Peleus seemed cowed, exactly as I intended. He kept his eyes down. “They ... they can be mended, my lord. My mother will do it when the period of mourning is over.”

  “How long is that?”

  “Seven days.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll not have servants of mine going out in mended clothing. People will think we’ve fallen on hard times. Just cut them up and use them for cleaning. And you can pay for them out of any money you have saved up.”

  “Yes, my lord. I’m sorry, but it is part of our custom—”

  I cut him off, stopping right in front of him. “I’m sure I’ll be hearing about this funeral from my mother for days to come. It seems to have had a strange effect on her. As for you, I’m very angry that you abused the privilege I gave you.”

  “My lord, I only did what you gave me permission to do. I escorted my mother to her brother’s funeral. We returned by dark, as you told us to.”

  “But I did not give you permission to take my mother into the Subura.” I noticed Tacitus straightening up, as though he was about to join me in a two-pronged assault.

  “We didn’t ask her to go with us, my lord. She joined us just as we were leaving.”

  I moved behind Peleus now, to his left, where he couldn’t quite see me without turning his head. As a military tribune in Syria I had seen officers question men from this position. It seemed to unsettle them, like being attacked by an enemy they couldn’t see. “When she told me she was going, I assumed it was at your mother’s invitation.”

  “My mother would never presume to ask such a thing, my lord, especially considering how long a walk it was.”

  That surprised me. “It’s not that far from here to the Subura and back.”

  “But my uncle was buried along the Appian Way, my lord, near the tomb of Caecilia Metella.”

  Tacitus gasped. “What? That’s almost ... two miles south of the city!”

  I stormed around in front of Peleus, my face just a few fingers width from his. I drew myself up to emphasize my slight advantage in height. “Do you mean you forced my mother to walk all that distance, as frail as she is?”

  “No one forced her, my lord. I told her she ought to go home after we finished our prayers in the synagogue. But she wouldn’t hear of it.”

  I could hardly think of what to ask next. Tacitus stepped in. “Did you at least find a chair for her to ride in?” His resonant voice was still in good form after his earlier practice with his speech.

  Peleus flinched at this attack from his flank. “No, my lord. In our funerals it’s forbidden for anyone but the deceased to be carried, unless it’s just impossible for them to walk. The lady Plinia made the trip without any difficulty that I could see. It was comforting to my mother to have her there, but awkward as well.”

  “Awkward?” Tacitus said. “How could it be awkward to have a member of such a noble family at your uncle’s funeral? I should think the lady Plinia’s presence lent great prestige to the whole affair.”

  “Our funerals are quite simple, my lord. Our holy books teach that the first man was made from the earth. When we die we return to it, bearing nothing, just as we came from it. Displays of wealth and social standing are forbidden. We had to ask the lady Plinia to remove her jewelry.”

  Now that he mentioned it, that was something else different about my mother. I don’t think I had ever seen her without earrings, a couple of rings, and especially the gold bracelet my father gave her. I wondered why she hadn’t put them back on after the funeral was over.

  “That’s enough about this funeral,” I said, sitting on the edge of my couch. “I’ll get my mother’s side of the story later. Now I want to know more about your uncle and about his death.”

  The change of topic and the softening of my tone caught Peleus off balance. “What do you want to know, my lord?”

  “Just give me a brief account of his life. I’ll stop you or ask questions as I see the need. He was a mason, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, my lord.” He took a deep breath. “Well, he worked in all kinds of masonry, but he was especially skilled at plastering.”

  “And he was a freedman?”

  “Yes, my lord. He and my mother came from a family in Pergamum in Asia. When my father died, my uncle—who was a widower—took my mother and me in. We lived there until two years before the war broke out. That year we went to Jerusalem for the Passover, our holiest feast. My uncle and my mother decided to move there. My uncle opened his own shop and employed several other men. But then the war came.”

  “How old were you by then?”

  “I was eleven when Jerusalem fell. We almost starved during the siege.”

  “Yes, I understand it was horrible.” I hoped I sounded sympathetic. “I’ve heard my uncle talk about it, and I’ve read Josephus’ account.”

  “Josephus!” Peleus turned his head and spat. “That self-serving traitor was safe outside the walls, growing fat at Titus’ table, while his own people were eating rats and shoe leather to stay alive.” With his face contorting in rage and his fists clenched, he took a step toward me. “If you ever have to choose between them, my lord, take the shoe leather.”

  I pulled myself up to my full height and put my hand on his chest to stop his advance. “How dare you threaten me!”

  Tacitus grabbed Peleus’ arm and twisted it behind his back, forcing the slave to one knee. His face, twisted in anguish like some Pergamene sculpture, showed his realization of the seriousness of what he’d just done. “For - for - forgive me, my lord. I d - d - didn’t mean ...”

  I looked down at him until he dropped his gaze. When I signaled to Tacitus to release him, Tacitus pushed him to the ground, face down. As his master I would have been within my rights to hit him, even to have him whipped. But what would that accomplish? It would further confirm his opinion of Romans in general—and his master in particular—as cruel tyrants. Flogging him might make my other slaves fear me a bit more. Or perhaps they would only hate me. The hardest part of the life of someone of my class is knowing he is surrounded in his own house by all these people who resent him and who would welcome his death if they could only be sure what would happen to them afterward.

  “Just remember,” I said, “that none of us—slave or free—controls our fate. Things often work out in our lives due to events which we do not set into motion and cannot stop. Now, get up and go on with your story,”

  “Yes, my lord.” He pulled himself together, stood up, and continued his tale. “My mother and I happened to be among the slaves allotted to your uncle after the fall of the city. Because of his skill as a mason, Menachem was taken by Titus along with other workmen. At least we all ended up in Rome.”

  “And you’ve had no reason to complain of your treatment in this house, have you?”

  Peleus said nothing, just stared at the wall over my shoulder.

  “Have you?” I repeated. “Have you ever felt the whip across your back or shackles chafing your wrists?”

  He shook his head. “No, my lord. You, and your uncle before you, have been ... as kind as any slave could hope.”

  “Your uncle didn’t fare as well, did he? I saw the whip marks on his back.”

  I thought I saw tears in Peleus’ eyes. “He could not accept his status as a slave, my lord.”

  “I think he imparted some of that spirit to you,” Tacitus said.

  “I admired him very much, my lord,” Peleus replied without looking at Tacitus.

  “Your uncle was working on Domitian’s new house when he died. What other projects had he worked on?”

  “The Flavian Amphitheater and Titus’ baths, my lord.”

  “Do you know of any reason why someone would have killed him?”

  “No, my lord. Why would you ask that?”

  “Because I think he was murdered, and I want to know if it was just a random crime or if someone killed him for a particular reason.” The someone, of course, being Domitian. The particular reason ... that was still to be determined.

  “Did he ever mention arguments he’d had?” Tacitus asked. “Anyone he’d antagonized?”

  “No, my lord. But I imagine that could happen. Menachem was something of a braggart.”

  “What did he brag about?” I asked.

  “About the baths of Titus, my lord.”

  “He was proud of his work there?”

  “Yes, my lord, and he liked to talk about what he saw beneath the baths.”

  “Beneath the baths?” I turned to Tacitus, who raised an eyebrow.

  “The baths were built on top of part of Nero’s Golden House,” Tacitus said. “But I don’t know what’s beneath them. I thought Nero’s house had been obliterated.”

  “Not entirely, my lord,” Peleus said. “The work was done in such a hurry that the foundations for the baths were built right through Nero’s house. If you know how to get there, you can still see parts of the house.”

  “And your uncle knew how to get there?” Tacitus asked.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Did he take you there?” I asked.

  “Yes, my lord, a couple of times.”

  “What did you see?”

  His face grew animated. “The most amazing wall paintings, incredible designs worked into the plaster. Some of them still had gold leaf on them, although most of that had been stripped off.”

  I turned to Tacitus. “There’s our connection, as tenuous as it may be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A connection from Nero to Domitian through this mason. Maxentius saw Nero’s house. Domitian is worried about Nero coming back to life, and now Maxentius is dead.”

  Tacitus scoffed. “That ‘connection’ wouldn’t support a spider. Next you’ll be telling me Regulus had something to do with it.”

  “Didn’t Domitian say he and Regulus were inspecting the work on his new house when Maxentius was killed?” I turned to Peleus. “Did your uncle ever do any work for Marcus Aquilius Regulus?”

  “Yes, my lord, he did. Last year.”

  “There you are,” I said to Tacitus. “Regulus knew Maxentius. Do you still think his death was random?”

  “But why would Regulus want to kill some man who had plastered his walls?”

  “Forgive me, my lords,” Peleus said, “but there’s more to it than just plaster.”

  Tacitus and I turned back to him.

  “I guess I can admit it, now,” he said, “since my uncle is dead . ... He was one of Regulus’ spies.”

  VIII

  AFTER I DISMISSED Peleus, Tacitus and I sat on our couches and looked at one another in disbelief.

  “Could it be a coincidence?” Tacitus finally said.

  “You know I don’t believe in coincidences,” I said. “And, if I did, this would never qualify. The man who’s killed so Domitian can test my deductive abilities just happens to be a man Regulus knows. And the two of them just happen to be there when this poor fellow has an ‘accident.’ I’ll never believe it was a coincidence.”

  “But why would Regulus sacrifice one of his spies?” Tacitus asked. “And a spy who had connections in the imperial household, at that.”

  “It must have something to do with Nero.”

  “Why ‘must’?”

  “Because Maxentius went into the Golden House. He must have said something about what he saw there. Something that upset Domitian.”

  “But you heard Peleus. He saw wall decorations. How could that have upset Domitian?”

  Before I could answer, my mother appeared in the garden. Tacitus and I both stood quickly.

  She had bathed and put on a clean stola, bleached but undyed. She rarely wore much make-up; tonight her face was entirely natural, her hair pulled back into a bun on her neck. She wore no jewelry, not even my father’s bracelet. She could have been a middle-aged slave as easily as a noble Roman matron.

  “May I join you?” she asked.

  “It would be an honor, my lady,” Tacitus said. He offered her his place on the middle couch, but she refused and reclined on the low couch.

  “I can see my Gaius better from here.”

  Even in the dim light I caught Tacitus’ slight smirk. Both of his parents are dead, and I doubt his in-laws dote on him the way my mother does on me.

  “Well, lady Plinia,” he said as we resumed our places, “it sounds as though you had an eventful day.”

  Mother took his comment as an invitation. “It was one of the three most memorable days of my life, along with Gaius’ birth and the eruption of Vesuvius.”

  “That’s impressive company.” Tacitus glanced at me with undisguised amusement. “What made this day so remarkable?”

  “The austerity and simplicity of Menachem’s funeral. The Jews don’t allow any display of the deceased’s wealth. There’s no eulogy that goes on for hours—”

  “You mean, like the one I gave for my uncle?” I said. I still considered that speech my best to date, especially since I was only seventeen at the time and had not expected to have to make it for several more years.

  “Now, dear, I know you meant well and until this afternoon I thought your speech was splendid. But, now that I’ve seen how meaningful a simple funeral can be, I wonder why we go to all the trouble and expense that we do.”

  “How simple was it?” Tacitus asked.

  “They recited some prayers and read passages from their holy books in the synagogue, and the man who led them was singing as much as reading.”

  “How is that impressive?” I asked. “There’s no effort required to chant words no one understands out of some crumbling old book. The Arval Brethren do that.” I jerked a piece of bread off the loaf, almost knocking over my cup of wine.

  “Don’t be petulant, Gaius,” Mother said. “Your eulogy was impressive. This was more than that. Or different. It was ... spellbinding. I can still hear it.”

  I snorted. Women and slaves seem to share a susceptibility to religion. Various cults are thickly populated with them. My uncle thought it was because religion offers them a chance to feel powerful, something they don’t find in their daily lives. As a rule, such a feeling is harmless, but it can’t be allowed to fester until it disturbs the natural order of society.

  “Your slave said you walked almost to the tomb of Caecilia Metella for some sort of burial ceremony,” Tacitus said.

  “Yes. They’ve carved out an underground burial place. A catacomb they call it.”

  “Not a mausoleum or a regular necropolis?” I asked.

  “No, it’s a cave. As you walk along the road, you would never know it’s there. You don’t see the entrance until you’re right in front of it. Steps lead down to a series of chambers. The bodies are placed in niches in the walls.”

  “So, you not only walked over four miles, but you climbed up and down steps as well?” I was amazed that my mother, as frail as she seems, had stood up under all that exertion. In a few hours she had seen parts of Rome that, in all her forty years, she’d hardly even imagined existed. For that matter, she’d seen parts of it I had never seen, and never wanted to.

  “I’m tired now, dear. I’ll admit. But I was carried along by some kind of energy I’d never felt before.”

  “What exactly do they do to the body?” Tacitus asked. “Is it anything like the mummifying that the Egyptians do? That takes a couple of months.”

  Mother took a sip of her wine. “They don’t do anything. The body is wrapped in a plain linen sheet and left in the cave for a year. Then the bones are gathered up and placed in a stone box.”

  “How grotesque!” I muttered.

  “That’s what I thought at first,” my mother said. “But as I looked at the inscriptions on the wall—many of them in Greek—I saw how much it meant to these people to have a place not only to remember their dead but to be in their presence. It made me realize I have nothing to connect me to my husband or my brother in that way.”

  “Why do you say that? Their portrait busts stand in this very garden,” I pointed out. “My father gave you a gold bracelet which you’ve never taken off until today.”

  She touched her bare wrist. “I’m joining Naomi in her mourning for seven days. I’ll wear the bracelet again after that. But it’s not really a part of your father. Neither is that bust. Everything that was him and my brother was consumed by the flames. Why do we want to obliterate our loved ones like that?”

  “It’s what we’ve always done,” I said. “You’d have to ask our ancestors the reason.”

  “If they even had one,” Tacitus added. “People don’t often know the true origins of these ancient traditions. That’s why they make up myths. I doubt the Jews know why they have such fanatical opposition to burning the bodies of their dead that they have to dig these caves.”

  “Naomi says they believe their bodies are given to them by their god. They should be returned to him as whole as possible, with nothing added or taken away. That’s what their holy books teach.”

  Having Naomi—I might as well get used to the name—and her holy books cited as authorities was getting tiresome. I wanted to talk about something else.

  “Mother, you said you want to change Niobe’s and Peleus’ names, to go back to their Jewish names.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “But their names sound barbaric.”

  “No more barbaric than Hashep and Dakla. We tried to impose Greek names on them, but we all call them by the names their mother gave them.”

  “No one calls me by the name you gave me. I’m no longer Caecilius; I’m Pliny.”

  “I didn’t give you either of those names. You were named after your father, as custom dictates, and when you were adopted, your name was changed, as the law requires.”

  “And I’ve accepted that change. Why can’t Niobe and Peleus?”

  “But the change of your name wasn’t imposed on you against your will. You could have refused the adoption and the estate.”

  “And how would I have cared for you if I did?”

  “Was that your only reason for accepting your legacy?”

  She was broaching an uncomfortable topic. “Mother, why do these people matter so much to you?”

 

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