drinking and dicing, which, in fact, he had. The last of his friends had shuffled off at day break and he had thrown himself on his bed still in his clothes. He was in no mood to be awakened at this ungodly hour, whatever it was.
Pliny guessed he was in his late twenties and thought he could see the father’s dissoluteness in him but nothing of the old man’s thrusting, bullying energy. He took an instant dislike to him.
It seemed to be reciprocated. Lucius glared in open hostility and acknowledged Pliny with a sullen nod. As custom required, they gripped forearms; Lucius’ grip was as weak as a girl’s. There followed an uncomfortable silence.
“Yes, well,” said Pliny finally, “let’s have a look at the body.”
“Not possible,” Lucius said. “It’s gone to the embalmer’s. There’s to be a funeral according to the rites of Isis—mummification and all that rigmarole. Scortilla’s idea, not mine.”
“I see. Well I’ll have a look at the bedroom anyway.” He resumed his frown of authority. “Come along, centurion. You’ve seen the room already, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes sir.” Valens’ eyes glinted with amusement. “All the lads have seen it.”
With a shrug, Lucius led them through a series of public chambers off the atrium which brought them to the east wing of the house and a grand staircase that led to an upper story. Along the way they passed columns and walls in every hue of the rainbow. Fine old mosaics covered the floors, and painted vistas seemed to make the walls dissolve. Verpa had amassed Corinthian bronze vases and massive candelabra, marble statuettes on onyx pedestals, and bric-a-brac of jasper and agate. Here priceless citrus-wood tables stood on spindly ivory legs, there water tinkled in silver fountains.
Pliny, whose own house was not nearly so grand, was impressed in spite of himself. The stairway led up to a second story gallery that ran the length of the house, its tessellated floor glittering like glass.
“That’s my room ahead, if you care to know.” Lucius halted at the top of the steps. “Go left, my father’s room is at the end there.”
“Five, six doors down. Who occupies those rooms?”
“No one, at the moment. They’re for guests. Sometimes my friends sleep over if they’re too drunk to find their way home.”
“Did any of your friends happen to sleep over the night before last?”
“Maybe—I mean, no, no one.”
Pliny lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “And the room below his?”
“His room overlooks the back corner of the garden. Below it is a shed for garden tools and whatnot. No one sleeps there.”
They stood in the doorway and Pliny took in the scene at a glance: a small desk and chair, a lamp-stand and a gilded chamber pot with handles in the shape of urinating Cupids; and Verpa’s bed, its costly Babylonian coverlet tangled and spattered with blood. All at once an unexpected thrill of excitement shot through him. The thing began suddenly to seem real to him. Here a man had died, butchered by a resentful slave, a castoff lover or perhaps some other enemy.
“Of course, without our slaves there’s no one to clean,” Lucius said in a petulant tone.
“Uncommonly large for a bedroom, isn’t it.”
“The family that built the house bedded a dozen slaves here. My father felt that was far too generous. One only needs to squeeze slaves closer together to get them in smaller quarters.
Pliny seemed to recall that this mansion in the Vicus Pallacinae had formerly belonged to a senator whom Verpa had denounced years ago for dabbling in philosophy. It was a beautiful house, far the grandest in a neighborhood of grand houses, and the emperor gave it to him as his reward. Informing on one’s colleagues paid well.
“My father took this room as his private, ah, lair, if that’s the right word,” Lucius continued. “He wanted someplace that was more secluded than the downstairs bedrooms. He was a secretive man who craved privacy—not easy to
Pliny guessed he was in his late twenties and thought he could see the father’s dissoluteness in him but nothing of the old man’s thrusting, bullying energy. He took an instant dislike to him.
It seemed to be reciprocated. Lucius glared in open hostility and acknowledged Pliny with a sullen nod. As custom required, they gripped forearms; Lucius’ grip was as weak as a girl’s. There followed an uncomfortable silence.
“Yes, well,” said Pliny finally, “let’s have a look at the body.”
“Not possible,” Lucius said. “It’s gone to the embalmer’s. There’s to be a funeral according to the rites of Isis—mummification and all that rigmarole. Scortilla’s idea, not mine.”
“I see. Well I’ll have a look at the bedroom anyway.” He resumed his frown of authority. “Come along, centurion. You’ve seen the room already, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes sir.” Valens’ eyes glinted with amusement. “All the lads have seen it.”
With a shrug, Lucius led them through a series of public chambers off the atrium which brought them to the east wing of the house and a grand staircase that led to an upper story. Along the way they passed columns and walls in every hue of the rainbow. Fine old mosaics covered the floors, and painted vistas seemed to make the walls dissolve. Verpa had amassed Corinthian bronze vases and massive candelabra, marble statuettes on onyx pedestals, and bric-a-brac of jasper and agate. Here priceless citrus-wood tables stood on spindly ivory legs, there water tinkled in silver fountains.
Pliny, whose own house was not nearly so grand, was impressed in spite of himself. The stairway led up to a second story gallery that ran the length of the house, its tessellated floor glittering like glass.
“That’s my room ahead, if you care to know.” Lucius halted at the top of the steps. “Go left, my father’s room is at the end there.”
“Five, six doors down. Who occupies those rooms?”
“No one, at the moment. They’re for guests. Sometimes my friends sleep over if they’re too drunk to find their way home.”
“Did any of your friends happen to sleep over the night before last?”
“Maybe—I mean, no, no one.”
Pliny lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “And the room below his?”
“His room overlooks the back corner of the garden. Below it is a shed for garden tools and whatnot. No one sleeps there.”
They stood in the doorway and Pliny took in the scene at a glance: a small desk and chair, a lamp-stand and a gilded chamber pot with handles in the shape of urinating Cupids; and Verpa’s bed, its costly Babylonian coverlet tangled and spattered with blood. All at once an unexpected thrill of excitement shot through him. The thing began suddenly to seem real to him. Here a man had died, butchered by a resentful slave, a castoff lover or perhaps some other enemy.
“Of course, without our slaves there’s no one to clean,” Lucius said in a petulant tone.
“Uncommonly large for a bedroom, isn’t it.”
“The family that built the house bedded a dozen slaves here. My father felt that was far too generous. One only needs to squeeze slaves closer together to get them in smaller quarters.
Pliny seemed to recall that this mansion in the Vicus Pallacinae had formerly belonged to a senator whom Verpa had denounced years ago for dabbling in philosophy. It was a beautiful house, far the grandest in a neighborhood of grand houses, and the emperor gave it to him as his reward. Informing on one’s colleagues paid well.
“My father took this room as his private, ah, lair, if that’s the right word,” Lucius continued. “He wanted someplace that was more secluded than the downstairs bedrooms. He was a secretive man who craved privacy—not easy to
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