Oracle of the Dead

6

The next day I took my perambulating court to Stabiae. It is another of those charming towns on the bay, blessed with a wonderful climate and views fit for the enjoyment of the gods. For part of the way the road took us along the top of a precipitous cliff, causing the ladies of the party (yes, the ladies were along again) to cry out with fright and pretend to faint. We men just looked Stoic.

The town was founded by Oscans, but about forty years before this time they had chosen the wrong side in the Social War and had risen in rebellion against Rome, a famously bad decision for any town to make but especially foolhardy for a tiny resort like Stabiae. As a result, it was destroyed by Sulla and the site was given to the Nocerians, who had remained loyal. They had resettled and rebuilt the city, and now it was once again a favorite resort, with the town plan centered on its medicinal springs instead of the usual forum or temple complex.

As we neared the city, our party was joined by an ornate litter carried by a set of Gauls who wore the twisted neck rings common to that race, their blond hair and mustaches dressed identically. As it drew alongside my saddle, a hand with gilded nails pushed its curtain aside. “Praetor! You should have told me you would be visiting my city.” It was Sabinilla. This time she wore a red wig, to complement her green gown.

“I knew you would insist that I stay at your home, and I have no wish to impose a party this size upon you when there is a perfectly good official residence available in the town.”

“Nonsense! I do insist you stay with me! I’m sure I am not so poor that I can’t afford to entertain a praetor’s entourage properly. I shall be insulted if you refuse.”

“In that case, how can I say no? Give my freedman directions to your home and I will join you there as soon as I conclude my business for the day.” She was overjoyed, or put on a good show of it. I had indeed not let her know I was going to Stabiae for precisely this reason. I knew that she would try to outdo everyone else who had entertained me in the lavishness of her hospitality. At another time this would have suited me perfectly, but now my pleasant stay in Campania had turned serious, and I wanted no more distraction. I told Hermes to get the party settled at Sabinilla’s villa while I went to confer with the city officials.

“Cheer up,” he advised me. “There are worse fates than being entertained to death.”

With a few of my helpers and preceded by my six lictors I rode on into the beautiful city, where I was greeted with the usual choruses of children and girls in white gowns who strewed flower petals in my path and local poets who read panegyrics composed in my honor. At least, I think they were panegyrics. I’ve never been too clear on the distinction between a panegyric and an ode. Oh well, as long as it’s not a eulogy, I’ve no cause to complain.

The city offices were in the Temple of Poseidon, which was Stabiae’s finest. The town is located on the sea, so the sea god is naturally held in great reverence there. Also, the region is very prone to earthquakes and Poseidon is the god of earthquakes. Furthermore the locals revere Poseidon as the patron of their hot springs, so he is held in triple reverence.

Of course I was taken in to see the statue of the god, a stunning bronze by the sculptor Eteocles, only a bit larger than life-size, and in an unusual pose: standing, his left arm thrust forward in the fashion of a javelin thrower, right extended rearward, balancing the trident as if for a cast. His hair and beard were enameled blue, a treatment I had never seen before on a statue, paint being more commonly used. His eyes and teeth were likewise enameled, rather than the more common ivory and silver treatment. Everything about the image was exquisite, and I was not sparing in my praise. The trip would have been worth it just to see the statue.

We retired to an office and took care of the modalities: the location for the morning’s court, the officials to be present, and the order of hearing the cases to be presented.

“Will there be any special complications in any of these cases?” I asked. “Right now, I am in no mood for unpleasant surprises.”

“All very straightforward, Praetor,” said the town’s own praetor, an official lacking the imperium and broad powers of a praetor from Rome. Since the locals had full citizenship, his judgments could be appealed to a Roman court. This was usually an unwise move, since Roman magistrates hated to have their dockets cluttered with the petty complaints of provincials. Only someone able to pay a hefty bribe dared try it.

With these petty matters settled, I decided to wander about and see the town. I dismissed my lictors, telling them I would meet them at Sabinilla’s villa. They protested, saying it was unworthy of a praetor to walk abroad without an escort. I told them I had imperium and could do anything I wanted to. I exchanged my toga praetexta with its purple border for a plain white one and bid them be off.

I was utterly tired of having an entourage dog my steps every waking minute. I pined for the days when I was an anonymous citizen recognized by few people and could prowl about and get into trouble as I wished. It was the sort of juvenile thinking for which Julia was forever scolding me. But she was right. We men only learn to fake maturity and wisdom. Inside, we are perpetual adolescents, heedless and foolhardy. Well, what of it? That was the way I liked it.

Not that I was totally unwary, of course. I had my dagger and caestus tucked away in their usual place inside my tunic. To tell the truth, I was half-hoping to get into a brawl. I hadn’t been in a good fight for several months, and felt that I was losing my edge. Not a serious brawl, of course, just a little fist-swinging and bench-throwing to get the blood stirring.

Unfortunately, Stabiae turned out to be a quiet, peaceful town, full of wealthy visitors come to take the cure in the hot springs and vendors to see to their wants and relieve them of excess money. I went into some low sailors’ dives, but there was nothing to be had except bad wine. The sailors drank and rolled dice and exchanged the names of especially skilled whores, but that was all. After a while I left the dockside area and went back into the city proper.

I was about to give up and go to Sabinilla’s place when I heard someone hissing at me, and saw a hand beckoning me toward a doorway. I was passing through a street not much wider than a typical alley, one which I hoped would lead to the forum, where I could get my bearings and find the landward gate. The hand was white and fairly shapely, adorned with a number of rings, though none of them looked terribly expensive. I assumed that it was a whore in search of a customer, but as I drew near the door, the woman thrust her head outside. She wore a shawl over hair that fell straight to her shoulders, a fashion not much in favor with prostitutes, nor was her dress, which was typical of any matron’s.

She looked quickly up and down the alley, then she said, “Aren’t you the Roman praetor? The one who’s investigating those killings at the temple?” She spoke barely above a whisper and seemed agitated, clearly in a state of fear.

“I am.”

She reached out and took me by the arm. “Come inside, quick!”

My hand went inside my tunic as I stepped across the threshold. I’d scarcely been in town long enough for anyone to set up an ambush, but you never know. As soon as I was inside, she scanned the alley again and shut the door. The room was illuminated dimly by some clay lamps, but I was all but blind coming in from the bright daylight outside. Slowly my eyes adjusted and I saw that this was the dwelling of an ordinary citizen, neither wealthy nor especially poor; a typical shopkeeper’s house.

“Your business had better be urgent,” I told her, “and it had better not be about any of the cases to come before me. I take it ill when people believe that I may be suborned.”

“Oh no!” she said. “Nothing like that. It’s about the killings.”

“What is your name?” Her face twitched as I jerked her from whatever terror held her to something mundane. I have found it a useful interrogation technique many times: If you destroy a person’s concentration on what they are trying to tell you, sometimes they reveal things they’d rather not.

“My name? Why, it’s, it’s Floria, Praetor.”

I knew instantly that the name was false. She’d taken too long to make one up, but informants often don’t want their names known. It didn’t mean that her information was bad, just that I would have to be suspicious. As if I wasn’t already. People lie more often than they tell the truth, even if they have nothing to gain by it. They lie to officials even more often.

“Well, Floria, you should know that I have taken a very personal interest in the doings at that temple-those temples, I should say-and I wish very much to have some reliable information. On the other hand, I will punish very severely anyone who tries to give me false information. Is that understood?”

“Certainly, Praetor!” she said, looking even more scared. “I would never-” My raised hand silenced her.

“Yes you would. I just want you to know that it would be a terribly bad idea. Now, tell me what you have for me.” My eyes had adjusted to the dim light and now I could see that she was a handsome woman of perhaps thirty years, with broad cheekbones and huge eyes, a look common to southern Italy.

“I know things about the priests of that temple, Praetor.”

“You mean the Temple of Apollo?”

“No, the Oracle of Hecate.”

I thought this odd, because she had said “priests” when it seemed the staff of the Oracle was dominated by women. But I let it pass. “Go on.”

“Well, sir, ten years ago I was in service to the house of Lucius Terentius. He was an oil importer of this city. He died childless and freed me, along with the other household slaves, in his will. This was the year that he died. I blame those priests for that.” She paused, seeming intimidated by the seriousness of her accusation.

“You believe the devotees of Hecate killed your former master?”

“Not directly, no, but they-”

“Just go on. Tell your story, and don’t worry about reprisal. I will put you under my own protection, if you wish.” I was remembering the girl, Hypatia.

“Oh no. I wouldn’t want that. I don’t want anybody but you to know what I’m telling you. Anyway, my master was preparing to make a voyage to visit his oil suppliers in Greece and in the islands: Crete, Cyprus, and one or two others. He imported the highest quality oils, the kind used for bathing and for perfumery. Every year he would make a voyage in the spring, to go over his factors’ accounts and bid on new contracts. He said the competition for the best pressings was pretty fierce, and you had to be there at the right time with the money. He wouldn’t leave that sort of thing to a factor.

“Every year, he would go to the Oracle of Hecate to ask if he would have a safe and profitable voyage. It seems every year he got a favorable prophecy, and since he’d always done well, he set great store by the Oracle. This year was a little different. I went with him, along with some of the other slaves. I’d accompanied him twice before. He was an important man and wouldn’t go unaccompanied on an occasion like that. The priests put him through the usual ceremony, with the drinks and the sprinkling and so forth. We slaves stood off to one side, along with the servants of the other people visiting the Oracle. We waited in a little grove of trees while our masters visited the underworld. It was a hot day, and this time some of the temple slaves brought us cool drinks while we waited. This seemed very thoughtful. One of them was a girl, perhaps a year or two older than me. She was very lively and talkative, and she went on about this and that, and she asked me about myself, and about my master, and what he did. I told her pretty much what I’ve told you about him, only at greater length. In time my master came out of the cave looking very thoughtful. Seems the Oracle priests had told him to come back the next day, that the will of the gods was unclear.”

“Just him?” I asked. “Did none of the other petitioners get the same message?”

She frowned. “That I could not tell you. Anyway, we did not come all the way back here. We stayed overnight at the home of one of his friends near the temples. Next morning we went back and he went through the same ceremony. We waited in the grove as before, only this time there were no cool drinks. I didn’t see any of the temple slaves except for the ones who assisted at the ceremony. In time my master returned and this time he was elated. It seems he got a really favorable prophecy from the Oracle. He was practically singing all the way home, and as soon as we got there, he sent for his banker.

“I heard later from the steward that our master went into the shrine of Hecate and was told there that his luck would be tremendous on this voyage, and that great opportunities awaited, and he should be prepared. He figured that meant that some prize contracts were going to be up for bidding, so he took along far more cash than he usually carried. The steward said it was five times as much.”

“I see. And what was the outcome of this voyage?”

“The first leg took him to Piraeus. That was where he usually took ship for the islands. When there was no word from him in over a month, his business manager here started an investigation. He sent a couple of the freedmen to Piraeus to ask questions and follow the master’s trail. They were back in no time. He’d stayed just one night at the inn where he usually stayed. He went down to the harbor to find a ship headed for Delos. The harbormaster said he saw him get onto a small ship that had just arrived from Italy. It cast off right away, like he was the only thing they were waiting for, though they hadn’t discharged or taken on any cargo since docking. Nothing has been heard of him since. After a year passed, the will was read and I was a free woman.”

“And you suspect the Oracle staff was behind the disappearance of your master?”

“Sir, he was set up! They as much as told him to take along plenty of extra cash this trip. And I never heard of an oracle saying anything outright like that. Worst thing is, I helped them do it.” Apparently she had been fond of her master. We always want to believe that our slaves love us, but this is seldom the case.

“You are blameless. How could you suspect that an idle conversation would lead to your master being waylaid by robbers? You divulged no secrets. No court would hold you accountable.”

“I still feel terrible about it.”

“You needn’t. Now, Floria, you must tell me something else.”

“I’ve already told you what I know.”

“For that I am quite grateful. You have been a great help to my investigation. But when you called me in here, you were very apprehensive. Frightened, in fact. Why?”

She was quiet for a moment, her arms crossed before her as if she were cold on this warm afternoon. “Word has been going around, Praetor. Nothing open, but when I go to the market or down to the corner fountain for water and some gossip, I keep hearing the same thing: It’s going to be bad for anyone who helps this Roman praetor in the matter of the temples and the killings. It’s something everybody just seems to know: This is a local matter, no need to get Rome involved. Keep quiet if you know anything, or it’ll be the worse for you.”

“I wish you would let me place you under my protection.”

“In a few days, this matter will be over one way or another and you’ll be gone, Praetor. But I’ll have to live here the rest of my life. I don’t know any other place and I don’t want to start over somewhere like Rome.”

“Very well, but if you feel in any way threatened, come to me instantly.”

“I will, Praetor, and now I think you should go.” She went to the door and opened it just enough to stick her head out. She scanned the alley both ways, then motioned for me to go. I stepped outside, hand on dagger again, but the alley was deserted.

As I made my interrupted way toward the city gate and my waiting horse, I thought about what I had just heard. Of course, my first thoughts were of how I might have been tricked and gulled. Was she a plant? It was known that I would be in Stabiae that day, but nobody could have known that I would on a whim choose to wander about the city alone. I had chosen that particular alley because I did not know the town and it seemed as good a way as any to find the forum and thence the gate. Try as I might, I couldn’t see how she could have been planted in my path.

As for the rest, it sounded plausible enough. It hardly seemed shocking that a foreign cult was acting as a cover for a robbery ring, though ten years at the minimum seemed a long time for it to stay under wraps. Of course, the late Lucius Terentius had been neatly disposed of in a manner that would not have cast suspicion on the Oracle. People are lost at sea every year, hundreds of them even in a year of good sailing weather. Also, they need not fleece all of their customers, just the ones who present a prospect of high profit and safe disposal somewhere far away.

Still, this said nothing about the murder of the priests of Apollo. I could not tie them to a ten-year-old murder, and the circumstances of their deaths had no apparent connection with the fraud, larceny, and murder perpetrated by the Oracle below them. There was always the possibility that the woman had some other motive entirely. Perhaps she had some personal grudge against the cult of Hecate and merely wished to blacken them in my eyes, not that I required much in that direction.

At the public stable by the gate, I retrieved my horse and mounted. The guard at the gate gave me directions to the villa where Sabinilla lived. The ride was pleasant and nothing occurred to disturb my fruitless cogitations. A fine, paved road turned off the main road, leading to the villa. It was situated on a cliff-lined spit of land jutting into the sea, with breathtaking views in all directions. I could hardly have imagined a more dramatic setting. The main house occupied the very tip of the spit, so that a suicidally inclined occupant could simply dive off a back terrace to end all his problems. There were times when that extreme act seemed attractive to me. As I had feared, Julia was waiting for me at the top of the steps leading to the house.

Of course she didn’t shout. She was too proper a patrician wife for that.

“Decius!” she hissed. “Have you lost your mind?” Her hiss could probably be heard in Rome. Maybe in Gaul. “What are you doing wandering off alone?”

“I’m grown, my dear. I don’t require a pedagogues.”

“You require bodyguards! In fact, you require a keeper, like those idiot children of the richest families! Have you any idea of the danger you are in? Quite aside from the local feuds you’re meddling in, there are probably idiots around here who think your head would make a fine gift to Pompey or Caesar or any of the other rivals for power. In any case, it is beneath the dignity of a Roman praetor to gad about like a carefree bachelor, without a following or even his lictors.”

“Yet,” I told her with a broad smile for anyone who might be watching us, “one may learn things in this fashion that would be impossible otherwise. Let me tell you all about it.”

“You’d better!” she hissed again. She led me to our quarters, a cluster of rooms with balconies overlooking one of the cliffs. The geography of the spit of land made the standard domestic design unfeasible, so the house was long and rather narrow in conformity with the plot, though it lacked nothing in luxury and splendor.

“So,” she said, when we were alone, “what did you learn?” So I told her what the woman Floria had told me.

“It seems too fortuitous,” I said, when I had finished my recitation. “What are the chances that I should just happen by the doorway of this woman who had information vital to my investigation? Yet I can’t imagine how she might have been planted in my path.”

Julia nodded, her natural curiosity and prying instincts at last overcoming her righteous rage. “It does seem improbable. Still, there might be an explanation.”

“What might it be?”

“It is possible that this town and all the others around here are full of people with similar stories to relate, only they are afraid to approach you. Most of them are probably slaves, as this woman was when this vicious deed occurred. At least she was manumitted, and this may have given her the courage to approach you, even if in a fearful manner. At least, as a free woman, she can’t be made to testify under torture.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I admitted. “I may have passed the doorways of many people victimized by the Oracle. This one saw me alone and took a chance. But I am certain she gave me a false name.”

“Nothing strange about that. She hopes not to be drawn into it at all, but you can find her house again.” She looked at me sharply. “Don’t tell me you didn’t memorize its location.” It was an order, not a question.

“Have no fear, my dear. I could lead you there blindfolded on a moonless night.” This was a bit of an exaggeration, but I was pretty sure that I could find my way back. Stabiae was not as chaotic as Rome, but it wasn’t designed as a rigid grid like Alexandria.

“And we now know something: The voice of the Oracle is false.” She seemed bitterly disappointed at this, whereas I was not at all surprised. Julia dearly loved her oracles, prophets, augurs, and haruspexes.

“At least,” I said, “we know that it was ten years ago, assuming that this woman’s tale is true. I was surprised at her use of the word ‘priests.’ I should have questioned her more closely about it. Perhaps the Oracle had a different staff then. We shall have to make inquiries.”

“Cordus may know, or at least he may know how to find out.”

“I’ll send a letter to him at once,” I said, gratified to see that Julia’s anger had cooled, distracted now by a question to solve. She had philosophical leanings and considered these investigations to be philosophical conundrums. I approached them in a different way, knowing that they were shaped by human passions and weaknesses rather than by mathematics or natural forces at work, and I relied as much on instinct and inspiration as on rigid logic. Between us, we usually got to the bottom of whatever was going on. Unless, of course, it involved her uncle.

That evening, we were entertained by Sabinilla. For the evening she had chosen a startling silver wig, and in the odd fashion of such things, this set me to pondering almost obsessively what her real hair might look like. This is one of my many failings, though I hope a minor one. She took us on a tour of the strange villa, which was built on several levels to accommodate to the slope of the stony spit. We climbed many stairs and saw odd-shaped dining rooms and reception areas, colonnades and courtyards. All of the walls were decorated with beautiful frescoes, none of them the then-popular black walls decorated sparsely with fantastic vegetation and spindly pillars, a style I found intensely depressing. These were colorful paintings of the doings of gods and goddesses, heroes, demigods, nymphs and satyrs, fauns and other sylvan deities. Campanians like color, as do I. The floors were uniformly covered with vivid picture-mosaics, mostly displaying marine subjects. To my astonishment, even the ceilings were painted, this time with Olympian gods disporting themselves among the clouds, and one astonishing room had its floor decorated with night-blooming plants while on the ceiling above Diana and her retinue hunted constellations in the night sky. Julia immediately wanted our ceilings painted.

Most unusually, Sabinilla showed us her personal gladiator troupe. Many wealthy Campanians invest in gladiators, but seldom keep them in their own houses. The schools are usually located in the countryside, well away from the towns. She had a barracks for twenty of them, and an oval exercise yard surrounded by a low stone wall lined with seats. For our amusement she had them come out and go through their paces, mock-fighting with wooden practice swords. They fought almost naked, wearing only the bronze belt and brief subligaculum traditional to Campanian gladiators, their skins oiled to catch the torchlight prettily. They were all Gauls, which was no surprise. Caesar’s wars had flooded the market with cheap Gallic slaves, many of them warriors too dangerous for domestic service. They were armed in their native fashion, with a long, narrow, oval shield and a long sword. They wore no protective armor at all save for a simple pot-shaped helmet.

“How can you sleep,” Julia asked, enthralled, “with such men so nearby?”

“Oh, these fellows seem quite content with their lot,” Sabinilla assured her. “You should have seen them when I bought them: filthy and verminous and wearing enough chains to anchor a ship. Once I had them washed, barbered, and fed decently, and I assured them all they had to do was fight, they couldn’t have been more grateful.”

“I could name you their tribes,” I said. “These are warriors, Julia. Gallic warriors do no work, unless it involves horses. All their lives they do nothing but fight and train to fight. They are aristocrats, by their own reckoning. Their lands are worked for them by slaves. To them, fighting to the death is nothing. Being set to work would be an unthinkable degradation. They’d commit suicide before they’d pick up a shovel. No, these men wouldn’t want to be doing anything else, since they can no longer be warriors in Gaul. Sabinilla, who is your trainer?”

“Astyanax. He’s the best trainer in Campania. In his fighting days he contended as a Thracian, but he’s expert at all the styles. He had fifty-one victories. He comes here three days in ten to work with my men. He trains several of the small private troupes in the district.” This evening her nails were silver-gilt, and she wore all silver jewelry in place of the bronze she had worn earlier. Her gown was a shimmery white, about as close to silver as you can get with cloth.

Dinner was the usual lavish affair, with a huge number of guests. Sabinilla couldn’t resist showing all her neighbors that she had the Roman praetor under her roof. There were local officials, some of whom I’d already met, priests from various temples, the most prominent equites, even a few senators who had villas in the area. As it Romanized, the district was becoming more and more popular with the Roman elite, with its resorts, its beautiful landscape, and its wonderful climate. After all the meeting and a lengthy dinner, at which I was uncharacteristically moderate, I found myself huddled with the senators. This was inevitable. No matter the location, Roman politicians have to get together to talk politics and intrigue.

“Praetor,” began a man named Lucullus, who was a distant relation to the great Lucullus, “what do you think Caesar will do next?” As ranking man, they all deferred to me. Plus, through Julia, they expected me to know all about Caesar’s doings.

“He’ll cross the Rubicon and he’ll bring his army with him and there will be civil war.” I was heartily sick of the subject and wanted to keep my answer short.

“Surely not!” all of them chorused.

“Surely so,” I said.

“It will be the days of Marius and Sulla come again,” said one, his face pale. “All Italy will be devastated. The carnage will be terrible.”

“That I rather doubt,” I said, enjoying the offshore evening breeze. We stood on a beautiful terrace behind the main house. It stood at the very tip of the spit of rocky land, high above the sea, and was rimmed by a marble balustrade topped with beautiful Greek statues of heroes, also of marble. The surf crashed musically below, foaming over jagged rocks.

“How can that be?” said the pale-faced one. “The minute Caesar crosses that river, the Senate will declare a state of civil war and Pompey will raise his legions to meet him.”

“Pompey has not seen Caesar move and I have. He’ll come down on Italy faster than the Gauls or the Carthaginians or the Teutones or Cimbri ever did. Pompey won’t have time to get his troops together, much less drilled and provisioned for war. He’ll have to run for it and have his men join him elsewhere, maybe Greece, maybe Illyria. There will be plenty of fighting and it will be bloody, but I doubt there will be much of it in Italy.”

I am not trying to appear prescient in hindsight. It is exactly what I said that evening, and events bore me out. This is because I did indeed know Caesar well, insofar as anyone really knew that man. He was perfectly happy to exterminate whole nations of barbarians on Rome’s behalf, but he had a strange reluctance to kill citizens and applied the death penalty more sparingly than most ordinary judges. It was, incidentally, this magnanimity that eventually got him killed. He was assassinated by a conspiracy of men most of whom he had spared or called back from exile when he had every reason and every right to kill them. Let that be a lesson to anyone who seizes absolute power: Always kill all your enemies as soon as you have the power to. You’re just making trouble for yourself if you don’t. It was a lesson our First Citizen certainly took to heart.

Sabinilla appeared like a silver vision and suddenly I understood why she had chosen her fantastic color scheme. It was so that she would be dazzlingly visible after the sun was down and everyone was gathered outside, on the terraces or in the formal gardens and courtyards. It was a clever bit of planning. She outshone every other woman there.

“You men shouldn’t be huddled here plotting,” she said. “Come and enjoy the evening’s entertainments.”

“You mean there’s more?” I said.

“Of course there is! And you gentlemen must let me borrow the praetor for a while. Come along, now.” She took my arm in an elegant but viselike grip and dragged me away from the clump of white togas.

“I had to rescue you,” she said. “I heard them bringing up Caesar and I knew you’ve had your fill of that.”

“I can only express my gratitude,” I said, sure that she had some other motive. I was getting suspicious of everyone lately.

Abruptly, a crowd of dancers and mountebanks stormed the terrace. Like every other bit of the evening’s festivities this was contrived to be spectacular at night, for all of the acts involved fire. The outdoor lamps and torches were extinguished and fire-eaters rushed among the guests, breathing flame like mythical beasts, making the ladies scream delightedly. Then dancers performed an act I had never seen before. They were all women, naked and sparkling with oil in which flecks of mica glittered like stars all over their lithe bodies. They twirled short torches with flames at both ends, so swiftly that they formed great, glowing circles, and they did this without ever missing a step of their elaborate, acrobatic dances. After that, tightrope walkers traversed and did handsprings high above the terrace on ropes that flamed furiously, yet their hands and feet seemed to be unburned, and the ropes never burned through.

“How do they do that?” I said, like a yokel who had never seen such mountebanks before.

“It’s the secret of their art,” Sabinilla answered. “My master of ceremonies devised this entertainment some time ago and scoured Italy and Greece and Sicily for entertainers with the requisite skills.”

Something occurred to me. “You only learned this morning that I would be coming to Stabiae. Surely you didn’t throw this evening’s entertainment together just since we met by chance on the road?”

She laughed at my cloddish lack of subtlety. “Of course not! As soon as I heard that you would be visiting Campania and staying at the Hortalus Villa, I started planning this. I knew you’d eventually make your way to Stabiae for the assizes, so I had all in readiness for that day.”

“You mean you’ve been housing all these people here for months?”

“Actually, the dancers only arrived about ten days ago. They’re from Spain, where all the greatest dance troupes are trained. I’m so glad they arrived in time for this. The evening wouldn’t have been complete without them. Oh, look!” She pointed to a sidespit of rock that jutted out from the main formation about a hundred paces away. A tongue of flame had sprung up and now it spread with incredible speed until a huge bonfire was burning at furnace heat. It lit up the terrace like a rising sun and was almost as unbearable to look at directly. A blast of heat reached us even across that distance and the flames leapt into the sky as high, it seemed, as the Pharos lighthouse at Alexandria. I knew that only oil-soaked pine could blaze so high, so fast.

“Surely,” I said, “this is the climax of your evening. I must say it’s awe-inspiring. It’s like watching an enemy city burn.”

“Not quite the end,” she said, “but soon.”

I looked around. “Where is Hermes? I haven’t seen him since dinner. He’s supposed to attend me at functions like these. If I know the scamp, he’s sparring with your gladiators. He’s never been happy about his proficiency with the Gallic longsword. If you will excuse me for a moment, I must look for him.”

“Oh, don’t bother, Praetor! I’ll send a slave to fetch him.”

“No, I want to catch him red-handed so I can punish him savagely.”

She laughed happily, giddy with the success of her evening’s entertainment, which would make her the envy of the local aristocrats and parvenus for months. “Oh, go on, then. But be back soon. You don’t want to miss the real climax.”

In truth, I wanted to be away from the press on the terrace, as I had wanted to be away from my entourage that morning. The rest of the villa, all but deserted, seemed dreamlike as I passed through its strung-out, meandering rooms and courtyards, so different from the usual square or rectangular villa plan.

Sure enough, when I came to the training pen, there was Hermes, stripped to a loincloth, his body covered with glowing welts that would soon be bruises from strikes by the long sticks they used for swords. A goodly knot of fight fans were gathered, cheering on the combatants. Campania is the home of what might be called the gladiatorial cult. The bustuarii, to use the old term, were fighting here for centuries before the first munera was displayed at Rome. There were people here from all walks of life, from slaves to senators, who were happy to miss the spectacular entertainment on the terrace in order to watch a good fight.

For a while I stood in the dimness of a colonnade, content to watch Hermes as he contended with a tall, long-armed Gaul who grinned happily as he fought, the way Gauls usually do, even after they’ve been mortally wounded. The boy was a joy to watch, strong and graceful as a panther. He was a match for anyone save these professionals. The Gauls had been fighting all evening for the entertainment of the guests, and they were unwinded, scarcely even sweating. That is what training all day, every day, at nothing but swordplay will do for a man, especially one who is a born athlete and swordsman in the first place, which pretty much describes Gauls of the noble class. Finally, I decided I had indulged him enough. I stepped from the colonnade into the light.

“Hermes!” I barked in my best parade-ground voice.

He paused and turned his head, a mistake a professional never would have made. The long-armed Gaul landed a blow on his helmet that rang like Vulcan’s hammer on an anvil and must have had him seeing stars.

“Let that be a lesson to you!” I shouted. “Never take your eyes off your opponent, even when the patron calls. Now stop making a spectacle of yourself and come attend me as is your duty.”

Amid raucous laughter from the spectators and the Gauls, Hermes put on his best falsely sheepish, repentant manner and went to the bench where he’d left his clothing. Once he was decently dressed, he joined me in the little courtyard above the fighting pen where I was sitting on the rim of a little fountain.

“You should have seen me earlier, Patron,” he said, unable to keep up his humble facade, bubbling with enthusiasm. “I almost beat one of them! And the Brigante named Isinorix or something taught me the most amazing maneuver with the longsword. You don’t even need a shield to pull it off-”

“Do be quiet,” I said. “And go find me some wine. I’ve been politicking all evening and Julia has been keeping her eagle eyes on me the whole time. I could feel her gaze all over me from clear across that terrace.”

“At once,” he said, grinning. He knew his work well and was back a few breaths later with a silver pitcher and two silver cups. Sabinilla had even matched the tableware to the night’s theme. He poured for both of us and sat by me. He took a deep gulp and I grabbed his wrist.

“Drink slowly. The way you’re sweating, that wine will hit you like a German’s club. Drink some water to take the edge off your thirst.”

“Now who’s the spoilsport?” Then said, “Sorry, I forgot.” He tossed the lees from his cup and dipped it in the fountain, which ran with perfectly sweet, clear water, piped to that rocky crag from only the gods knew where.

“I’m troubled,” I said.

“You usually are. What is it this time?”

First I told him about my strange interview with Floria and about my own thoughts on the matter, and Julia’s. He listened attentively, keeping his mouth shut and his thoughts to himself, as I had taught him.

“Nothing quite makes sense,” I told him. “Nothing adds up. Either we don’t have enough information, or we’re looking at it the wrong way. I’ve been examining it all from my own peculiar viewpoint and experience and Julia from her philosopher-trained stance. What are your thoughts?” He took a while before answering. Hermes had been a slave for most of his life and had a view of things that Julia and I, aristocrats that we were, could never share.

“This rivalry between the temples,” he said at last. “That’s been going on a long, long time. This profit-making scheme may be much more recent. Ten years isn’t so much time in the scheme of things. The priests of Apollo just may have been in on it. We’ve been thinking that they were uninvolved with the doings of the Oracle except for some sort of long-term effort to thwart or destroy the Hecate cult. What if they were killed to silence them before they could betray their own complicity?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” I admitted. “I don’t know why, since it’s my custom to suspect everybody of everything.”

He grinned. “You’re getting slow, being so preoccupied with politics, and you’ve been talking with the wrong people. I think that now we should concentrate on finding out what the local slaves know. Leave that to me, I know how to talk to them. I’d especially like to find that temple slave this woman Floria spoke of.”

“If she exists at all,” I cautioned. “The story could be a total fabrication.”

He took a cautious drink. “I think it’s true, most of it, anyway. It has a feel to it. In the morning, I’ll start working with the slaves. I’ll just get rid of my toga and hang around the fountains and the bars that cater to the slave trade.”

“You’ll seize any excuse to get out of court duty.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

At this moment a little slave girl padded up to us on bare feet. “Praetor, my mistress and your lady say you must come to the terrace for the most wonderful spectacle.”

“How could I resist either the temptation or the command?” I said, standing. Hermes got up as well and started to walk a bit stiffly as he began to feel his stripes. The little girl led us by the shortest way to the terrace, where the company were gathered at the railing that faced the fire-topped crag.

“Way for the praetor!” Hermes shouted, as if he were one of my lictors. Amid much inebriated jocularity, we made our way to the railing, where Julia and Sabinilla stood with the guests of greatest prestige.

“Ah, there you are, Praetor.” Sabinilla said. “Just in time.”

“And very rude of you to abandon our hostess and her guests at the height of the evening’s entertainment,” Julia said, glaring daggers at me and Hermes indiscriminately.

“Duty called, my dear. A Roman in service to Senate and People must never neglect duty.” This raised a drunken laugh from the guests nearby. Julia had had a few too many herself, or she never would have berated her ultradignified praetor husband in front of all and sundry. Sabinilla clapped her hands for attention, and perhaps to prevent an unseemly scene.

“Watch, everybody!” She signaled to a musician, who blew a series of shrill notes on his double pipes. It is a peculiarity of pipes that they can be heard at greater distances than a trumpet, and are clear even above a loud clamor such as that of a battle.

All eyes turned to the bonfire atop the cliff opposite us. It had burned down, for pine burns very hot but very swiftly. What was there now was a huge heap of glowing coals with tongues of flame spurting up from it at intervals. At the signal from the pipes we heard a groaning, grinding, scraping sound. I could not guess at its origin until the heap of coals began to rise and hulk up in its center, as if it had come alive. The crowd gasped as if they were seeing some supernatural apparition. I was just a bit startled myself, though I am completely free of superstition.

Then we could see two teams of oxen to either side of the coals and I understood. They were dragging a huge scraper like the sort that is used for leveling roads and grounds for building projects. I think it is called a grader or something of the sort. In any case, this time one was being used to drag that gigantic heap of coals toward the cliff. The coals continued to tower ever higher until, abruptly, the forward edge reached the rim of the cliff, which was all but invisible by this hour, just a blackness with a faintly visible mass of seething whiteness at its base, where the waves broke upon the rocks.

Everyone gasped, all but stunned, as the coals poured over the cliff. They formed a huge cascade of glowing light, like a waterfall of fire. Flames burst anew from the coals, and in an instant there was a solid, broad stripe of living fire from cliff to surf, and when the coals hit the water below there was a hissing noise like a thousand dragons waking up and angry about it. Steam billowed upward in a cloud Jupiter could have hidden himself in. It flowed over us in a strange, warm wetness, lit from within so that the cloud glowed orange.

Then the last of the coals dropped, the light and the hissing faded, the cloud dispersed, and we were all standing there, stunned, and there was no trace left of what had just happened. A long-pent sigh escaped from every throat, including mine, and I turned to our hostess. She looked at me with an almost demented eagerness.

“That was the most spectacular thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” I told her.

She smiled with maniacal relief and signaled the musicians. They began to play as if the evening were just beginning, but clearly it was at an end. Absolutely nothing could have topped what we had just witnessed. Everyone prepared to go home, but I was the ranking man and all would await my departure, then the rest would go, in order of rank.

Julia and I took our most effusive leave of our hostess and told her we simply must retire to our quarters because I had a full day in court on the morrow. It truly had been an extraordinary evening. Amid loud ritual farewells from the other guests, we retired.

In our luxurious chambers, Julia said, “Sabinilla is the happiest woman in Campania tonight. This must have cost her a fortune, but her position is assured. It’s given me some ideas about entertaining when you are consul and we are back in Rome.”

“I was afraid of that. Sadly, there are no good cliffs in Rome.”

She thought about that for a while, as her girl dressed her hair for bed. “Do you think we could build one? A tower about four hundred feet high would do it. You could build it in the Valley of Murcia and people could gather on top of the Aventine to watch.”

“Good night, dear,” I said, going out to the sitting room that adjoined our bedroom. Doubtless she was joking, but with Julia I could never be sure. I summoned Hermes and he came in, walking like a man of eighty. His bruises were in full flower now, and he winced with every step.

“Tomorrow afternoon after court is over,” I told him, “we’ll go to the town palaestra. I want you to teach me that move with the longsword.”