THE STOLEN VENUS: FROM THE PREVIOUSLY UNPUBLISHED CORRESPONDENCE OF THE YOUNGER PLINY

by Darrell Schweitzer

1. Pliny to the Emperor Trajan

You have asked me, sir, to keep you informed of my progress through the province of Bithynia as I might write to a friend, rather than merely as an official might report to his emperor, and so I shall be, as requested, fulsome in the details.

Having concluded our business in Heracleia Pontica, my party has turned inland, toward Claudiopolis, where there is much to occupy my attention: accounts in arrears and possible civil disturbances.

Unfavorable winds prevent us from sailing up the local river (Sangarius), and so we proceed over rough roads by carriage. The heat oppresses us. My assistant, Servilius Pudens, became ill for a time, but my Greek physician, Arpocras, yet again proved himself invaluable....

* * * *

2. Trajan to Pliny

Your own well-being, my dear Pliny, and that of your party remain foremost in my thoughts. I am glad that the invaluable Arpocras has cured Pudens of his illness. You are wise to adapt your travel to local conditions. Report to me in detail what you find in Claudiopolis, as the disturbances there have the potential of creating a greater danger.

* * * *

3. Pliny to Trajan

...It begins with two crows.

I call them my two crows, from the way they squawk at one another. Servilius Pudens and Arpocras (whose name means “Crow” in Greek, I remind myself) remain the best of friends, despite their constant arguments about anything and everything. At times this even resembles genuine philosophical debate, and might occasionally produce a flash of wisdom, like a spark from an anvil.

As we three lay back in our carriage, bumping over the hot, dusty roads, the subject of current contention was whether or not each of us resembles, either in his name or person, some kind of animal. Indeed, Arpocras, the Crow, is a thin, beak-nosed man whose hair was once dark, while Pudens, so said the Greek in a jesting mood, more resembles a walrus, a fabulous, flabby beast reputed to inhabit northern seas, which is ridiculous, and maybe even insulting, as Pudens more resembles a somewhat overfed but still quite formidable bull.

I might have put a stop to this, but I dozed off instead, and when I awoke the conversation had somehow turned to theology.

“Are you saying, then, Greek—” Pudens put a sneer into that word, which he would not have done if they were not friends. “—that the forms of the gods and goddesses do not matter, and Mars does not look like a warrior and Venus does not look like, well, Venus?”

“I suggest,” said Arpocras slowly, as if explaining something to a dull-witted schoolboy, “that the true forms of the gods are ineffable, incomprehensible, not something that can be imitated by human art. Therefore, when the sculptor carves a statue of Venus, the goddess may inspire him, but the result exists for the benefit of mankind, as a focus of devotion, but not as a literal representation.”

Pudens rummaged about and produced an apple and a small knife. He cut a slice out of the apple, ate it, then contemplated the apple. “You’re saying then that if I carve this apple into a face and call it a goddess, it’s just as valid as a statue by Phidias?”

The Greek snatched the apple and the knife before the astonished Pudens could react, cut the apple in half, then impaled both pieces on the blade and handed the result back to him.

“Theoretically, yes, but somehow I doubt that you are inspired by any other than the goddess of food. Now, finish your deity.”

Pudens ate the apple.

* * * *

This might have seemed too trivial an incident to report, sir, but it proved prophetic in more ways than one. Indeed, the question of the forms that divinity might take was much on my mind in the next couple of days.

We reached Claudiopolis toward evening, and were of course admitted immediately, despite which we were unable to make our way through the crowded streets because a religious festival was in progress. The city, despite its name, despite its refounding as a colony in the time of the deified Claudius, is of a distinctly Oriental character, with many remnants of the culture and way of life that were in place before even the Greeks arrived.

This was made all the more apparent when we came to the intersection of the two main streets of the city and, despite our imperial banners, squadron of cavalry, and large caravan of assistants, staff, and baggage, we had to pause to let the goddess Venus pass by. Goddesses outrank imperial envoys in most parts of the world, it would seem.

It was an amazing sight, this festival, which isn’t even on our Roman calendar. It was something purely local, a gaudy affair with naked youths and maidens strewing flowers along the way, followed by musicians thundering on drums and blasting with trumpets and rattling cymbals; then came a mass of garlanded priestesses and finally a great, gilded car pulled by white oxen, in which rode the goddess herself in the form of an enormous marble image, far taller than a man, in the most barbarous aspect imaginable: a face like a harsh mask, with wide, blank eyes, but the body covered with hundreds of breasts, like udders, and the arms outstretched, as if to bestow blessings or (so it occurred to me) to throttle somebody.

“Love in Claudiopolis must be a very peculiar business,” said Pudens as the thing passed.

“Keep your voice down,” snapped Arpocras, “lest someone hear you blaspheme.”

Pudens put his hand to his ear and shouted, “What?” Indeed it was hard to hear anything over the noise of the crowd, which was quite worked into a frenzy at this point. But if a riot were about to break out, it was clearly prevented by the presence of my troop of soldiers, and by the city watch and city officials, who came to meet us once the procession had passed.

Eventually we found ourselves at the house of L. Licinius Aper, a leading citizen of the town, who had intrigued against several rivals (so I gathered later) for the privilege of hosting us.

I braced myself for what was to follow. It is a ritual that recurs every place I visit, some rich person like this Aper pushing himself to the forefront to introduce himself, shower me with every flattery, boast about his own importance, protest his loyalty to Rome, etc., etc.

They always do this because they want something. Somehow it is always the rich and powerful who are never satisfied.

I of course must be impartial, and deal with local persons of importance, keeping my impressions (at least initially) to myself, but I must admit that I took an almost immediate dislike to L. Licinius Aper. He was a red-faced, balding man a little younger than me, about fifty perhaps, but if anyone resembled the fabled walrus it was he, having grown so fat with indulgence that, quite unlike Servilius Pudens, he could hardly bear his own weight. A quartet of burly slaves hauled him about in a chair most of the time.

Nevertheless, he was animated, sputtering, a ceaseless fount of information about the town and its people and their affairs. It is not actually a proverb, but should be, that a man who cannot stop talking may eventually say something useful.

When he tried to dismiss Arpocras with a wave of his hand, the Greek stood firm, and so did I, and Licinius Aper, realizing his blunder, graciously invited the three of us to bathe and dine with him.

He gave us a tour of the house, making sure that we noticed the images of all the deified emperors among his household gods, and that his statues of the gods and goddesses were of the conventional sort. No thousand-breasted Venuses here.

“I hear they have something like that down in Ephesus,” said Servilius Pudens, “only they call it Diana.”

“That is exactly my point, my dear fellow,” said Licinius Aper, placing his hand on Pudens’s shoulder with an audible thump and perhaps too much familiarity; though to be fair, he was actually walking then and may have needed to lean on Pudens for support.

“It is?”

“Yes. The natives apply the names of our divinities to theirs, absurd as they might be, and that raises the question of whether they can really be considered divine at all, or just the fevered imaginings of barbarians.”

Arpocras coughed, as if to say he did not like where this conversation was going, but Pudens merely said, “Oh really? My friend and I were discussing something very similar this afternoon.”

“Indeed?” said Licinius Aper. “Tell me about it.”

Tell him he did, and the loquacious Aper dragged on this discussion for hours, through our bath, well into the dinner that followed, only interrupted by vulgar displays of lewd dancers and mimes and acrobats. There was no doubt that our host was going all-out to impress, though I couldn’t help but think of the ridiculous freedman in the Satyricon of Petronius, written in the time of Nero yet as applicable to the present circumstances. But Licinius Aper was a Roman, a true son of the Tiber and the Seven Hills, as he had not failed to impress upon us, as he continued to impress ... and if I may add a further new proverb to my short collection, let me say that the man who strives so hard to impress may ultimately give an impression other than the one he intended.

More than once Pudens shot me a glance as if to say how he suffered for the good of Rome, doing his duty, putting up with all this. Arpocras gazed into space, stonily, but remained, I am sure, completely alert. The oddest thing about the whole evening was that at times you might think that Pudens was the object of our host’s hospitality, and I, the legatus propraetore consulari poteste was almost forgotten. But I bided my time, as did Arpocras, waiting for Licinius Aper to get to the point.

He finally did.

The dancers and mimes were long gone. The dinner had proceeded, literally from eggs to apples, and as we lingered into the late hours over dessert, our host said suddenly, “The men of Juliopolis are my enemies.”

I already knew of the rivalry between the two cities, a common enough phenomenon between Greek cities in the East. With the might of Rome to prevent them from actually going to war, they often expressed their enmity in sporting competitions, street riots, and more often than not in ridiculous vanities, each striving to build the grander theater or aqueduct or temple, which were often unsound, over budget, and the cause of the very evils which I had come into the province to correct.

I sighed, and thought, At last.

I will not repeat everything he said, for even when he was getting to the point, Licinius Aper could be long winded. The gist of it was—as I understood the undertext of his discourse—that certain wealthy men like himself, Romans, as he made sure we were all quite clear about, some of whose families had dwelt in the East since the affairs of the region were settled by Pompey over a hundred and fifty years ago, controlled the local economy, the grain markets, the small manufactures, even the religious pilgrimage trade. He being, of course, a gentleman, a member of the local senate, did not sully his hands with actual commerce, but worked through agents and freedmen, as did everyone. He and the senators held the city for Rome, and therefore deserved such rewards as they had reaped (although I was determined that there would be a clear accounting during my stay here), etc., etc. But they had incurred the wrath of the men of Juliopolis, their rivals for exactly the same avenues of commerce. The god of Juliopolis had an enormous member, Aper told us, snickering like a schoolboy, and was therefore identified with Priapus and the subject of “disgusting” rites.

What precisely did L. Licinius Aper want from me which he was (even yet) not quite willing to state plainly?

It became clear enough: He wanted me to contrive some sort of criminal charge and remove, or even have put to death, one Clodius Carus, his opposite number in Juliopolis.

“A mere Greek,” Aper spat out in genuine repugnance—the first sincere utterance I had heard from him, the rest being like the recital of a bad actor. Arpocras drew breath sharply. Our host had obviously forgotten him entirely.

“Not a Roman at all, despite his Latin name, which he surely stole,” Licinius Aper went on, “a wretched provincial scoundrel who desires to destroy my wealth, discredit me in the eyes of the emperor ... I am certain, sirs, that he means to commit some outrage very soon. I thank the gods for your fortunate arrival so that you might thwart his evil schemes....”

Eventually we escaped Aper’s hospitality and retired.

“But of course, of course, you have had a long journey,” he babbled on and might have spoken volumes more if our own slaves hadn’t closed protectively around us to attend to our needs.

I was able to confer briefly with Pudens and Arpocras.

“What do you think?” I said.

Pudens rolled his eyes heavenward as if he were about to faint, then laughed softly.

Arpocras said, “Did you mark how he said ‘my enemies’ and ‘my wealth’?”

“I did. This is some selfish, petty matter, then, not of larger political import—”

“It could be both, sir.”

Verily possibly he, too, spoke prophetically.

I had barely gotten to sleep when the cries of the “outrage” were upon us. There was a great commotion outside in the street. Someone was pounding on the front door. Our host’s slaves were up and about, and then so were Arpocras, Pudens, and myself. We had barely emerged from our rooms when an obviously aroused and possibly frightened Licinius Aper lumbered upon us, blubbering, wringing his hands.

“It is as I predicted, sirs. I fear that it is. An outrage! A blasphemy! It is the work of my enemy, I am sure, to discredit and destroy our city—”

For the first time he said our rather than my, as if the catastrophe, for the first time, applied to more than himself.

“What has happened?” Servilius Pudens demanded, speaking for all of us.

“It’s so—so—incredible—”

Licinius Aper could have gone on for enough to fill twenty pages without saying anything, if I were to report his speech exactly, so I must condense his matter: It seemed that the goddess Venus of the thousand breasts, the very one we had let pass in the street upon our entry to the city, had vanished.

“But that’s absurd,” said Arpocras. “Half-ton marble goddesses don’t just disappear!”

Aper leaned forward, as if to deliver his lines in a bad stage whisper, “They say that she walked. The temple suddenly filled with an unnatural light. She struck down her priestesses and walked out of the temple, into the night! The people are terrified, noble sirs, as you can well imagine. For myself, I don’t know what to think—”

“But you think it might have something to do with the schemes of your enemy, Clodius Carus,” I said, attempting to organize his thoughts.

He stopped, startled, as if the idea had not occurred to him. If so, he was stupider than he looked. If not, his acting was getting better.

“We are men of the world,” I said. “We don’t really believe that barbarous, provincial marble statues get up and walk, do we?”

“No, but—”

“Then it must be the doings of this Clodius Carus, yes?”

Suddenly Aper’s distraught features seemed so much more calm.

“I am relieved that you see that,” he said.

* * * *

But first we had to inspect the scene of the crime, and crime it was too. We all quickly dressed. The centurion of my guards came to report. Accompanied by a troop of soldiers, marching in step, the steady tread of their hobnailed boots imposing some sort of order on the chaotic night, we followed them through the streets of the city. Pudens, Arpocras, and I walked. Licinius Aper rode in his chair.

The streets were filled with disorderly people, who melted away as we approached, or just stood staring, silently, as we passed.

We came to the temple, which was of moderate size, Greek in form, but more ornately decorated in the Oriental style.

As soon as I entered, I saw that a serious crime had indeed been committed. There were three dead women, two on the floor, one lying halfway out onto the steps. Their skulls were crushed. There was blood everywhere. These were the priestesses of this Claudiopolitan Venus, allegedly struck down by their goddess when she deserted the city.

And she had deserted it. The thousand-breasted divinity was distinctly missing from her shrine within. The place was filled with thick, strange-smelling smoke. It was clear enough to me that some kind of oil had been set afire on the floor, but this did not burn down the temple because the building was made entirely of stone and the oil was swiftly consumed. I held the edge of my toga up over my nose to avoid choking on the fumes, made my way to the back, and examined the hole in the floor, behind the altar, where the divinity had been affixed. It was clear enough to me, and to Arpocras, who stood beside me, that the goddess was shaped out of a single pillar of marble, that she was, when not parading about the city in her gilded car, affixed here like a post, and her walking out of the temple was made all the less plausible by her not having any legs.

“It is shocking! Shocking!” said Licinius Aper when we emerged from the temple. He had just arrived, and had not ventured to climb the temple steps, though he stood supported by two of his muscular slaves. He waved a hand about, indicating a huddle of glum-faced individuals whom I took to be local senators. “It will be the ruin of us all!”

I am not sure if he was performing for me or for his colleagues, but for once he was telling the honest truth. If the goddess were not recovered, it would be the ruin of Claudiopolis, the end of the religious trade, and much else, as the superstitious multitudes fled elsewhere to avoid a place obviously shunned by the very gods. No one seemed much concerned about the dead priestesses, but financial catastrophe on the horizon perturbed them very much.

I realized it was dawn. After a long day’s traveling, a tedious dinner, and these late-hour dramatics, I simply had to call things to a halt. I am afraid my Roman fortitude was giving way to age. I left Arpocras and the centurion in charge and withdrew.

* * * *

In the days that followed I continued to reside in the house of Licinius Aper, as it was the largest and most luxurious in the town, and nothing less would befit the dignity of my office, for all I, personally, would have been content with a comfortable, quiet room somewhere.

I worked very hard. I got very little sleep. It was not merely because Licinius Aper had a habit of bursting in on me at any hour that pleased, offering suggestions, more than once demanding to know if I had arrested “that blasphemous fiend, Clodius Carus.”

I reminded him that I was the imperial legatus here, and I would give the orders for arrests. I assured him that investigations were proceeding.

“But it’s so obvious, obvious,” he sputtered, wringing his meaty hands as he left.

Perhaps he was trying to distract me from my more expected duties, for he and his colleagues could not have been comfortable about what I was doing. As more and more of the town records were brought to me, it was clear that temples and bridges and the new theater cost three times what they should have, that some projects accounted for had not even been built. When I went out one afternoon to see the famous theater, I concluded that it would never be completed because the ground had not been surveyed, some of the walls were already sinking into soft earth, and the whole place was likely to collapse before it was opened. I also found evidence that persons convicted of serious crimes had managed to have their sentences erased, or even transferred to others, for the payment of a suitable bribe. In short, my host and all his colleagues were clearly, as the popular expression has it, lining their togas with municipal gold. There were going to be some prosecutions here, quite aside from the matter of the dead priestesses and the missing goddess.

As for that, Pudens quickly came to the conclusion that the goddess had not, precisely, walked—whether or not she actually had legs was not the point.

He spoke in a whisper, lest some of our host’s servants might be eavesdropping. We were having this conversation in the central courtyard of the house, where a chair and table had been set up for me in the garden, so I could work comfortably by daylight.

“I think friend Licinius Aper stole the goddess himself.”

“But how?”

“Those muscular slaves of his.”

“Just four of them?” said Arpocras. “Even for them, that’s a heavy statue.”

“Maybe they come in matched sets. If he has three quartets, they could have done it.”

“They could have just wheeled her off in her car,” I suggested.

“I looked into that, sir,” said Arpocras. “The car is in its shed behind the temple. It is not missing.”

“But why would he do it?” I asked. “Why would he ruin his own city—and his own income?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” said Pudens. “So he could blame it on the men of the rival city, Juliopolis. He’d like nothing more than you to march in there with a legion, knock the place down, and crucify the entire population, starting with this—this—”

“Clodius Carus,” said Arpocras.

“Yes. His enemy. It all makes sense. The structure of the explanation is complete and perfectly logical.”

“Now all you have to account for is the supernatural manifestations, the noises, the miraculous light,” said Arpocras, “not to mention the murdered priestesses. The town is quite full of stories, if you care to go out and hear them.”

“I could hardly—”

Indeed, he could hardly mix inconspicuously with the local populace, a large, tall, pale Roman. But Arpocras, a Greek, could. “Nevertheless, I can explain those things,” said Pudens.

“Do so.”

“Aper’s henchmen killed the priestesses—bludgeoned them—then carried off the statue, perhaps in an ordinary wagon filled with straw. Well after the deed was done, but before it was discovered, some of them set the oil and incense on fire, then rushed out into the city to spread the alarm. Rumor and panic took care of the rest.”

Arpocras looked up at him and smiled. “Very good. I see I have been able to teach you some of my methods,” he said. “Logical, yes. Complete, yes, as far as it goes. But is it everything? Maybe it requires a few flourishes and decorations in the Oriental fashion.”

* * * *

It was Arpocras who provided most of the final flourishes. But not all of them.

It was he, too, who suggested, more by subtle hints than by stating it outright, that I might be in actual danger, since no one knew what a man like Licinius Aper might do if sufficiently desperate. If I found sufficient evidence to convict him of a crime, what further crime might he—or some of his colleagues—attempt to protect themselves?

But if I were to move out of Aper’s house, refusing his hospitality, wouldn’t that bring about a final crisis?

Arpocras insisted that we must seize the initiative. As always, he was right.

I consulted with my centurion. Most of the soldiers were quartered elsewhere, their function being to protect my party as we journeyed across the countryside, not against sedition inside a friendly city. But at the same time, if the centurion came daily to confer with me on official business, there was nothing Aper could do. I waved him out of earshot. The emperor’s business is mine and the emperor’s and not his. He could not pretend otherwise.

Therefore I announced one day that my party and the guards were going outside the city to see the much-discussed, overpriced aqueduct. Licinius Aper offered to accompany me, “for the pleasure of the journey,” he said in that oily, completely unconvincing stage manner of his. With hopefully more politeness and perhaps better acting skills, I forbade this, out of gracious concern for his health, the heat of the day, the roughness of the roads—and I didn’t mention his girth even once.

He looked unhappy, but we left, Pudens, Arpocras, and myself in our carriage, the soldiers on horseback, some of our secretarial staff following in a cart.

We went out to the aqueduct, about which I shall report in detail in another letter. It is indeed overpriced and defective. We inspected it thoroughly, deliberately taking our time doing so. Then, late in the afternoon, after a pause for a rest in the shade of some trees, we made our way back.

Before we reached Claudiopolis, however, a man who had been waiting by the side of the road got up and began jogging alongside the carriage. One of the soldiers made to interfere, but I waved him away and Arpocras caught the fellow by the wrist and hauled him aboard.

The newcomer was a short, wiry Greek, a little younger than Arpocras, though, his hair mostly still dark. If I may trust my instincts, there was something about this man, too, like Licinius Aper when I first met him, that I did not like. If Arpocras was my Greek crow, this fellow was more of a vulture.

Arpocras introduced him as a certain Theon. My Greek had wandered about the city for some days, mixing in low places, jangling purses of money in exchange for information, and now, as the climax of his efforts, we enjoyed the company of this Theon.

He was, to be blunt, an informer. When Arpocras dangled a another purse of coins in front of him, he became most loquacious about the sins of Licinius Aper, which he enumerated in more detail than I could remember, although Arpocras was taking notes. But then I bade him get to the point and tell me where the stolen Venus was.

“In the house of Aper, of course,” he said.

“But I have been staying in Aper’s house.”

“He has more than one house, sir. Surely you knew that? A man as rich as him, you’d expect it.”

Arpocras nodded. It was so. Unsurprisingly, Licinius Aper had invested much of his wealth in several houses, which he rented out, and a few farms, which he worked profitably, but the place of interest was a villa he had up in the hills, a little beyond the city, to which he normally retired to escape the summer weather. He had only remained in his city house, out of season, because he knew I was coming, and would have to reside in the city to do my work.

Theon wanted to leave, but I wouldn’t let him. The centurion had his instructions. The informant held onto his bag of money, but otherwise sat in the carriage glumly.

We returned to the city-house of Licinius Aper, but the horsemen did not dismount, nor did I get out of the carriage. I sent one of the secretaries in to fetch him. When he emerged, I leaned out between the curtains of the carriage—it would not do to let him see our informant—and told him where we were going. I suggested he come with us.

He pleaded his health, the heat, the roughness of the road.

“Nevertheless, I think you should come,” I said.

There was nothing he could do. He followed in his own carriage, driven by one of his burly slaves. And so the whole company, carriages, carts, the troop of mounted soldiers, wound through the town and up into the hills, where, after a time, it was indeed cooler. A pleasant breeze blew. It was nearly sunset by the time we reached the villa. Under other circumstances, I might have appreciated the view, or even written a poem about it.

But not now. My mind was turning. The last pieces of the puzzle were coming into place. Pudens, Arpocras, and I had all sat in silence during the journey, each of us thinking. I exchanged glances with my colleagues, but none of us wanted to say anything in front of Theon.

We burst into the house without formalities, leaving the porter and the household slaves fluttering, trying to make excuses to their master.

“This is an imposition,” Licinius Aper protested. “After all my hospitality, all my kindnesses, is this how you repay me?”

“I believe something, which I hope is wrong,” I replied. “I sincerely hope I am misinformed. If I am, someone will pay, and I will give you my profoundest apologies.”

“Well, then, let’s go back to the city and discuss this over dinner like gentlemen, shall we?”

Instead I proceeded to a certain room. The door was locked.

“There’s nothing in there,” said Aper. “That room is not in use.”

I nodded, and some of the soldiers forced the door.

It was a large, high-ceilinged room, with murals on the walls. It might have been an extra dining room, or even a bedroom, but there was no furniture in it now, and it was, indeed, not in use.

The thousand-breasted Venus leaned against the back wall, propped up rather precariously, her arms reaching out toward us. Now that I saw it up close, it was, indeed, a deeply alien thing, a frightful image, really, of perhaps great antiquity. It had no legs, breasts covering the whole body, front and back but for the arms, and a fierce, masklike face. It was, I would guess, about ten feet tall.

Some of those present let out cries of amazement. A couple of the Aper’s servants tried to run, but soldiers caught them. Pudens, Arpocras, and I all looked at one another, as if to say, It is as I thought, even if, very likely, some of our theories differed.

But before any of us could congratulate one another, Licinius Aper put on the most amazing performance of his otherwise unconvincing career. He knelt before the goddess. He beseeched her forgiveness. For all he purported to despise barbaric images, I think he was afraid. I think he saw the workings of supernatural providence in this. I think that, far more than anyone else, he was utterly and genuinely astonished to find her here.

All of my theories collapsed at that point. I was at a loss. Before I could say anything or do anything, the whole scene came to its dreadful climax. I don’t know if Licinius Aper had somehow bumped against the statue, or if his massive bulk dropping down before it had shaken it from its doubtful balance, or if there was another, less explicable cause, but so quickly that no one could react, stone began to grind and the goddess moved. She fell forward, her marble arms reaching out to embrace Licinius Aper, her awful face bending down to kiss him—or to devour him.

The statue crashed to earth. There came more cries of amazement and horror. Several people ran from the room, and no one stopped them. In the eyes of the Greeks, I am sure, the goddess had taken her vengeance. All I can say is that there was a lot of blood, both arms and the head broke off, and marble breasts scattered all over the floor.

I, too, wanted to run away, but I remained steadfast. Even Arpocras looked on speechless, as did Pudens. I was the one who managed to tell the centurion to bring the informer Theon in to see what had happened, and when he did, as Theon reacted, the chain of events almost began to make sense again. Almost but not quite. There were still huge and mysterious gaps.

Theon rejoiced. He laughed. He virtually danced for joy, and once more launched into a vast recital of the sins of Licinius Aper, which only stopped when I broke in and said, “I arrest you, Clodius Carus, on some charge or other. I am sure I will think of something.”

He babbled in protest as the soldiers grabbed him. I turned from the horrible scene and hurried away.

Arpocras ran after me. I have never seen him so flustered. I think what amazed him the most was that for once I’d thought of something he had not.

“But ... how did you know it was Carus?”

“He and Aper were two of a kind. Who else would know so much about a man’s misdeeds, and be so eager to relate them, except his mortal enemy? Aper and Carus had this fault in common. They both talked too much.”

* * * *

These events did not settle the puzzling affair, Most Noble Emperor, not entirely.

Since Clodius Carus was not a Roman citizen, I could have him interrogated locally. I am told he became incoherent under torture, but there was evidence of sufficient crimes that I had him executed.

Yet the enigma remains. There are three explanations at which one might grasp: the first, that Licinius Aper stole the goddess, hid it in his country villa, and merely put on a last, desperate performance for us when his enemy, who had learned of it, exposed him. But I reject this. He was too convincing at the end. He wore his lies like a badly fashioned mask. I think he was sincerely astonished and even terrified to see the goddess there.

Or could it be that the fatally loquacious Clodius Carus stole the goddess, placed it in Aper’s villa with the connivance of corrupted slaves in order to destroy his enemy? The image actually crushing Aper was an accident, but the result was the same. This, indeed, is what both Servilius Pudens and Arpocras think happened.

The people of Claudiopolis cling to a third view, toward which in unguarded moments, I lean myself: that Aper stole the goddess, hid her elsewhere, and she came of her own accord to deliver her vengeance.

* * * *

I write to you then, sir, with a specific question.

Something has to be put back into the temple to restore the religious commerce of the city. Was Arpocras correct, that the true forms of divinities may never be apprehended by human senses, and that consequently all such images, however grotesque they might seem to Roman eyes, are equally sacred? Should I take this opportunity to install a proper Roman Venus in the temple, or should I employ a local craftsman to recreate the goddess in her original form?

* * * *

4. Trajan to Pliny

You should restore the goddess in her original form, to which the Bithynians are accustomed. It would certainly be out of keeping with the spirit of our age to demand such a change in immemorial religious usage.

Very likely, your wise Arpocras is correct. Certainly the gods and goddesses work through human agencies in mysterious ways. No one can deny that.