room, doubtless with the object of appreciating the muralist’s extraordinary technique. “Look at this here. We never noticed this before.” He was pointing at what appeared to be a charcoal sketch of some kind high up on the wall beside the bed: three semicircles one above the other, the largest one at the bottom bracketing the other two. A vertical slash drawn through their centers connected them and protruded a little way above and below them.
“By the gods,” whispered Lucius, squinting up at it. “Jews! My father prosecuted them, you know, and their friends, the ones who call themselves God-fearers.”
Pliny cast him a questioning look.
“What, you don’t know about the God-fearers? Romans, people of our own class, mind you, who attend the lectures of the rabbis where they listen to a lot of nonsense about how their books contain wisdom the equal of Plato or Pythagoras. They worship a god with no image, if you can imagine it, and not only that but he’s worse-tempered than Zeus with a hang-over, spouting rules about this, that and the other. But they eat it up. I had to sit through hours of it, pretending to be one of them, and it all went over my head, I assure you. The only thing that was clear to me is that they’re traitors. But that’s how we caught Clemens and Domitilla. It was my father’s idea.”
What a long speech suddenly from this reticent young man, Pliny thought. “But what does that have to do with this scrawl on the wall?”
“I know what this is a drawing of,” Lucius replied. “And so do you, vice prefect, think about it.”
“ Mehercule , he’s right!” Valens exclaimed. “On the Arch of Titus, sir. That bloody huge seven-branched candlestick from the temple in Jerusalem.”
Of course! He’d seen it a hundred times. Every Roman knew those bas-reliefs that depicted the triumph of the emperor Titus, Domitian’s lamented elder brother, over the Jews. All the treasures of the temple had been paraded through the streets of Rome more than a quarter century ago and commemorated in carved and painted stone on the triumphal arch that Titus built near the Forum.
“Sir?” Valens scratched his jaw. “If I might make a suggestion, sir.”
“Yes, what?”
“Ask about the murder weapon.”
“Right, of course, centurion. I was just going to.” In fact, it hadn’t occurred to him. He was no policeman, damn it!
“I have it,” said Lucius. “We found it on the floor by the bed. I took it to my room, I’ll get it.”
Lucius returned moments later with the dagger and held the hilt toward Pliny, who took it in his hand. It was a heavy piece with a wicked-looking curved blade incised with symbols in a foreign script. Black flakes of Verpa’s blood clung in them.
“A Jewish sica,” said Valens. “An uncle of mine worked for tax farmers in Judea before the revolt. The Zealot terrorists used to slash Roman throats with these.”
“You’re a font of information, centurion.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Here, you’d best take charge of it. It’s our only evidence so far.” He handed it to the centurion. Turning back to Lucius, he asked, “Are there any Jews in this house?”
The young man looked at his feet. “Well, yes, one among the slaves that I know of. But really, I don’t think…”
“And who is that?”
“Old Pollux, a former boxer, who guards—guarded—my father’s door at night.”
“Then, I think we’d better speak with him.”
Chapter Eight
Valens stepped out and returned a moment later with Pollux and a second soldier to guard him, even though the man was shackled hand and foot. Ignoring Lucius, he gazed steadily at Pliny. There was nothing servile in his manner. Valens lifted the man’s tunic with the point of his sword, exposing his nakedness.
“Well, the old boy’s a Jew, all right.”
Pollux stood as still as a statue but Pliny saw his jaw muscles quiver. Valens was no weakling but this man could have broken him in half.
“Leave the
“By the gods,” whispered Lucius, squinting up at it. “Jews! My father prosecuted them, you know, and their friends, the ones who call themselves God-fearers.”
Pliny cast him a questioning look.
“What, you don’t know about the God-fearers? Romans, people of our own class, mind you, who attend the lectures of the rabbis where they listen to a lot of nonsense about how their books contain wisdom the equal of Plato or Pythagoras. They worship a god with no image, if you can imagine it, and not only that but he’s worse-tempered than Zeus with a hang-over, spouting rules about this, that and the other. But they eat it up. I had to sit through hours of it, pretending to be one of them, and it all went over my head, I assure you. The only thing that was clear to me is that they’re traitors. But that’s how we caught Clemens and Domitilla. It was my father’s idea.”
What a long speech suddenly from this reticent young man, Pliny thought. “But what does that have to do with this scrawl on the wall?”
“I know what this is a drawing of,” Lucius replied. “And so do you, vice prefect, think about it.”
“ Mehercule , he’s right!” Valens exclaimed. “On the Arch of Titus, sir. That bloody huge seven-branched candlestick from the temple in Jerusalem.”
Of course! He’d seen it a hundred times. Every Roman knew those bas-reliefs that depicted the triumph of the emperor Titus, Domitian’s lamented elder brother, over the Jews. All the treasures of the temple had been paraded through the streets of Rome more than a quarter century ago and commemorated in carved and painted stone on the triumphal arch that Titus built near the Forum.
“Sir?” Valens scratched his jaw. “If I might make a suggestion, sir.”
“Yes, what?”
“Ask about the murder weapon.”
“Right, of course, centurion. I was just going to.” In fact, it hadn’t occurred to him. He was no policeman, damn it!
“I have it,” said Lucius. “We found it on the floor by the bed. I took it to my room, I’ll get it.”
Lucius returned moments later with the dagger and held the hilt toward Pliny, who took it in his hand. It was a heavy piece with a wicked-looking curved blade incised with symbols in a foreign script. Black flakes of Verpa’s blood clung in them.
“A Jewish sica,” said Valens. “An uncle of mine worked for tax farmers in Judea before the revolt. The Zealot terrorists used to slash Roman throats with these.”
“You’re a font of information, centurion.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Here, you’d best take charge of it. It’s our only evidence so far.” He handed it to the centurion. Turning back to Lucius, he asked, “Are there any Jews in this house?”
The young man looked at his feet. “Well, yes, one among the slaves that I know of. But really, I don’t think…”
“And who is that?”
“Old Pollux, a former boxer, who guards—guarded—my father’s door at night.”
“Then, I think we’d better speak with him.”
Chapter Eight
Valens stepped out and returned a moment later with Pollux and a second soldier to guard him, even though the man was shackled hand and foot. Ignoring Lucius, he gazed steadily at Pliny. There was nothing servile in his manner. Valens lifted the man’s tunic with the point of his sword, exposing his nakedness.
“Well, the old boy’s a Jew, all right.”
Pollux stood as still as a statue but Pliny saw his jaw muscles quiver. Valens was no weakling but this man could have broken him in half.
“Leave the
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