XVI

While we were in our own underworld the sky had grown overcast, but my sensitive eyes still found even the softened light almost blinding. Philippos popped up from behind a rock, sporting his new tunic, which was brown with a dark green trim. He had used some of the water we brought him to scrub the top layer of dirt off his face. As my eyes adjusted to the soft sunlight I thought, he could be a handsome lad, almost pretty, but maybe the light was playing tricks on me.

“Fortune protected you, sir,” he said. “I’m glad to see that.”

“I guess you could say she did.” I touched the Tyche ring on the strap around my neck.

“We Romans have been saying it for hundreds of years,” Tacitus said, “from the days of Ennius and Terence. Fortes fortuna adiuvat.”

“Does Fortune help the brave? That’s what my uncle said as he was boarding his ship to sail toward Pompeii and look what happened to him.”

Tacitus lowered his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to dredge up that memory.”

“You couldn’t have known, and it doesn’t lie deep enough to require much dredging.”

“What happened to your uncle, sir?” Philippos asked.

“He tried to rescue people during the eruption, but he died. He was like a father to me.”

“What about your father, sir?”

“He died when I was very young.”

“So you’ve lost two fathers.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“I’m very sorry for you, sir.”

A destitute orphan pitying me! The boy displayed a maturity far beyond his years. He had had to grow up even faster than most Roman children.

“And I’m very sorry,” I said, “for what happened to your father. I promise you that I will take care of you. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

He drew his shoulders back. “Will I be your slave, sir?”

“I don’t intend for you to be anyone’s slave, but we’ll have to work all of that out. Now we need to get back to the lady Aurelia’s house before it gets dark.”

“Can I ride with the driver, sir?”

As we stowed our bags in the raeda I noticed that the one we’d given Philippos still seemed to have something in it.

“What’s that?” I asked, touching the bag.

“It’s my old tunic, sir.” He drew the bag toward himself. “Please don’t make me get rid of it.”

“Why do you want to keep that old rag?”

“It has my papa’s blood on it, sir. That’s all I have left of him.”

†

Because we weren’t in such a hurry this time we weren’t bouncing around in the raeda and the metal rims of the wheels didn’t make such a deafening noise on the road’s paving stones. Something close to normal conversation was possible.

“I suppose we’ll be off tomorrow morning,” Tacitus said, “to find Fabia and ask her about this sister of Sychaeus.”

“Yes. I don’t see how she could have anything to do with the blackmail, but she’s the only one who might know where Sychaeus is. We could spend days trying to locate him, and we don’t have that kind of time. And along the way I want to stop at the book shop where Calpurnius left the money for the blackmailers.”

“Do you think you’ll learn anything there?”

I shrugged. “I just want to see the place. It could have more of a connection to this matter than Calpurnius assumes.”

“And what do you intend to do with this boy?” Tacitus jerked his head toward the front of the raeda, from where squeals of delight were emanating. “You’ve made him a rather large promise.”

“I felt I should, given what happened to his father—to be more accurate, what someone in our party did to his father. I’ll ask Aurelia to put him up for a time, until I can sort out his legal status.”

“That could be another burden on her, and she’s already so anxious about her baby.”

I felt my tone hardening. “Don’t forget, it was one of her husband’s servants who killed poor old Ferox.”

“True. But one more mouth to feed—that’s all Aurelia needs.”

“I can leave her some money. That’s not my main concern now.”

As the raeda turned into the drive to Aurelia’s villa I was surprised to hear a young voice call, “Whoa! Whoa, boys!” We stepped down from the carriage to find Philippos holding the reins and beaming.

“I let him drive the last little bit, my lord,” the driver said. “I hope that was all right.”

“He didn’t wreck us, so no harm done.” For a servant it’s always easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

“He’s got a nice touch with the horses, my lord.”

Aurelia, with several servants, came out to meet us. One hand was cupped under her belly, as though she was already cradling her child—my future wife? “Well, Gaius Pliny,” she said, “where did you find—”

“This is Philippos. We encountered him on the road.” I did not want the boy to start telling the story. “Due to an unfortunate incident this morning, the child is an orphan. I didn’t feel I could leave him behind.”

“No, no. You’re quite right,” Aurelia said, sympathy welling up in her eyes and voice. “We’ll see what we can do for him. Obviously, the first thing we can do is make sure he has a bath.” She motioned to the woman on her right, who stepped forward and took Philippos’ hand.

“A…a bath?” the boy said, pulling back. “I don’t want a bath, sir. You didn’t tell me I’d have to take a bath.”

“When was the last time you had a bath?” I asked, half expecting “never” to be the answer.

Philippos shrugged. “Sometimes, after it rained, my papa and me would find a pool of water and wash ourselves.”

“It’s time you had a proper bath,” Aurelia said. “This is Chaerina. She’ll help you.”

“I can bathe myself,” Philippos insisted. “I washed my face a while ago.”

“And that just shows us how dirty the rest of you is,” Aurelia said, wincing and putting her other hand on her belly. “Now, go along with Chaerina.”

Chaerina took one of Philippos’ arms and another servant woman took the other. Between them, they pulled the boy, protesting all the way, into the house.

“How did you end up with him?” Aurelia asked.

I dismissed the rest of the servant women and told her the story, concluding with my evaluation that Bastet did not have to kill Ferox. “The man was so weak, she could have easily overcome him without really hurting him.”

“I told you, Gaius Pliny, I have felt a menace since the day that woman came into this house. I’m relieved she’s not here now, but I’m afraid to have her out there alone with my husband.”

Over Aurelia’s shoulder I saw Chaerina hurrying toward us. “We can talk about that later, I suppose.” I indicated Chaerina, and Aurelia turned around.

“My lady,” the servant called. “My lady!”

“What’s wrong?” Aurelia asked. “Is the boy all right?”

“My lady, the child isn’t a boy.”

“What? Well, what is he?”

Chaerina looked at her mistress as though Aurelia had asked something as obvious as what color the sky was. “He isn’t a ‘he,’ my lady. She’s a girl.”

“Of course. I mean.… Well, as soon as he’s…she’s cleaned up, get her a more suitable garment and bring her into the garden.”

“I told you that child cried an awful lot for a boy,” Tacitus said as we entered the house and made our way into the garden.

“Didn’t you notice, Gaius Pliny?” Aurelia asked as we settled ourselves.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or to blush at my lack of perception. “It’s odd how one can see what one expects to see. Ferox called the child his son and that’s what I saw.”

“What did you see the first time you saw me?” Aurelia asked.

“Certainly not the daughter of a noble Roman family. Knowing this child is a girl changes a lot of things. With a boy we could think of training him for a trade. I’m not sure what to do now, and I don’t want to burden you.”

Aurelia patted my hand. “We don’t have to settle everything today. You’ve done a very generous thing. For the moment, that’s enough.”

Less than half an hour later Chaerina brought the child—what were we to call her now?—to us. Her hair was still wet and she was wearing a blue chiton, a Greek garment worn by women in this part of Italy, where the Greeks had established themselves long before we Romans blundered onto the scene. She was pulling at the unfamiliar gown, which came almost to her ankles.

“Sir,” she said as soon as she saw me, “do I have to wear this? I can hardly walk in it. And it smells funny.”

“That’s because it’s clean,” I said. “I think what you’re wearing or what you smell like is the least of our concerns right now. Why were you disguised as a boy?”

She stopped in front of my chair and folded her arms over her chest, standing legs apart like a man. “My papa told me to pretend to be a boy because people weren’t as likely to bother me if they thought I was a boy.”

I glanced at Tacitus but didn’t say anything.

“He kept my hair cut short. He said someday people would see I was a girl, but he wanted to keep me safe as long as he could.” She tugged at the chiton again. “What are you going to do with me, sir?”

“For now you’re going to stay here.” Aurelia had agreed to that.

“Am I a slave of this lady?”

“No. This is the lady Aurelia. You are now…well, part of her household. You will address her as ‘my lady’ and you will do whatever you are told to do.”

“That sounds like being a slave, sir.”

“You are an impertinent child,” I said.

“Thank you, sir.”

Over Tacitus’ laughter I said, “That’s not a good thing. Remember that your father was a slave. That makes you a slave. Until we can determine whether your master died in the eruption or is still alive, we cannot know what to do with you. For the time being, you’ll stay here.”

“But, sir, can’t I go with you?”

“You can’t go anywhere until we find out what happened to your master.”

“Sir, I thought—”

“Would you like to help take care of my horses?” Aurelia asked. “That can be your job.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful.” When I gave her a hard stare, she said, “I mean, that would be wonderful, my lady.”

“A chiton is not a suitable garment for working in a stable,” Aurelia said. “You can wear a tunic out there.” The girl beamed. “The only other matter to settle, I think, is what to call you. Philippos doesn’t fit anymore. Did your father call you by any other name, perhaps when it was just the two of you?”

“No, my lady. I’ve been Philippos as long as I can remember.”

“Well, then, let’s keep what’s familiar to you and just make it Philippa. Yes, the girl who loves horses.”

The girl didn’t smile. I wondered how long it would be before she could smile again, but she bowed her head. “Thank you, my lady. I’d like that.”

†

When we woke the next morning I was pleased to learn that our servants had already returned from Capua. They had ridden into the evening and arrived during the second watch of the night. We brought them into the atrium to hear their report. Tacitus sat beside me but was not awake enough yet to participate much in the conversation.

“You made excellent time,” I said.

“Yes, my lord,” the older man answered. “The moon was full enough that we had no trouble seeing the road, so we just kept riding. My lord Cornelius Tacitus did promise us a bit extra if we got back in a timely fashion.”

“You’ll certainly have that.” And I would make certain it came out of Tacitus’ money pouch. “Now, what did you learn?”

“Marcus Jucundus told us that he sold the man Sychaeus four months ago, my lord.”

That opened Tacitus’ eyes. “Sold him?” he said. “To whom?”

“To a lady named Arria, my lord. He said she came to his villa and inquired about Sychaeus by name. She told him her husband had sold him several years ago over her objections and she wanted to have him back.”

“Why would a woman go to that much trouble to track down a former slave?” I said.

“Perhaps he had a…talent that she particularly valued,” Tacitus suggested.

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” the servant said, unable to suppress a smile, “but that was what Marcus Jucundus suspected as well. He said she paid a handsome price for him and invited him to sit in the raeda with her as they left. He was surprised because he hadn’t found Sychaeus to be of much use.”

“I wonder if his wife had,” Tacitus muttered.

Sometimes it’s better just to ignore Tacitus. “How did he know who the woman was?”

“He said she arrived in an elegant raeda and she signed this.” He handed me a document, a single sheet of papyrus, which I read quickly. It acknowledged the sale and was signed by Marcus Jucundus and Arria. Jucundus had also affixed his seal.

“But there’s no seal for this Arria, not even her husband’s ring. Anyone could write a name on a piece of papyrus. What did she look like?”

He screwed up his face in the manner of a servant who wants to make himself look good but isn’t sure he has done or can do what his master wants. “Jucundus said she was quite refined, my lord, like a noble lady. Never even got out of the raeda. Just told him what she wanted and gave him the money. Didn’t even try to talk him down on the price.”

“What color was her hair? Did she have any features that might help us recognize her?”

“I’m sorry, my lord. Jucundus didn’t say and we didn’t think to ask about that.”

Aurora would have, I thought. She’d never miss such details.

We dismissed the servants and read over the document again. “I assume this was written by Jucundus’ scribe,” I said. “It was done hurriedly.”

Tacitus took the document and eyed it from several angles. “I agree. Arria’s name is written in an entirely different hand.”

“A better hand, I would say.” I took the papyrus back. Even when women do write, they seldom develop as fine a hand as the one I was looking at. “The Ar is oddly made, though. I’ve never seen it done quite like this, the way the r comes right out of the cross-bar for the A.”

“Looks like an affectation,” Tacitus said. “Who could this woman be? Why would she have been asking for Sychaeus by name? Who goes shopping for a particular slave by name?”

“Someone who knows him and knows where he is. That’s the only possible answer.”

“But he’d been sold just a couple of months before this woman bought him. Why didn’t she come looking for him when he was in Calpurnius’ house? He’d been there for six years.”

I gave that some thought. “I suspect it’s because she didn’t want Calpurnius to know that she was interested in this particular slave. But we can’t answer those questions until we find out who this ­Arria is. Let’s take this document with us. Maybe Fabia can tell us who she is. Sychaeus was her husband’s slave. She might know something about him.”

†

Accompanied by four servants—three of ours and Calpurnius’ man Thamyras—we set off on horseback for Naples. On the north side of town we would turn east on the road to Nola. Fabia’s villa, we’d been told, was three miles up that road. As we rode into Naples Thamyras said, “My lord, you mentioned that you’d like to visit the book shop which my lord Calpurnius…frequented.”

“Yes, that would be interesting,” I said. “We should have plenty of time to get to Fabia’s villa and back.” We had agreed not to spread the word of Calpurnius’ true difficulty among his servants. They knew he was accused of killing one of them. I was confident now that we could disprove that accusation. If we could find out more about Sychaeus, I hoped we could identify the real killer. Once accused, a man is never completely exonerated until the guilty party is found. Last night we had told Aurelia that her husband was being blackmailed and that we didn’t know any more details than that. It was easier to do without Bastet in the room.

“The shop is just ahead, my lord. Turn left at the next corner.”

After the turn Thamyras directed us one more block. “That’s it, my lord.”

We stopped in front of the shop where Calpurnius had dropped off the blackmail payments. A wooden sign hung beside the door with the Latin and Greek words for Books painted on it.

The building in which the shop was located stood three stories high, with living quarters on the top two floors. It appeared to have suffered some damage in the earthquake which had enabled Calpurnius to escape. A crack in the wall above the door looked new to me, with no dirt accumulated in it and the edges of the crack still sharp. We left our servants to mind the horses and moved far enough away from them so we could talk as we surveyed the surrounding buildings.

“It would be difficult to keep an eye on this place without someone spotting you,” Tacitus said. “There aren’t many places nearby to conceal yourself. I wonder if there’s a rear door.”

“Or maybe a door that connects to one of the upper floors. Whoever picked up the money might never have left the building.” I took one more look around. “Well, we can’t barge in and start making accusations.”

“Maybe there’ll be a box with a sign that says, ‘Deposit blackmail payments here.’ ”

“Ever the optimist, aren’t you? There’s a lot we still don’t know. If we move too soon, we could alert anyone who might be connected to the blackmail. They could go to ground, like a hunted animal, and we would never find them.”

“So we’re just going to look?”

“For now, yes, just look.”

The shop was larger than I expected, with two good-sized rooms. The owner must have bought a neighboring shop and knocked a door through the wall at some point. Shelves laden with scrolls covered three walls of the first room and as far as I could see into the second. It was the largest book shop I’d ever seen outside of Rome. I’m never more comfortable than when I’m surrounded by books. That was the one deficiency in Aurelia’s otherwise charming house: the library was quite small. Aurelia herself was not broadly educated, and most of Calpurnius’ library was entombed in his villa.

A heavyset man, mostly bald with a white fringe around his head, sat at a table in one corner, with scrolls, pens, and inks surrounding him. He appeared to be putting the finishing touches on a scroll, making the last corrections and erasing any extraneous marks. The pumice stone whispered as he rubbed it back and forth over the papyrus. One of the first Greek words I learned described that smoothing action: psao. I found it easy to remember because it sounds so much like what it means.

“Good day, gentlemen,” the man said in Greek, looking up but not rising from his work. “Is there anything I can help you find?”

I hadn’t actually thought of what reason I would give for visiting the shop. We had none, except to get a feel for the place. Then inspiration struck. “A friend of ours, Calpurnius Fabatus, suggested we stop by here while we were in Naples.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you share the old gentleman’s enthusiasm for Egypt then?”

“He has…other enthusiasms,” Tacitus said, “that appeal more to me.”

“Indeed he does,” the man said, rolling up the scroll and inserting it into a red bag. “Indeed he does. You need to look in the other room, sir, on the wall to your left, on the top two shelves.”

While Tacitus browsed in the other room, I asked the shopkeeper, “How are your books arranged?”

“Poetry, philosophy, and more exotic books, such as your friend is interested in, are in the other room, sir. Anything else is in here. Latin on that wall, and Greek over there.”

I looked at the tituli, the tags hanging from some of the scrolls. My uncle’s history, continuing the work of Aufidius Bassus, occupied a prominent place. I wondered if I would ever see my name in a book shop or library. Having one’s work published amounts to achieving immortality—the only kind of immortality there is, to my way of thinking. My uncle has been dead for five years now, and yet people can still know what he thought, almost as though they were talking with him. I picked up one of the scrolls and unrolled a few pages. As I read the words I could hear his voice. A wave of sadness swept over me and I lowered my head.

“Do you fancy history, sir?” the shopkeeper asked from behind me.

I put the scroll back on the shelf and took a deep breath before I turned around. “My taste runs more to oratory.”

The shopkeeper pointed to a spot to my right. “We have some nice copies of Cicero. We finished a copy of his speech on behalf of Archias just the other day.”

“That is one of his best,” I said. And we’re still reading it over a hundred years after his death. If that’s not immortality, I don’t know what is.

“Gaius Pliny!” Tacitus called. “Come here. You have to see this.”

The shopkeeper’s eyes widened as he looked at me. “Gaius Pliny?”

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve had to explain to people. “He was my uncle. He adopted me in his will.”

“This is an honor, sir,” the man said, standing and bowing his head slightly. “I never had the privilege of meeting your uncle, but everyone around here speaks highly of him. It was a brave thing he did, trying to rescue people from Vesuvius.”

“Thank you—”

“Gaius Pliny,” Tacitus repeated. “Get in here.”

“Excuse me,” I told the shopkeeper and stepped into the other room.

“What is so important?” I asked Tacitus, not masking the irritation in my voice. “You know that I have no interest in looking at pictures of—”

“Forget that. Look at this.” He laid a partially unrolled book on the table in the center of the room and pointed to the top of the first page.

The scroll contained a copy of the last book of Ovid’s Ars Amatoria, the frankest and most explicit of the three books which make up the work. I could see from the illustrations why Tacitus’ attention had been drawn to it.

Tacitus tapped the page. “Do you see that?”

“How can I not?”

“Not the picture, the script.”

I let my eyes follow his finger. The poem begins Arma dedi Danais. The Ar was formed in the same way as on the bill of sale for Sychaeus, with the r running out of the cross-bar of the A.

Tacitus had trouble keeping his voice down. “The person who wrote that also signed that bill of sale.”

“Yes, I see that.” I picked up the scroll and started to the other room of the shop.

“What are you going to do?” Tacitus asked.

“I’m going to buy a book. And find out who copied it.”

The shopkeeper stood up when we came back into the main room. “Did you find something you liked, sir?”

“This is an exquisite copy of the Ars Amatoria,” I said, drawing my money bag from under my tunic. “Did you do it?”

“No, sir. I can’t take the credit. I don’t do much copying anymore. My hand’s a bit unsteady.” He held out his right, still ink-stained, and I could see the slight tremor. “I supervise the men that work for us, put the finishing touches on—that sort of thing.”

“ ‘Us’? Does someone own the shop with you?”

“Oh, I don’t own the place, sir. I work for my lady Plautia. She’s the owner. Owns this whole building, in fact.”

I couldn’t imagine that the owner of this much property would dirty her hands to copy books. “Is there by chance a woman among your copyists?”

“No, sir, but my lady Plautia keeps a close eye on the men. She writes a fine hand herself, and she expects them to come up to her standards. You’re holding the result, sir.”

I didn’t feel I could ask any more questions about this Plautia without arousing the man’s suspicions. “How much is the book?”

“Don’t you want the others, sir? I’d hate to break up a set.”

It made sense to get on his good side. I might want more information from him at some point. “All right, I’ll buy all three.”

“Very well, sir.” He told me the price and I counted out the money.

†

When we rejoined our servants on the street I handed the scrolls in their bag to Tacitus. “An early Saturnalia gift,” I said.

“And much appreciated.”

“I do want to compare that writing to the bill of sale,” I reminded him.

We retrieved the document from the servant who was carrying it and held it next to the third book of Ovid. “There’s no question,” I said. “The same person wrote these.”

“So the shopkeeper must have been lying,” Tacitus said. “They must have a woman among their copyists.”

“Or a woman taught this scribe. The shopkeeper said this Plautia keeps a close eye on the men.”

“But her name’s Plautia, not Arria.”

Even though he’s older than I am and more experienced in many ways, Tacitus can still be exasperatingly simple. “You’re assuming that the woman who purchased Sychaeus was scrupulously honest. She could have signed any name she pleased as long as she paid the price Jucundus was asking. Your servant said she didn’t haggle, just paid the first sum Jucundus mentioned. I wish we had a description of Arria, even just her hair color. Then, if we saw Plautia, we would know if they could be the same person.”

“Women can wear wigs,” Tacitus reminded me. “When I saw your Aurora in her blond one, I didn’t recognize her.”

“All right, I’ll grant you that. I don’t think we can accomplish any more here. Let’s get out to Fabia’s place so we can get back before dark.”

†

The road to Nola was level, skirting the north side of the range of hills that rise to their summit in Vesuvius. The eruption had not affected this area at all. Seeing green, living things and trees as tall as trees should be restored my spirits. We rode the two miles at a quick pace. At a crossroads we found a taberna where we could get a drink and directions to Fabia’s house.

“It’s not much more than a stone’s throw up that road,” the innkeeper promised. His lack of education and his lack of teeth made him difficult to understand. “But you’ll find nary welcome there.”

“We have some connection with her family,” I said.

The innkeeper shook his head. “Won’t matter. She ain’t let nobody in the house in over two year. Keeps it sealed up.”

“Why?” Tacitus asked.

“Says she and the women of the house are devotin’ themselfs to some god. To let a man in the place would cause ’em to lose their purity.”

“But how do they keep themselves alive? How do they feed themselves?”

“One of my lads goes up there now and then and finds out what they needs. We bring it to ’em and leave it outside the door. They won’t open up until we’re outta sight.”

“If they won’t open the door,” I said, “how do they tell your man what they need?”

“They cut a little hole in the door and put bars over it. They talks to him through that.”

We paid for our drinks, thanked the man for the directions and the warning, and set off up the road he indicated.

As we brought our horses to a halt in front of the house Tacitus shook his head and said, “It’s a bit shabbier than I expected. Aelius’ family was quite prosperous.”

“Domitian wouldn’t let her keep the nicest of her husband’s properties, I’m sure.”

“No, but she’s not even taking care of this one.”

Tacitus’ criticism was true. The lane leading from the road to the front of the house was overgrown with trees in need of pruning and brush that should have been cleared entirely. I had the feeling Fabia was trying to discourage visitors by letting the house be hidden behind all the vegetation. In a few more years the house would disappear from view. We dismounted and found plenty of places to tie our horses.

When I approached the door I saw that a small opening had indeed been cut into it, at about my head height, and bars had been placed over the opening. I knocked, and when there was no immediate response, I called through the opening, “Good day! Is this the house of the lady Fabia?”

I was surprised to see a woman, not a doorkeeper or a steward, crossing the atrium in response to my call. She stopped a step or two from the door but did not open it. From the simplicity of her dress it was difficult to tell whether she was a servant or someone of higher rank who disdained ostentation. She wore a gown of unbleached wool, with a scarf of the same material covering her hair. Without any makeup, she looked worn and tired, as drab as her garments. Behind her the house was quiet.

“Who is asking for the lady Fabia?” Her tone let me know that she did not wish to be bothered.

“Good morning. I’m Gaius Pliny.” I held up my hand so she could examine my signet ring. “This is Cornelius Tacitus. We would like to see the lady Fabia.”

“What is your business with her?”

“We’re trying to assist Calpurnius, son of Calpurnius Fabatus, a friend of Fabia’s late husband. We believe she might be able to help us.”

“Why does Calpurnius need any help?”

“He’s being blackmailed and is accused of murder.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “We know nothing here that would be of any use to you. No one here has had any contact with Calpurnius in several years.”

“My lady”—I had guessed by now and she did not react—“we pose no danger to you or to your house. We think a former slave of yours is involved. May we come in and talk for a few moments?”

“No.” The answer was curt, but sad rather than rude. “We do not allow outsiders in the house anymore. If you have questions, I will try to answer them here and now.”

I had to accept what she was willing to offer. “Very well. We—”

“Would you please step away from the door, so I can get a good look at you? And you said there were two of you?” Fabia waved her hand to back me away.

I stepped back and Tacitus stood beside me and leaned over so he could see through the opening, which struck him at chin level.

“Thank you,” Fabia said. “I thought you might be sent by Domitian to finish what he started three years ago, but I don’t see any weapons.”

“No, my lady,” Tacitus said. “The princeps didn’t send us. I’m the son-in-law of Julius Agricola. If you know that name, you’ll understand our relationship to Domitian.”

“Yes,” Fabia said with a nod, “that does give me more confidence in you. Death looms over you as heavily as it does over me. Now, what do you want to know?”

I could see one other woman behind Fabia. There was no activity and no sign of anyone else. “You once owned a slave named Sychaeus,” I began.

Fabia’s shoulders slumped along with her voice. “What has that scoundrel done now?”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine. Your husband sold Sychaeus about seven years ago, didn’t he?”

“Traded him and two other slaves for a horse, to be more accurate.”

“We’ve been told that Sychaeus had a sister in your household.”

Fabia sighed so heavily I wondered if she was still in mourning for her husband. “Canthara was her name, and it pains me to speak it after some years.”

“She’s not still in your house?”

“No. My husband freed her six years ago.”

“Freed her?” That was as surprising a bit of information as any we’d picked up this morning.

“If you’ll spare me the interruptions, Gaius Pliny, I’ll tell you the story as succinctly as I can, for it is truly not something I like to remember.” She looked up as she gathered herself, like a bard seeking inspiration. “I always suspected that Canthara was my husband’s child by a slave woman. Even though she was born with a misshapen foot, Aelius refused to get rid of her.”

“Was Sychaeus also his child?”

“I asked you to spare me the interruptions,” Fabia said. “I saw no evidence that Sychaeus was his child, though he was born of the same woman. Aelius never showed any particular interest in Sychaeus. He used Canthara as his assistant scribe because she couldn’t do much other work around the house. She was clever with figures and she did write a beautiful hand. She knew that Aelius favored her and flaunted herself in my face. You know how arrogant a pampered slave can become if you don’t keep control of her.”

Yes, I thought. She can rent a horse and ride off to…somewhere.

“Canthara became bitter after Sychaeus was sold. They were very close. I finally insisted Aelius sell her. I told him that she and I could not live in the same house. He refused and emancipated her instead, giving her a large sum of money in the bargain.”

“From your tone, I suspect you weren’t happy with that arrangement.”

“I certainly was not. I accepted it only so long as the girl was not allowed to stay in the household or have any contact with anyone here. I suspect he may have seen her when he was away from here, though.”

Freed slaves often remain in a house, doing the same tasks they had done as slaves but with a different status. It would be unusual for a man to send a freed slave away, especially if she was crippled, and I couldn’t imagine him sending her away if she might be his own daughter.

“Do you know where she went, or where she might be now?”

Fabia’s face turned grim. “I hope she died in the eruption. No one here has heard anything from her since the day she left. I gave strict orders to the other servants that no one was to have any contact with her. Now, is that what you needed to know?”

Tacitus leaned in toward the opening. “Could Canthara read Greek?”

Fabia nodded. “Aelius had her taught alongside our own daughter, over my strenuous objections. He said he needed for her to know Greek and Latin if she was to be useful to him.”

I wasn’t sure what my next question should be, but I wanted to keep the conversation going. “Did Canthara—”

“Gentlemen, this conversation is causing me great distress,” Fabia said. “I have nothing more to say. At the risk of seeming rude, I must ask you to leave.” She turned and walked quickly toward the interior of the house.

We could do nothing but return to our horses for the ride back to Aurelia’s villa. Lacking a mounting stone, we had to rely on our servants to boost us up and then help one another onto their horses. We had just mounted when a woman, hiding behind a tree, motioned to get our attention. I rode over as close as I could get to her. She kept the tree between herself and the house, partially hiding herself from me as well. All I could tell was that she was in her middle years and had covered herself the same way Fabia had.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Forgive my boldness, my lord, but I heard you asking about Canthara.”

“You were the woman I saw behind Fabia.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Do you know something that the lady Fabia didn’t tell us?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I suspected she was hiding something,” I said.

“No, my lord. Not hiding. She couldn’t tell you because she doesn’t know it.”