners? Let us retire for the night. We need our rest because tomorrow I have a treat in store for you all. My woods are well stocked with wild pig, you ate a couple of them tonight, but there’s one old tusker out there, he’s wily and fast and he defies me. Tomorrow we hunt him.” He cast a beaming eye on Pliny. “The emperor is a keen boar hunter, I’m told. And you, governor, are no stranger to the sport, or so you say in one of your delightful letters. You see, I know more about you than you think I do.”
Pliny’s heart sank.
Diocles’ smile was wolfish. And then it froze. The room was suddenly very quiet. Pliny looked round to see what was the matter.
An old man had entered the hall. Tiny, wizened, wearing only one sandal, his soiled cloak trailing the ground behind him, his milky eyes staring vacantly. Diocles rushed to him. “Father!”
An elderly slave woman ran in. “Forgive me, master, he wandered, I didn’t see where—”
“It’s all right, Antiope.” Diocles recovered himself quickly. “So glad you decided to join us, father. We’re entertaining the governor tonight, did you know that? Would you like to meet him?” He spoke to him as one would speak to a child. He turned to Pliny. “Governor, my father, Hypatius.”
Hypatius? thought Pliny. Where have I heard that name?
Chapter Forty-three
The 5th day before the Nones of December
Calpurnia sits alone in her room. Not her room, a strange room in a distant wing of the palace, her prison cell, though there are no bars or locks. She drinks wine