reality beyond reality, of Mithras’ starry realm. And the lights were exploding in his head now—he was shaken, he was lifted up, his chest swelled with such joy that he thought it would burst…
And as Aulus slumped, twitching and jerking, before the altar, the earth did rumble with the bellow of a subterranean bull, and shake and split open, and the roof of the cave came down on him, burying him under a ton of rock.
***
The horses reared and screamed as the earth heaved under them. Calpurnia was thrown to the ground half-stunned. Was this her punishment? Were the Furies coming for her? She looked up in time to see a tree—the very tree under which she and Agathon had coupled—lift its roots from the quivering earth and slowly, slowly fall toward her.
***
“Well, Governor, you surprise me. But you should have killed him, you know. It’s too late now. This is your last chance to be reasonable. I’m offering you a way out. Simply resign and go home, with or without your wife, it’s up to you. But if you refuse, consider that you are in my house, far from home. And though, as I have said, I personally dislike violence…”
The antique vases began to vibrate.
A bronze shield fell from its hanger with a ringing crash.
The bust of blind Homer, leapt from its pedestal and rolled crazily across the floor.
Diocles looked around, wild-eyed. “No!”
With a groan of splitting timbers, the floor buckled and the ceiling cracked. Pliny and Diocles were both on their hands and knees, Pliny nearest the door, which hung from one hinge.
Diocles, crouched against the farther wall, was trying to get to his feet when the wall fell inward, pinning him under a weight of brick and plaster. Pliny, in the doorway, glanced back and, through a choking cloud of plaster dust, saw Diocles stretch out his arm. “Help me!”
Pliny crawled back, picked up the marble bust of Homer where it lay and lifted it high. Their eyes met. “You won’t kill me,” Diocles whispered.
Pliny brought it down on his head. Again. And again.
Then he dashed for the door just as the ceiling collapsed in a cloud of choking dust.
Chapter Forty-four
One week later
The Nones of December
Pliny sat in his office—its walls disfigured with cracks and fallen plaster—numb with exhaustion, trying to pull his thoughts together as he dictated a letter to the emperor. Philo, his new secretary, sat beside him with his stylus poised. Zosimus had died on the journey back to Nicomedia without ever regaining consciousness. In the chaotic aftermath of the earthquake there had been no time to build him the splendid tomb he deserved. His ashes rested, for the time being, in an underground crypt on the palace grounds. Pliny had composed the epitaph himself.
DEDICATED TO THE SPIRIT
OF GAIUS PLINIUS ZOSIMUS . FREEDMAN OF GAIUS .
WHO LIVED XXXIV YEARS . VIII MONTHS . AND XV DAYS
BEST OF SCRIBES . BEST OF FRIENDS
MAY THE EARTH REST LIGHTLY ON YOU
How inadequate those formulaic words to express his sorrow. He would have other secretaries, but never another Zosimus. He felt lost without him. He had decided to acknowledge little Rufus as his own son and raise him with all the advantages of his rank and fortune. That meant, of course, that Ione would have to stay on. He found her presence distasteful but the poor child, having just lost the man he believed was his father, could hardly be separated from his mother as well. If only he and ’Purnia could have raised the boy together…He drove his thoughts back to the task at hand.
…and so, Sir, the city is in need of architects and engineers to repair the damage to buildings which were already in a ruinous state from the previous earthquake. Destruction in the countryside is widespread too, with several villages obliterated. I am making what provisions I can for the refugees…
He had been in constant motion day and night, surveying the damage, issuing orders. It was the only thing that was keeping him sane.
…The province is mourning the loss of one of its leading citizens, Diocles, son of Hypatius, called the ‘Golden Mouth’, who died when his house collapsed. I have issued a proclamation in his honor…
In a moment of murderous rage he had killed a man with his bare hands. Was it possible? He had discovered something about himself that he would far rather not have known—how little it took to strip away the thin skin of civilization, of humanity and reveal the