achieve in the houses we Romans live in. The rest of us have seldom had occasion to enter it. As you see, he decorated it to suit his taste.”
Until now, no one had called attention to the room’s most striking feature—the murals. On every wall, horse-tailed Satyrs with bulging eyes and huge curving penises performed sexual acts in every imaginable position with naked women, their hair loose, their mouths open in shrieks of ecstasy. The figures were life-sized, painted by an undoubted master of anatomy, color, and modeling.
Pliny, like any Roman, was not easily shocked. Sex was celebrated everywhere in the city; you could see similar things in the public baths. Still, his Northern conservatism was pricked. His parents’ house had allowed no such stuff as this. “Great gods, it looks more like a brothel than a gentleman’s bedroom.” All this to stir the man’s flagging libido or, more likely, to instruct the younger slave girls in what was expected of them. What shameful sights these walls must have seen.
Valens grinned. No doubt he and “the lads” found frequent occasion to come up here. Lucius stared straight ahead and said nothing.
Pliny hastened on, “Lucius Ingentius, tell me in your own words what happened that night.”
The young man shrugged—shrugging seemed to signal the way he dealt with the world—and explained how he and a few slaves had burst in at dawn when Verpa failed to answer their knock and found him naked, on his stomach, one leg curled under him, the other extended straight, his back and buttocks shredded with bloody slash marks. The body was cool to the touch and already stiffening.
“And there was no one else in the room when you entered?”
“No one.
“And no one heard a struggle, a cry for help?”
Lucius hunched his shoulders again, “I was out most of the night. Scortilla’s room is downstairs.”
“What about the slaves?”
“I’ve already questioned them, sir,” Valens struck in. “None of them admits to hearing anything.”
“And none of them ran away?”
“No, they’re all here,” Lucius said.
“Interesting. How did your father get along with them.”
Lucius looked doubtful. “He was a strict master, but hardly the monster people made him out. Not loved. But this? I don’t know.”
“And where do the slaves sleep?”
“There are two other big rooms at the other end of the house. Most of them sleep there.”
“Under guard?”
“They’re counted every night, but not locked in.”
“You said most of them sleep there.”
“A few privileged ones sleep elsewhere.”
“And they are?”
“The night staff, the door slaves, the clock slave. Oh, and Iarbas the dwarf. He’s Scortilla’s pet and plays the clown in her pantomime troupe. He sleeps with her.”
“Her own troupe?”
Lucius had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. “I know, frowned on in these virtuous days, but her tastes are old-fashioned. Harmless, really—bit of slapstick, rude songs, boy ballet dancers.”
“Quite,” Pliny interrupted. “And so she and your father never slept…”
“Together? No, not for years.”
“Did any other slaves have the freedom of the house at night?”
“Phyllis, one of the slave girls, generally slept with my father, she was his current favorite. And there’s Ganymede, the cinaedus in our troupe.”
“And where does he sleep?”
There was a half-smile on the young man’s lips. “Ganymede sleeps wherever he likes.”
“Hmm. Well, I will question them all in due course. None of them sounds like a likely suspect. But your father didn’t have Phyllis to bed that night, or anyone else?”
“No, he didn’t. It was his custom when he had important business to transact the next day not to squander his vital force in lovemaking.”
“And what business would that have been?”
“I’ve no idea. But he seemed agitated at dinner and drank more than usual. Something was in the wind.”
“Sir.” Valens had been circling the
Until now, no one had called attention to the room’s most striking feature—the murals. On every wall, horse-tailed Satyrs with bulging eyes and huge curving penises performed sexual acts in every imaginable position with naked women, their hair loose, their mouths open in shrieks of ecstasy. The figures were life-sized, painted by an undoubted master of anatomy, color, and modeling.
Pliny, like any Roman, was not easily shocked. Sex was celebrated everywhere in the city; you could see similar things in the public baths. Still, his Northern conservatism was pricked. His parents’ house had allowed no such stuff as this. “Great gods, it looks more like a brothel than a gentleman’s bedroom.” All this to stir the man’s flagging libido or, more likely, to instruct the younger slave girls in what was expected of them. What shameful sights these walls must have seen.
Valens grinned. No doubt he and “the lads” found frequent occasion to come up here. Lucius stared straight ahead and said nothing.
Pliny hastened on, “Lucius Ingentius, tell me in your own words what happened that night.”
The young man shrugged—shrugging seemed to signal the way he dealt with the world—and explained how he and a few slaves had burst in at dawn when Verpa failed to answer their knock and found him naked, on his stomach, one leg curled under him, the other extended straight, his back and buttocks shredded with bloody slash marks. The body was cool to the touch and already stiffening.
“And there was no one else in the room when you entered?”
“No one.
“And no one heard a struggle, a cry for help?”
Lucius hunched his shoulders again, “I was out most of the night. Scortilla’s room is downstairs.”
“What about the slaves?”
“I’ve already questioned them, sir,” Valens struck in. “None of them admits to hearing anything.”
“And none of them ran away?”
“No, they’re all here,” Lucius said.
“Interesting. How did your father get along with them.”
Lucius looked doubtful. “He was a strict master, but hardly the monster people made him out. Not loved. But this? I don’t know.”
“And where do the slaves sleep?”
“There are two other big rooms at the other end of the house. Most of them sleep there.”
“Under guard?”
“They’re counted every night, but not locked in.”
“You said most of them sleep there.”
“A few privileged ones sleep elsewhere.”
“And they are?”
“The night staff, the door slaves, the clock slave. Oh, and Iarbas the dwarf. He’s Scortilla’s pet and plays the clown in her pantomime troupe. He sleeps with her.”
“Her own troupe?”
Lucius had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. “I know, frowned on in these virtuous days, but her tastes are old-fashioned. Harmless, really—bit of slapstick, rude songs, boy ballet dancers.”
“Quite,” Pliny interrupted. “And so she and your father never slept…”
“Together? No, not for years.”
“Did any other slaves have the freedom of the house at night?”
“Phyllis, one of the slave girls, generally slept with my father, she was his current favorite. And there’s Ganymede, the cinaedus in our troupe.”
“And where does he sleep?”
There was a half-smile on the young man’s lips. “Ganymede sleeps wherever he likes.”
“Hmm. Well, I will question them all in due course. None of them sounds like a likely suspect. But your father didn’t have Phyllis to bed that night, or anyone else?”
“No, he didn’t. It was his custom when he had important business to transact the next day not to squander his vital force in lovemaking.”
“And what business would that have been?”
“I’ve no idea. But he seemed agitated at dinner and drank more than usual. Something was in the wind.”
“Sir.” Valens had been circling the
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