XVII

I guided my horse as close to the woman as I could manage in the midst of all the trees and brush. “How can you know something—”

The woman edged closer to me but kept a hand on the tree, as though anchoring herself. “Forgive me, my lord, but I must speak quickly, before I’m missed. Please send your servants down the lane, so they can’t hear us.” She motioned with her arm, revealing splotches on her skin, which she quickly tried to cover up.

Studying her as we waited, I noticed that she was holding a piece of papyrus at her side. I thought I saw a seal on it.

When the servants had ridden thirty paces or so, the woman finally nodded with what seemed to be satisfaction. Then she began to speak rapidly and in a low voice, with the diction of an educated slave from a noble house. “I am Xanthippe, my lord. I was the midwife twenty years ago when two girls were born in my lord Aelius’ house, within an hour of each other. The daughter born to my lord Aelius and his wife, the lady Longina, had a badly misshapen foot. The other daughter, born to a slave woman, was whole. My lord Aelius told me to switch the two children. He did not want his wife to be disappointed in her firstborn child or to blame him for her misfortune. But that healthy child died when she was three. And then Longina left him for Domitian.” She spat out the second name, winning a degree of my respect.

Tacitus and I looked at one another in amazement, and the woman read the glance.

“Yes, my lords. That means exactly what you think it means because you know who the lady Longina was descended from, don’t you?”

We certainly did know what it meant. Aelius had raised his daughter, a direct descendant of the deified Augustus, as a slave in his own house, passing off a slave’s child as a descendant of Augustus. Canthara thought Sychaeus was her brother when, in fact, he was no kin to her at all. Her kinsmen included names like Caligula, Claudius, and Nero.

“How could a man so callously condemn his own child to a life of slavery?” I asked.

“Both of the girls were his, my lord. The servant woman died after the birth. My lord Aelius said he knew the girl with the misshapen foot could never take the place in society that she ought to have. It would be better for him to keep her close and care for her. Eventually he could make things right. It didn’t matter to him which child was called slave and which free.”

“I’m certain it would matter to his wife.”

Xanthippe snorted. “She was a haughty woman, my lord. She was holding the healthy child to her breast when she first saw the child with the misshapen foot—her own daughter! She called her ‘a wretched little thing’ and said my lord Aelius should put her out to die. He told me that he knew then he had made the right decision.”

Tacitus leaned back on his horse. “Why are you telling us this? Why should we believe a word of it?”

“I heard you say you were the son-in-law of Agricola, my lord. That, I think, makes you someone I can trust.” Since she was closer to me, the woman reached up and handed me the document—a single sheet of papyrus, folded and sealed—then covered her arm again. My horse stepped back nervously and I patted his neck to calm him.

“That bears my lord Aelius’ seal,” she said. “He and I were the only ones who knew the truth. He wanted to tell Canthara, but fear of his wives and his need for their money kept him silent. He treated the girl as well as he could. He planned all along to emancipate her someday. He wrote that and left it with me so, if something happened to him, Canthara could still know the truth. About her father.”

“So that’s why he freed her and gave her some money instead of selling her,” I said.

“Yes, my lord. It hurt him so badly to send her away, but he knew my lady Fabia would never forgive him if the truth came out.”

“Why would it matter to her? Fabia told us that she suspected Canthara was his daughter. And she had her own daughter by Aelius.”

“Yes, my lord, but Canthara was the daughter of a servant woman.”

“That does happen in large houses, more than we care to admit.”

“And most wives tolerate it,” Tacitus said.

Xanthippe gave us a less than kindly look. “My lady Fabia would not. If Canthara had known who she really was, my lord, she would have been absolutely insufferable to Fabia. She was a livelier, more intelligent girl than Fabia’s daughter, and she was arrogant and strong-willed enough as it was, just like her mother.”

By “mother” she was talking about the woman who was now Domitian’s wife, I reminded myself. Though such traits were no proof of Canthara’s ancestry, they were characteristic of any imperial woman I’d ever encountered.

“Do you know where Canthara is now?” I asked.

“No, my lord, but I doubt she’s far from here. She swore she was going to get her brother freed, and that she would get even with Aelius and Calpurnius. Swapping him for a horse—that made her furious. I heard her say it many a time, ‘They traded him like he was an animal.’ ”

“How did she plan to free her brother—or the man she thought was her brother—and take vengeance on Aelius and Calpurnius? That’s an ambitious plot for a single slave.”

“She didn’t say, my lord, but she said she had a plan, and she wouldn’t leave this area until she’d done it.”

I wondered if she had given information to Domitian that had led him to execute Aelius—unknowingly condemning her own father. “Do you know if anyone in this house has heard from her since she was emancipated?”

“No one has, my lord. My lady Fabia forbade anyone to have contact with her, but that wasn’t necessary. She had no friends among the servants here. She treated us all as though she knew her lineage and considered us beneath her.”

Voices sounded from inside the house. “They’re looking for me,” Xanthippe said. “I must go.”

“I have one more question,” Tacitus said. “Why has the lady Fabia sealed up her house? Is she really devoting herself to some god?”

Xanthippe bit her lip and finally said, “It’s the…the leprosy, sir.”

“Leprosy?” I said. “There hasn’t been any leprosy in Italy since the Republic collapsed.”

“It comes from Egypt, doesn’t it?” Tacitus said.

“Yes. I remember my uncle commenting on that when he was writing his Natural History. He thought it ironic that leprosy disappeared from Italy about the time Cleopatra died. It was as though she was the source of the disease, as she was of so much evil for Rome.”

“Well, sad to say, my lord, it’s in this house. Just before my lord ­Aelius was…that is, just before he died, he acquired two servant women from Egypt. Shortly after his death my lady Fabia realized that these two women had leprosy and had spread it to other women in the household. She sent the servants who weren’t afflicted to friends and family of hers and shut the rest of us up in the house. There were ten of us. Two have died.”

“Does Fabia have it?”

“Not yet, my lord. But she is caring for the rest of us as best she can. She is truly a noble lady. There is nothing anyone can do, though, but wait.”

I looked with dread at the document that she’d passed from her hand to mine. “You have it, don’t you?”

“Yes, my lord, but you won’t get it just from touching that. I know there’s no hope for me, but I decided this would be my last chance to tell anyone the truth about Canthara, and I believe I can depend on you to know what to do with this secret. It’s out of my hands now.” She stepped into the woods and almost vanished as her featureless clothing blended in with the brush.

Before we rejoined our servants I asked Tacitus, “How do you think Longina would react if she found out her ‘wretched’ daughter is still alive, given that she and Domitian have no children?”

“I’m more concerned about what she’d do if she knew that we suspect that daughter of blackmail and murder. Are you going to open that document?”

“Let’s get away from here first.” I held the papyrus between two fingers, touching as little of it as possible.

†

Once we were out of sight of the house Tacitus and I told the servants to keep riding and we pulled our horses over to read Aelius’ document. Trying to reassure myself that I was not going to become a leper, I noticed that Tacitus did not reach for the papyrus to snatch it from me, as he often does when we have something to read. I broke the seal gently so we could preserve the two parts of it. The note confirmed everything Fabia’s servant had told us:

I, Lucius Aelius Plautius Lamia Aelianus, do hereby acknowledge that the slave Canthara, known by her misshapen left foot, is my daughter, by my wife Domitia Longina. When circumstances allow, I will emancipate her, even if I cannot reveal the full truth of her birth to her. I swear to the veracity of this statement before the almighty gods and affix my seal as a further witness.

Written by my own hand on the fourth day before the Kalends of March in the eleventh year of Nero Caesar Augustus.

Aelius had pressed his seal ring into a glob of wax at the end of the note. It matched the seal on the exterior of the papyrus.

“I think this does answer one question,” I said.

“Which one?”

“Isn’t it odd for a girl—even a slave—to have a name taken from a drinking cup?”

Tacitus thought for a moment, then recognition dawned. “Canthara. Yes, one of those old Greek cups that usually has two women’s faces on the base, one Greek and the other barbarian. Your uncle had one, didn’t he?”

“Yes. Which woman you’re seeing depends on which side of the cup you’re looking at.”

“And how much you’ve had to drink out of that cup.”

I held the papyrus up, still by only two fingers. “I think Aelius left a clue in the girl’s name—Canthara, a woman with two faces. If you look at her from one side she’s his slave, but look from the other side and she’s a descendant of Augustus.”

“Now all we have to do is locate her,” Tacitus said. “A woman with a misshapen left foot shouldn’t be that difficult to find, especially with a name like that.”

“She still has the foot, I’m sure, but I doubt if anyone calls her ­Canthara now. I think Aelius has given us another clue—his full name: Lucius Aelius Plautius Lamia Aelianus. As a freed slave, don’t you suspect she took part of her former master’s name?”

“Of course!” Tacitus slapped his thigh, startling his horse. “The book shop in Naples! The scribe said the owner’s name was Plautia.”

“And she owns the entire insula in which the book shop is located. Aelius must have been very generous when he emancipated her. No wonder Calpurnius never saw anyone leave with the blackmail money. She also had a perfect vantage point to see if he was watching the shop. He could have seen her looking out a window and never would have suspected who she was.”

†

By the time we got back to Naples the book shop was closed for the midday rest, which a number of people seemed to be taking at a taberna at the end of the block. We left our servants with the horses. Thamyras would get them some food and bring it out to them. I have no objection to sharing a meal with a servant, but in this neighborhood it seemed smarter to have them guard the horses. I didn’t want to walk the rest of the way back to Aurelia’s villa.

“Let’s get something to eat,” I said, “and see what we can learn about…Plautia. I guess that’s what we should call her now.”

“Shouldn’t we be asking about Sychaeus? We know where Plautia is.”

I patted the neck of the gelding I’d been riding, a gentle animal. “I suppose you’re right. One glimpse of the owner of the book shop and we should know if we’ve found the right person. But I’ll bet Sychaeus isn’t going by that name anymore either.”

“It’s almost too convenient,” Tacitus said, “that they’ve both got some mark by which we can identify them, like a device from a Greek comedy. Otherwise they could change their names and disappear.”

“But I’ll bet there’s more than one man in that taberna right now with a missing little finger.”

The noise of loud conversation drifted out through the open door of the taberna. It fell to a murmur when we stepped into the place. The sight of a stripe on a tunic usually has that effect in places like this. The only activity that continued without a pause was on the far side of the room where a man was throwing darts at a board. He held the missiles in his right hand, with his small finger straight up.

“He’s not our man,” Tacitus observed.

“But he’s very good,” I said.

“Probably learned to use the things in the army.”

The Greeks developed the dart—which we call plumbata, from the lead tip—as a weapon centuries ago. While it’s not a standard weapon in our armies, some soldiers use it when they are attacking stealthily. It’s quiet, effective from a considerable distance, and easy to make.

“It probably helps his aim,” Tacitus said, “to have a target like that. Easy to focus on.”

The board was decorated with a painting of a nude woman, provocatively posed. Points could be won by hitting certain strategic areas.

There were no empty tables in the taberna, but the owner took one look at us and stepped to a corner where two men were bent over a latrunculus board.

“All right, you louts,” he said, “you been nursin’ them drinks for an hour. Pack up that game and clear the table for some payin’ customers.”

From the glares on the faces around the room I could sense that we wouldn’t get any information out of anyone if we allowed the owner to commandeer a space for us like that. “That’s all right,” I said. “We can wait until they finish. In fact, let me buy them another drink. Your best vintage.”

“Suit yourselfs,” the owner grunted and turned away to get some more wine.

“Do you mind if we watch?” I asked the two men. “I love the game.”

“Not at all,” the man playing the white stones said. “And thanks for the drink, but the best vintage around here is going to be last month’s instead of this month’s.”

While Tacitus gave Thamyras some money to buy lunch for himself and the servants outside, I turned my attention to the game. They were playing with a set of white stones on one side and reddish ones on the other, instead of the usual black. I soon saw that one reason they’d been playing for so long was that neither one understood the strategy well enough to conquer the other.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” the man playing white asked. He seemed the more garrulous of the two, a large man with inky black hair and almost no neck supporting his pockmarked face. His opponent was shorter and leaner with thin brown hair and a scar on his right cheek.

“Yes. We’re friends of the lady Aurelia and her husband Calpurnius.”

“Seems they’ve run into a spot of trouble lately,” the black-haired man said.

“We hope to have that sorted out soon,” I said. Without seeming too curious, I hoped, I confirmed that they had twenty fingers between them.

The man nodded. “They’re good folks, from what I hear.”

Tacitus rejoined me as the owner of the taberna brought two fresh cups of wine. As he placed them on the table I noticed he was missing the tip of the first finger on his left hand. Probably an occupational hazard for a man who spent his life cutting and chopping food. I hoped it didn’t end up in a stew.

“Would you gents like anything?” the owner asked.

“Some of that wine and a portion of whatever you’re serving today,” I said.

“Right away.”

I turned my attention back to the table, not so much to the game as to the men playing it. I had the feeling that I could get some information out of the black-haired man if I could get the brown-haired fellow out of the way. I pointed to the latrunculus board. “Could I offer a suggestion?”

The black-haired man sat back. “Sure. It’s my turn. Go ahead.”

I moved one of the white stones. The man playing the red stones looked up in surprise and moved one of his pieces, but it was too late. The man playing white was clever enough to pick up on my hint and in three moves had his opponent’s dux surrounded and beaten.

“There!” he cried. “That’s five sesterces you owe me, Murinus.”

“I’ll not pay you an as, Gaeton,” the loser said. “You had help. Two against one’s not fair.” He swung a hand at the game board, scattering pieces in all directions, and started to get out of his chair.

“I’ll pay the wager,” I said, holding out a hand to calm everyone. “You’re right. I did interfere.”

Murinus, mollified and slightly drunk, got to his feet and left. Gaeton started to pick up the game pieces and put them in a bag. “Damn him,” he muttered. “Where’s my dux?”

I got down on one knee and helped him look under the table for the most crucial piece in the game. “Here it is,” I said, handing him the polished blue stone.

“Thank you, sir. My grandfather gave me that stone when he taught me to play. It would grieve me deeply to lose it.” He went back to putting the pieces in his bag, but I laid a hand on his arm.

“Would you be willing to play me?”

“What would the wager be, sir?” Gaeton asked. “Nothing involving my dux, I hope.”

“No, I would never expect a man to risk something that important to him.” I touched the Tyche ring on its strap under my tunic around my neck. “Ten sesterces.”

Gaeton eyed me, probably reckoning whether he could beat the man without whose help he would not have just won.

“Ten sesterces,” I repeated, “and I’ll buy you lunch, regardless of who wins.”

“Done.” He gathered up the stones and began setting up the game as I sat down across the board from him.

Tacitus took the chair between us. “This is like having a front row seat in the arena,” he chuckled. “I may even get spattered with some blood. Fair warning, Gaius Pliny plays this game like a Thracian gladiator.”

Strangers asking about someone, I’ve learned by now, need to ease into the conversation, like a man wading into a cold mountain stream, and not plunge in all at once, the way some men do in the warm waters of the baths. I stuck my toe in. “So, Gaeton, is it? I’m Gaius Pliny and this is Cornelius Tacitus.”

Gaeton looked from one of us to the other until he seemed satisfied. “You’re not from around here, you said. Friends of Calpurnius and Aurelia?”

As far as I could tell, he was a freeborn man, but he did not offer the kind of deference plebeians usually display in the presence of a tunic with a stripe on it.

“That’s correct.”

“Well, as I said, they’re good folks. I’m sorry to hear about their trouble.”

“What exactly do you hear?” I wondered how much gossip Aurelia’s servants or the men from the vigiles had spread by now.

“I hear Calpurnius cut up one of his servant women.” He made his first move on the board. “Somebody said he cut her heart out and ate it, but I don’t believe that. At least, not the eating part.”

“No sensible man would. I’ve seen the woman’s body and I can assure you it’s in one piece and the heart is still in it.”

“But it’s been several days,” Gaeton said. “How could you—”

“Gaius Pliny has a very strong stomach,” Tacitus said. “Or no soul. I haven’t yet figured out which.”

I made my first move. Tacitus raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He doesn’t play the game very well, but even he knew it was a poor way to open.

Gaeton made a countermove, not a brilliant one but effective enough. “Are you going to defend Calpurnius in court?”

“I’m just here to give what help I can to Aurelia.” I made another indifferent move. “She’s a friend of mine from some time back.”

A serving girl brought our lunch, a pastry stuffed with meat and vegetables that actually smelled quite good, and a jug of wine. Tacitus patted her bottom and she tugged his ear affectionately. Gaeton moved one of his stones. I had to suppress a groan at the stupidity of his strategy and think for a moment how I could make a move without bringing the game to an abrupt end. While I was doing that, I decided my toe had been in the water long enough and I could risk getting in deeper.

“We’re hoping while we’re here to visit the book shop up the street. Do you know anything about it?”

“It’s a good one, I’m told. Don’t have much time for reading myself.” That was as close as he would come, I imagined, to admitting that he couldn’t read. “The store’s nicer than her that owns it—the lady Plautia. That much I’ve heard. If you want to know anything about the place, ask that fellow by himself over there.” He pointed to a young blond man with a scraggly philosopher’s beard eating alone two tables over from us.

I took a bite of my lunch and a sip of wine. The stuffed pastry was a bit too salty for my taste, but otherwise unexpectedly good for an establishment of this sort. The less said about the wine, the better. It must have come from the same dealer Calpurnius was buying from these days.

Gaeton moved a stone in front of his dux. He apparently thought he was going to protect his most important piece, but he was just setting it up to be trapped.

“What does that fellow know about the book shop?” I passed up an obvious move and made a meaningless play on the other end of the board.

“He’s one of their scribes,” Gaeton said, showing no awareness of how bad my move had been as he moved a stone to the other side of his dux.

“Then I definitely should have a word with him.” I put a hand on Tacitus’ shoulder. “Would you sit in for me?”

“From spectator to gladiator? Gladly. Double or nothing, my friend?”

I rolled my eyes. “Gaeton, don’t beat him too badly.”

Figuring that the players were now evenly matched enough to prolong the game, I stepped over to the scribe’s table. “May I buy you a drink?” I asked.

He merely nodded. When I sat down he looked up and said, “Oh, I didn’t realize you meant to join me.”

“For a moment, if I may.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I’m Gaius Pliny.”

“I’m called Capsius,” the young man said. It was an odd name, one I’d never heard before.

As the serving girl brought our wine I noticed Capsius’ left hand. It was missing the thumb and the small finger, leaving him with the three middle fingers that made the Greek letter psi, like Neptune’s trident.

“I was born this way,” he said.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was staring.”

“Everybody does at first. My father thought he was being clever to give me a name with my deformity in it.”

“I would say more cruel than clever.”

Capsius nodded appreciatively. “You sound like you knew my father. He told me if it had been my right hand, he would have put me out to die. He wanted to anyway, but my mother wouldn’t let him.” He paused as though savoring a memory. “She taught me to do all sorts of things with one hand that most people need two for.”

“From the ink stains on your right hand I gather you’re a scribe.”

“Just about the only job for a man with this.” He held up his left hand and looked at it, not just as though he’d never seen it before but as though he was completely baffled by it.

“Do you work in Plautia’s book shop?”

“That I do.” He took a long drink of wine.

“Do you know when it will open again?”

“Not any time soon. My lady Plautia told us today that she’s thinking of selling the place—the whole insula, in fact.” His eye ran up and down the stripe on my tunic. “Would you be interested in buying?”

I nodded without any hesitation. I didn’t want to acquire a building, but this might be an opportunity to come face-to-face with the woman without arousing her suspicion. “I might. Yes, I would like to talk to her. Where would I find her?”

“The last few days she’s been in and out of the shop quite a bit. I’ll get word to her that you’re interested. I’m sure she’ll find you.”

“Is she sharp at business? What do you think she’ll be like to deal with?” Men often think women aren’t astute enough to stand up for themselves in financial matters. The man who had cheated my prospective mother-in-law was finding out what a mistake that was.

Capsius peered into his cup as he pondered his answer. “Let’s just say that the book shop is a more pleasant place when she’s somewhere else. She’s smart and she’s beautiful, but if you cross her, she has a temper like one of the Furies.”

“Is she often angry?”

“Quite often. Speaking as one with a similar experience, I think she resents her deformity—that misshapen foot of hers. I’ve seen her kick things with it, like she was angry at her foot, not at the thing she was kicking. In my worst moments, I’ve done the same.” He rubbed his right hand over his left.

Tacitus joined us, pulling up a chair from another table. “I lost,” he said.

“Against Gaeton?” Capsius said with a snort. “That must have been hard to do.”

“Probably not for Tacitus,” I said. “Latrunculus isn’t his best game. Did you pay off the wager?”

“It’s all taken care of. You can pay me back later.” In response to my grimace he said, “Well, it was your wager. I just added the…the double-or-nothing part.”

“Why—”

“I was sure I could beat him, but that move you showed him must have gotten him to thinking.”

I looked over my shoulder to see Gaeton setting up for another game. His face showed his pleasure at his winning streak and the wine I had bought him.

“Whatever you let him win won’t last long,” Capsius said. “He’s a pleasant enough fellow, but he doesn’t know how much he doesn’t understand about that game. I’d better go play him and get my share before it’s all gone.” He pushed his chair back and was about to get up. “Is there anything else you need?”

“There is one more thing, as a matter of fact,” I said. “A couple of days ago we ran into a man whom we would like to see again. We didn’t have time for formal introductions, but he had dark hair and was missing the small finger on his right hand. Have you seen anyone like that around here lately?”

Capsius narrowed his eyes and gave me a steady stare. “I have seen such a fellow once or twice. I suppose I notice things like that—hands and fingers, I mean—more than most people.” He indicated his left hand. “He’s been in and out of the insula. Seems to be a friend of Plautia. I’ve seen them talking.”

“Is he by any chance in here now?”

Capsius swept his eyes over the room slowly and shook his head. “Should I tell Plautia that you’re looking for him as well?”

“No,” I said quickly. “We’d like to see him, but I don’t think he wants to see us, so it would be better if you didn’t say anything about this conversation. What you’ve told us has been most helpful and I appreciate it.” I put enough money on the table to buy an entire amphora of Falernian. “Have another cup on me.”