Arms of Nemesis

IV

I was awakened by a poke in the ribs. Eco stood over me, gesturing for me to get up.

Sunlight was streaming through the porthole. I rose to my knees on the mattress and looked out to see land nearby with here and there a habitation set among the rocky cliffs. The buildings lower down, nearest the water, were ramshackle affairs, humble dwellings pieced together with driftwood, festooned with nets and surrounded by little shipyards. The buildings higher up were markedly different – sprawling villas with white columns and grapevine trellises.

I stood up to stretch as best I could within the cramped quarters. I splashed my face with water and sucked in a mouthful, swished it to clean my tongue and spat it out the porthole. Eco had already set out my better tunic. While I dressed he combed my hair and then played barber. When the ship gave a tiny pitch I held my breath, but he did not nick me once.

Eco fetched bread and apples, and we fed ourselves on the deck, contemplating the view as Marcus Mummius guided the ship into the great bay which Romans have always called the Cup, likening it to a vast bowl of water with villages all about its rim. The ancient Greeks who first colonized the region called it the Bay of Neapolis, I think, after their chief settlement. My sometimes-client Cicero calls it the Bay of Luxury, with a derisive tone of voice; he himself does not own a villa there – yet.

We entered the Cup from the north, skirting the narrows between the Cape of Misenum and the small island of Procida. Directly before us, at the far side of the bay, loomed the larger island of Capri, like a craggy finger pointing skyward. The sun was high, the day was fine and clear without a touch of haze on the water. Between us and the opposite strait that separates Capri from the Promontory of Minerva the water was spangled with the multicoloured sails of fishing boats and the bigger sails of the trading ships and ferries that circle the bay, carrying goods and passengers from Surrentum and Pompeii on the south side to Neapolis and Puteoli on the north.

We rounded the headland, and the entire bay opened before us, glittering beneath the sun. At its apex, looming above the little village of Herculaneum, rose Vesuvius. The sight always impresses me. The mountain towers on the horizon like a great pyramid flattened at the top. With its fertile slopes covered by meadows and vineyards, Vesuvius presides over the Cup like a bounteous, benevolent god, an emblem of steadfastness and serenity. For a while, in the early days of slave revolt, Spartacus and his men took refuge on the higher slopes.

The Fury stayed close to the land, circling the Cape of Misenum and then turning her back on Vesuvius to glide majestically into the hidden harbour. The sails were furled; sailors ran about the deck securing ropes and tackles. I pulled Eco out of the way, fearing that without a yoice to protect himself he might be stepped on or tangled in the swinging ropes. He gently shrugged my hand from his shoulder and rolled his eyes. I'm not a boy any longer, he seemed to be saying, but it was with a boy's excitement that he turned his head this way and that, trying to observe everything at once, craning his neck and skittering about with a look of awe on his face. His eye missed nothing; in the rush of confusion he grabbed my arm and pointed towards the skiff that had pushed off from the docks and was making its way towards the Fury.

The boat pulled alongside. Marcus Mummius leaned over the bulwark, shouting a question. After he heard the reply he threw back his head and let out a sigh – whether of relief or regret I could not tell.

He looked up and scowled at my approach. 'Nothing was resolved in my absence,' he sighed. 'You'll be needed after all. At least the journey wasn't wasted.'

'Then you can tell me officially now that my employer is Marcus Crassus?'

Mummius looked at me ruefully. 'You think you're awfully clever, don't you? I only hope you'll be half that clever when the need comes. Now off with you – down the ladder!'

'And you?'

'I'll follow later, after I've seen to the ship. For now you're in the hands of Faustus Fabius. He'll take you to the villa at Baiae and see to matters there.'

Eco and I descended to the skiff, where a tall redheaded man in a dark blue tunic stood waiting to greet us. His face was young, but I saw the lines of age at the corners of his cat-green eyes; he was probably in his middle thirties, about the same age as Mummius. He clasped my hand, and I saw the flash of a patrician ring on his finger, but a gold ring was hardly necessary to show that he came from an old family. The Fabii are as old as the Cornelii or Aemilii, older than the Claudii. But even without the ring and without the name I would have known him for a patrician. Only a Roman noble of the most venerable ancestry can pull back his shoulders quite so stiffly and hold his chin so rigidly upright -even in a small, rocking boat – without looking either pompous or ridiculous.

'You're the one they call the Finder?' His voice was smooth and deep. As he spoke he arched one eyebrow, such a typical patrician gesture that I sometimes wonder if the old nobility have an extra muscle in their foreheads for just this purpose.

'Gordianus, from Rome,' I said.

'Good, good. Here, we'd better sit, unless you're an excellent swimmer.'

Tm hardly a swimmer at all,' I confessed. Faustus Fabius nodded. 'This is your assistant?' 'My son, Eco.'

'I see. It's good that you've arrived. Gelina will be relieved. For some reason she took it into her head that Mummius might be able to get back by late last night. We all told her that was impossible; even under the very best conditions the ship couldn't return before this afternoon. But she wouldn't listen. Before she went to bed she arranged to have messengers descend to the harbour, one every hour, to see if the ship had arrived. The household is in chaos, as you can imagine.'

He saw the blank look on my face. 'Ah, but Mummius has told you next to nothing, I suppose. Yes, those were his instructions. Never fear, all shall be made clear to you.' He turned his face to the breeze and took a deep breath, letting his unfashionably long hair flutter in the wind like a red mane.

I looked about the harbour. The Fury was by far the largest vessel. The rest were small fishing boats and pleasure craft. Misenum has never been a particularly busy port; most of the trade that flows into and out of the Cup is channelled through Puteoli, the busiest port in all Italy. Yet it seemed to me that Misenum was more quiet than it should be, considering its proximity to the luxurious district of Baiae and its famous mineral springs. I said as much to Faustus Fabius.

'So you've been here before?' he asked.

'A few times.'

'Well acquainted with trading vessels and business on the Campanian coast, are you?'

I shrugged. 'Business has brought me to the Cup now and again over the years. I'm no expert on sea traffic, but am I wrong to say that the harbour appears rather empty?'

He made a slight grimace. 'Not wrong at all. Between the pirates at sea and Spartacus inland, trade everywhere in Campania has come to a standstill. Hardly anything moves on the roads or the sea lanes – which makes it all the more amazing that Marcus was willing to send the Fury after you.'

'By Marcus you mean Marcus Mummius?'

'Of course not; Mumrnius doesn't own a trireme! I mean Marcus Crassus.' Fabius smiled thinly. 'Oh, but you weren't supposed to know that, were you, at least not until you landed? Well, here we are. Hold on for the jolt – these clumsy rowers, you'd think they were trying to ram an enemy vessel. A stint on the Fury might do them some good.' I saw the slaves at the oars cower, or pretend to.

As we stepped onto the dock I looked back again at the harbour. 'You mean to say there's no trade at all these days?'

Fabius shrugged. I ascribed his grimace to the patricians' traditional disdain for all matters of commerce. 'Sailboats and skiffs shuttle back and forth across the Cup, of course, exchanging goods and passengers between the villages,' he said. 'But it's a rarer and rarer occurrence to see a big ship from Egypt or Africa or even Spain come in from the sea headed for the big docks at Puteoli. Of course, in another few weeks travel by sea will stop altogether for the winter. As for goods from inland, all of the south of Italy is under the shadow of Spartacus now. He's made his winter stronghold in the mountains around Thurii, after spending all summer terrorizing the region east of Vesuvius. Crops were destroyed, farms and villas were burned to the ground. The markets are empty. It's a good thing the locals needn't live off bread; no one around here will starve so long as there are fish in the Cup or oysters in Lake Lucrinus.'

He turned and led us across the dock. 'I don't suppose there are any shortages in Rome, despite the troubles? Shortages are not allowed in Rome.'

' "The people fear, but suffer not," ' I quoted from a recent speech I had heard in the Forum.

Fabius snorted. 'It's just like the Senate. They'll go to any lengths to see that the rabble in Rome remains comfortable. Meanwhile, they can't manage to send a decent commander against either Spartacus or the pirates. What a congregation of incompetents! Rome has never been the same since Sulla opened the doors of the Senate as a reward to all his rich cronies; now trinket salesmen and olive oil merchants line up to give speeches, while gladiators rape the countryside. It's only luck that Spartacus has so far lacked either the brains or the nerve to march on Rome itself.'

'That possibility is discussed daily.'

'I'm sure it is. What else do Romans have to talk about these days, between plates of caviar and stuffed quail?'

'Pompey is always a popular subject for gossip,' I offered. 'They say he's almost put down the rebels in Spain. Popular opinion looks to Pompey to hurry back and put an end to Spartacus.'

'Pompey!' Faustus Fabius infused the name with almost as much disdain as had Marcus Mummius. 'Not that he doesn't come from a good family, of course, and no one can discount his military achievements. But for once Pompey is not the right man in the right place at the right time.'

'And who is?'

Fabius smiled and dilated his broad nostrils. 'You'll be meeting him shortly.'

Horses awaited us. Accompanied by Fabius's bodyguard, we rode through the village of Misenum and then headed north on a stone-paved road beside the broad, muddy beach. At length the road turned inland from the beach and ascended a low wooded ridge. On either side, through the trees, I began to glimpse great houses, set far apart with cultivated gardens and patches of wilderness between them. Eco widened his eyes. At my side he had met wealthy men and had occasionally been allowed in their homes, but such ostentation as that which thrives on the Cup was new to him. The city houses of the wealthy, set close together with plain facades, do not impose as do their country villas. Away from the jealous eyes of the urban masses, in settings where no one but slaves or visitors as wealthy as themselves are likely to come knocking, the great Romans show no fear in advertising their taste and their ability to pay for it. Old-fashioned orators in the Forum say that wealth did not flaunt itself in earlier days, but in my lifetime gold has never been afraid to show its face, especially on the Bay of Luxury.

Faustus Fabius set a leisurely pace. If this errand was urgent, he did not show it. There seems to be something in the very air of the Campanian coast that relaxes even the most harried of city dwellers from the north. I sensed it myself – a crispness in the pine-scented air spiced with sea spray, a special clarity of sunlight charging the sky and reflected from the vast bowl of the bay, a feeling of harmony with the gods of earth, air, fire, and water. Such contentment loosens tongues, and I found it easy to open up Faustus Fabius by exclaiming at the views and asking a few questions about the topography and the local cuisine. He was a Roman through and through, but clearly he visited the region often enough to have a thorough knowledge of the coastal Campanians and their old Greek customs.

'I must say, Faustus Fabius, my host on land is certainly more informative than the one I had at sea.' He acknowledged the comment with a thin smile and a knowing nod; I could see he had little affection for Marcus Mummius. 'Tell me,' I went on, 'just who is this Mummius?'

Fabius raised his eyebrow. 'I thought you would have known that. Mummius was one of Crassus's proteges in the civil wars; since then he's become Crassus's right-hand man in military affairs. The Mummii aren't a particularly distinguished family, but like most Roman families that survive long enough, they do possess at least one famous ancestor. Unfortunately, the fame goes hand in hand with a taint of scandal. Marcus Mummius's great-grandfather was a consul back in the days of the Gracchi; he won triumphs for his campaigns in Spain and Greece. You never heard of Mad Mummius, also known as the Barbarian?'

I shrugged. The minds of patricians are surely different from those of us ordinary men; how else can they effortlessly catalogue so much glory and gossip and scandal about so many ancestors, not just their own but everyone else's? At the least prompting they can recount picayune details of life after life, going all the way back to King Numa and beyond.

Fabius smiled. 'It's unlikely, but if the matter should happen to come up around Marcus, be careful what you say; he's surprisingly sensitive about his ancestor's reputation. Well, then: many years ago this Mad Mummius was commissioned by the Senate to put down the revolt of the Achaean League in Greece. Mummius destroyed them completely, and then systematically looted Corinth before levelling the city and enslaving the populace by senatorial decree.'

'Another glorious chapter in the history of our empire. Surely an ancestor any Roman should be proud of

'Indeed,' said Fabius, his teeth slighdy clenched at the irony in my voice.

'And his butchery earned him the name Mad Mummius?' 'Oh, by Hercules, no. It wasn't his bloodthirstiness or his cruelty. It was the indiscriminate way he handled the works of art he shipped back to Rome. Priceless statuary arrived in pieces, filigreed urns were scarred and scraped, jewels were torn from caskets, precious glassware was shattered. They say the man couldn't tell a Polyclitus from a Polydorus!' 'Imagine that!'

'No, really! They say a Juno by Polyclitus and a Venus by Polydorus each lost her head in transit, and when Mad Mummius was having them reassembled he ordered the workmen to attach the wrong heads to the wrong statues. The error was evident to any fool with two eyes. One of the Corinthian captives, outraged by the blasphemy, advised Mad Mummius of the error, whereupon the general had the old man soundly whipped and sold to the mines. Then he ordered his men to leave the statues exactly as they were, saying he thought they looked better that way.' Fabius shook his head in disgust; to a patrician, a scandal a hundred years ago is still a scandal this morning. 'Old Mummius became known as Mad Mummius, the Barbarian, given that his sensibilities were no better than those of a Thracian or a Gaul. The family has never quite shaken off the embarrassment. A pity, since our Marcus Mummius idolized his ancestor for his military skills, and rightly so.'

'And Crassus recognizes the skills of Marcus Mummius?'

'His right hand, as I said.'

I nodded. 'And who are you, Faustus Fabius?'

I looked at him steadily, trying to pierce his feline countenance, but he rewarded my scrutiny with a bland expression that seemed to be a smile on one side and a frown on the other. 'I suppose that would make me the left hand of Crassus,' he said.

The road grew level as we gained.the summit of the ridge. Through the trees to the right I caught occasional glimpses of water below and, far away across the inlet, the clay roof-tops of Puteoli, shimmering like tiny red beads. For some time I had seen no houses on either side; it seemed that we were passing through a single large estate. We passed grape arbours and cultivated fields, but I saw no slaves at work. I remarked on the absence of any signs of life. Thinking Fabius had not heard me over the clatter of our horses, I repeated my remark more loudly, but he only looked straight ahead and did not answer.

At last a smaller road branched off to the right. There was no gate, but two pylons flanked the road. Each red-stained column was surmounted by the bronze head of a bull with a ring through its nose.

The land on either side of the road was wild and forested. The way wound gradually downward towards the coast. Through the trees I could see blue water flecked with faraway sails, and again the roofs of Puteoli across the water. Then the way took a sharp turn around a large boulder. The trees and thickets abruptly drew back, revealing the massive facade of the villa.

The roof was of clay tiles which blazed fiery red in the sunlight. The walls were stained saffron. The central mass was two storeys high, flanked by wings that projected to the north and south. We halted in the gravel courtyard, where a pair of slaves ran to help us dismount and to lead the horses to the nearby stables. Eco dusted his tunic and looked about, wide-eyed, as Faustus Fabius escorted us to the entrance. Funeral wreaths of cypress and fir adorned the high oak doors.

Fabius knocked. The door opened just enough for a blinking eye to peer out, and then was pulled wide open by an unseen slave who cowered behind it. Fabius raised his hand in a gesture that invited us to follow and at the same time demanded silence. My eyes were used to the sunlight, so that the hallway seemed quite dark. I saw the wax masks of the household ancestors in their niches only as vague shadows on either side of us, like ghosts without bodies peering from little windows.

The dark hallway opened into an atrium. The space was square, surrounded by a colonnaded portico on the ground floor and a narrow walkway on the floor above. Cobblestone pathways meandered through a low garden. There was a small fountain at the centre, where a bronze faun threw back his head in delight as tiny jets of water splashed from his pipes. The workmanship was exquisite. The creature seemed to be alive, ready to leap and dance; the sound of bubbling water was almost like laughter. At our approach, two yellow birds who were bathing themselves in the tiny pool flew in a startled circle about the faun's prancing hooves, then upwards to perch nervously on the balustrade that circled the upper storey, and then upwards again into the blue sky.

I watched them ascend, then lowered my eyes to the garden again. That was when I saw the great funeral bier at the far end of the atrium, and the body that lay upon it.

Fabius walked through the garden, where he paused to dip his fingers into the basin at the faun's feet and then touch them to his forehead. Eco and I followed his example and joined him before the body. 'Lucius Licinius,' said Fabius in a low voice.

In life, the dead man had possessed great wealth; either that or his funeral arrangements were being provided by someone with a remarkable purse. Even very wealthy families are usually content to lay their deceased upon a wooden bed with ivory legs and perhaps some decorative ivory inlays. This elegantly carved bed was made entirely of ivory, from head to foot. I had heard of such lavishness, but had never before seen an example. The precious substance glowed with a waxen paleness almost as smooth and colourless as the flesh of the dead man himself.

Purple blankets embroidered with gold lay upon the bed, along with adornments of asters and evergreen branches. The corpse was dressed in a white toga with elegant green and white embroidery. The feet were clad in freshly oiled sandals and pointed toward the door of the house, as prescribed by tradition.

Eco wrinkled his nose. An instant later I did the same. Despite the perfumes and unguents with which the body had been anointed, and the pan of incense set above a low brazier nearby, there was a decided odour of decay in the air. Eco moved to cover his nose with the hem of his sleeve; I batted his hand away and frowned at his rudeness.

Fabius said in a low voice, 'This is the fifth day.' It would be two more days until the funeral then, to allow the seven days of public mourning. The body would be quite pungent by then. With such an ostentatious display of wealth, surely the family had paid for the best anointers to be found in Baiae, or more likely had brought them over from bustling Puteoli, but their skill had not been good enough. There was an added irony in the carelessness with which the deceased was displayed; a few stray tendrils of ivy had fallen over his head, obscuring not only half his face but any laurel crown that he might have been wearing in remembrance of some earthly honour.

'This ivy,' I said, 'looks almost as if it had been placed over his face on purpose…'

Fabius did not stop me as I gently lifted the green tendrils that had been so skilfully arranged to hide the dead man's scalp. The wound beneath was of the sort that makes anointers of the dead throw up their hands in despair – almost impossible to purify and seal, too large to be hidden in any subtle way, too deep and ugly to be looked at for long. Eco made an involuntary sound of disgust and turned his face away, then leaned back to take a closer look.

'Hideous, isn't it?' whispered Fabius, averting his face. 'And Lucius Licinius was such a vain man. A pity he can't look his best in death.'

I steeled myself to look at the dead man's face. A sharp, heavy blow or blows had destroyed the upper right quadrant of his face, tearing the ear, smashing the cheekbone and jaw and ruining the eye, which despite any efforts to close it after death remained narrowly opened and clotted with blood. I studied what remained of the face and was able to imagine a handsome man of middle age, greying slightly at the temples, with a strong nose and chin. The Lips were slightly parted, showing the gold coin that had been placed on his tongue by the anointers – the fee for the boatman Charon to ferry him across the river Styx.

'His death was not an accident?' I offered.

'Hardly.'

'An altercation that came to blows?'

'Possibly. It happened late at night. His body was found here in the atrium the next morning. The circumstances were obvious.'

'Yes?'

'A runaway slave – some fool following the example of Spartacus, it appears. Someone else will explain the matter to you in more detail.'

'This was done by an escaped slave? I am not a slave hunter, Faustus Fabius. Why was I brought here?'

He glanced at the dead man, then at the bubbling faun. 'Someone else will explain.'

'Very well. The victim – what did you call him?' 'Lucius Licinius.'

'He was the master of the house?' 'More or less,' said Fabius. 'No riddles, please.'

Fabius pursed his lips. 'This should have been Mummius's job, not mine. I agreed to escort you to the villa, but I never agreed to explain the matter to you once you arrived.'

'Marcus Murnmius isn't here. But I am, and so is the corpse of a murdered man.'

Fabius grimaced. Patrician or not, he struck me as a man used to being stuck with unpleasant jobs, and he did not like it. What had he called himself – the left hand of Crassus? 'Very well,' he finally said. 'This is the way things were with Lucius Licinius. He and Crassus were cousins, closely linked by blood. I gather they hardly knew one another growing up, but that changed when they became men. Many of the Licinii were wiped out in the civil wars; once things got back to normal under Sulla's dictatorship, Crassus and Lucius formed a closer relationship.'

'Not a friendship?'

'It was more in the nature of a business partnership.' Fabius smiled. 'But then everything is business with Marcus Crassus. Anyway, in any relationship there must be a stronger and a weaker partner. I think you must know enough about Crassus, if only by hearsay, to imagine which of them was subservient.'

'Lucius Licinius.'

'Yes. Lucius was a poor man to start with, and he would have stayed that way without Crassus's help. Lucius had so little imagination; he wasn't the sort to see an opportunity and seize it, unless he was pushed. Meanwhile, Crassus was busy making his millions in real estate up in Rome – you must know the legend.'

I nodded. When the dictator Sulla finally triumphed in the civil wars, he destroyed his enemies by seizing their property and rewarded his supporters, Pompey and Crassus among them, with villas and farms; thus had Crassus begun his ascent, driven by an apparently boundless appetite for property. Once in the streets of Rome I had come upon a burning building, and there was Crassus bidding on the tenement next to it. The owner, confused and desperate and believing he was about to lose his property to the spreading flames, sold it to Crassus on the spot for a song, whereupon the millionaire called out his private fire brigades to put out the flames. Such tales about Crassus were commonplace in Rome.

'Everything Crassus touched seemed to turn to gold,' Fabius explained. 'His cousin Lucius, on the other hand, muddled about trying to make a living off the land, like all good, old-fashioned plebeians. He lost and lost until he was bankrupt. Finally he begged Crassus to save him, and Crassus did. He made Lucius a kind of factotum, a representative to look after some of Crassus's business enterprises on the Cup. In a good year – without pirates or Spartacus – there's a great deal of business transacted on the Cup; it's not all luxurious villas and oyster farms. Crassus owns mines in Spain, and a fleet of ships that bring the ore to Puteoli. He owns metalworkers in Neapolis and Pompeii who turn the ore into utensils and weapons and finished works of art. He owns ships that transport slaves from Alexandria to Puteoli. He owns farms and vineyards all over Campania, and supplies the hordes of slaves that ate needed to work them. Crassus can't oversee all these small details himself; his interests extend from Spain to Egypt. He delegated responsibility for local business here on the Cup to Lucius, who oversaw Crassus's investments and enterprises in a plodding but adequate manner.'

'The running of this house, for example?'

'Actually, Crassus himself owns the house and all the land around it. He has no need for villas; he scoffs at the idea of retreating to the countryside or the coast to relax and read poetry. And yet somehow he keeps acquiring them, dozens of villas by now. He can't keep empty houses all over Italy, so he prefers to rent them to his family and his factotums. Then, when he travels, he can reside in them when and as he needs to, a guest and yet more than a guest.'

'And the household slaves?'

'They are also the property of Crassus.'

'And the Fury, the trireme in the harbour that brought me from Ostia?'

'That belongs to Crassus, too, although it was Lucius who oversaw its use.'

'And the deserted vineyards and fields we rode through on the way from Misenum?'

'Property of Crassus. Along with numerous other properties and manufactories and gladiator schools and farms in the region, from here to Surrentum.'

'Then to call Lucius Licinius the master of this house-'

'Licinius gave the orders and acted independently in his own home, to be sure. But he was nothing more than Crassus's creature. A servant, really, if a privileged and very pampered one.'

'I see. Is there a widow?'

'Her name is Gelina.'

'And children?'

'Their marriage was barren.'

'No heir?'

'Crassus, as his cousin and patron, will inherit Licinius's debts and possessions.' 'And Gelina?'

'She now becomes Crassus's dependent.'

'From the way you speak, Faustus Fabius, it seems that Crassus owns the whole world.'

'I sometimes think he does. Or will,' he said, raising an eyebrow.

V

There was a loud booming at the door. A slave hurried to answer it. The door swung ponderously open, illuminating the dim hallway with a wedge of muted sunlight that framed a stocky, broad-shouldered silhouette in the flowing red cape of a military officer. Marcus Mummius marched towards us through the little garden, trampling on a bed of herbs and banging his elbow against the delicate faun.

He stopped before the body and scowled at the sight of the exposed wound. 'You've already seen it, then,' he said, reaching out to replace the camouflage of ivy and making a mess of it. 'Poor Lucius Licinius. I suppose Fabius has explained everything to you.'

'Not at all,' I said.

'Good! Because it's not his job to brief you. I wouldn't have thought he could keep his lips sealed around a stranger, but perhaps we'll make a soldier of him yet.' Mummius smiled broadly.

Fabius gave him a withering look. 'You seem to be in high spirits.'

'I raced my men all the way up from Misenum. A swift ride to loosen the joints after a few days at sea – that and the air of the Cup should put any man in high spirits.'

'Still, you might lower your voice just a little, in deference to the dead.'

Mummius's smile disappeared in his beard. 'Sorry,' he muttered,

and returned to the fountain to dab at the water and touch his moistened fingers to his bowed forehead. He looked uneasily at the body, and then at each of us, waiting for any notice of his impiety to the shade of Lucius Licinius to pass.

'Perhaps we should call on Gelina,' he finally said.

'Without me,' Fabius said. 'I have business to attend to in Puteoli, and not much time if I'm to get there and back before sundown.'

'And where is Crassus?' Mummius called after him.

'In Puteoli as well, on business of his own. He left this morning with word that Gelina should not expect him back before dinner this evening.' The door opened for him, pulled by an invisible slave in the shadows so that it seemed to open by magic at his approach. He stepped into the light and disappeared.

'What a prig,' Mummius muttered under his breath. 'And for all his high-flown attitude, they say his family could barely afford to buy him a decent tutor. Good blood, but one of his ancestors emptied the family coffers and no one ever filled them up again. Crassus took him on as a lieutenant only as a favour to Fabius's father; he hasn't turned out to have much talent as a military man, either. I could name a few plebeian families who've made more of a mark in the last hundred years or so.' He smiled a bit smugly, then called to a little slave boy who was crossing the atrium: 'You there, Meto, go and find your mistress and tell her I've arrived with her guest from Rome. As soon as we've refreshed ourselves in the baths, we shall call on her.'

'Is that necessary?' I asked. 'After the insane rush to get me here, do you really think we should spend time in a tub of water?'

'Nonsense. You can't meet Gelina smelling like a sea horse.' He laughed at his own joke and put a hand on my shoulder to lead me away from the corpse. 'Besides, taking the waters is the first thing anyone does when he arrives in Baiae. It's like praying to Neptune before setting out to sea. The waters here are alive, you know. Homage must be paid.'

It seemed that the relaxing airs of the Cup could loosen even Mummius's staid and stodgy discipline. I put my arm around Eco's shoulders and followed our host, shaking my head in wonder.

What Mummius had casually referred to as the baths was in fact an impressive installation within the house that seemed to have been built over a natural terrace on the side of the hill, facing the bay. A great coffered dome lacquered with gold paint arched over the space, pierced by a round hole at the summit that admitted a beam of pure white light. Beneath this was a round pool with concentric steps leading into its depths, its surface obscured by roiling masses of sulphurous steam. An archway on the eastern side opened onto a terrace furnished with tables and chairs, with a view of the bay. A series of doors around the pool defined a semicircular arcade; the doors were of wood painted dark red, the handles were of gold in the shape of fish with their heads and tails attached to the wood. The first door led into a heated changing room; the other rooms, so Mummius explained as we shed our tunics, contained pools of various sizes and shapes, filled with water of various temperatures.

'Built by the famous Sergius Orata himself,' Mummius boasted. 'You've heard of him?'

'No.'

'The most famous Puteolian of all, the man who made Baiae what it is today. He started the oyster farms on Lake Lucrinus – that earned him his first fortune. Then he turned out to be a master engineer at building pools and fish ponds, and villa owners all around the Cup showered him with commissions. This house contained a modest bath when Crassus acquired the estate. With Crassus's permission, not to mention Crassus's money, Lucius Licinius added an upper storey here, a new wing there, and had the baths completely rebuilt, employing Sergius Orata himself to draw up and execute the plans. I'd prefer a little grotto in the woods or a common city pool myself – this kind of luxury is rather absurd, isn't it? Impressive but excessive, as the philosophers say.'

Mummius stepped up to a brass hook cast as the heads of Cerberus and mounted in the wall. He hooked his shoes over two of the heads and hung his belt in the open jaws of the third. He pulled the heavy chain mail over his head and set about unbuckling leather straps. 'But you have to admire such feats of plumbing. There's a natural hot spring that comes out of the earth at just this spot; that's why the first owner chose to build here – that, and the view. When Orata rebuilt, he designed the pipes so that some of the pools are piping hot, while others are mixed with cool water from a different spring up the hill. You can pass from the coolest to the hottest and back again. In winter some of the rooms in the house are even heated by water from the hot spring, piped under the floors. This changing room, for example, is kept warm all year long.'

'Most impressive,' I agreed, pulling my undertunic over my head. I started to place it in one of the coffers in the wall but Mummius intervened. He called to an old, stooped slave who stood at a discreet distance across the room. 'Here, take these and have them washed,' he said, indicating my things and Eco's and pulling his own tunic over his shoulders. 'Bring back something suitable for an audience with your mistress.' The slave gathered up the garments and studied us for a moment, estimating our sizes, then slunk from the room.

Naked, Marcus Mummius looked something like a bear, with big shoulders, a broad middle and dense swirls of black hair all over his body, except where he was marked by scars. Eco seemed particularly intrigued by a long slash that ran across his left pectoral like a cleared furrow in a forest.

'Battle of the Colline Gate,' Mummius said proudly, looking down and pointing to the scar. 'Crassus's proudest moment, and mine. That was the day we retook Rome for Sulla; the dictator never forgot what we did for him. I was wounded early in the day, but fortunately it was on the left side, which allowed me to go on using my sword arm.' He mimed the action, bolting forward and swinging his right arm, causing the rather stout sword between his legs to swing heavily back and forth as well. 'In the pitch of battle I hardly noticed the wound, just a dull burning. It wasn't until late that night when I went to deliver a message to Crassus that I passed clear out. They say I was as white as marble and didn't wake up for two days. Oh, but that was over ten years ago, I was just a boy, really – couldn't have been that much older than you,' he said, punching Eco on the shoulder.

Eco smiled back at him crookedly and curiously examined Mummius for more scars, of which there was no shortage. Tiny nicks and plugs were scattered all over his limbs and torso like badges, easily discernible where they interrupted the general hairiness of his flesh.

He gathered a towel about his waist and gestured for us to do likewise, then led us from the changing room back into the great domed vault with the circular pool. The day was beginning to cool and the steam rose in great clouds from the water, hissing and smelling strongly of sulphur.

'Apollonius!' Mummius smiled broadly and strode to the far side of the pool, where a young slave in a green tunic stood at the water's edge, obscured by the mist.

As we drew closer, I was impressed by the slave's extraordinary beauty. His hair was thick and almost blue-black, the colour of the sky on a moonless night. His eyes were a vibrant blue. His forehead, nose, cheeks, and chin were perfectly smooth and followed the serene proportions from which the Greeks defined perfection. His full, bow-shaped Lips seemed to hover on the edge of a smile. He was not tall, but beneath the loose folds of his tunic he clearly had an athlete's physique.

'Apollonius!' Mummius said again. He looked back at me over his shoulder. 'I shall begin with the hottest pool,' he announced, pointing at a door across the way, 'followed by a vigorous massage from Apollonius. And you?'

'I think I'll test these waters first,' I said, dipping my foot into the main pool and quickly drawing it back. 'Or perhaps one a little less scalding.'

'Try that one, it's the coolest,' said Mummius, indicating a chamber next to the changing room. He strode away with his hand on the slave's shoulder, humming a boisterous marching tune.

We sweated and scraped ourselves clean with ivory strigils; we immersed ourselves in one pool and then in another, going from cool to hot and back again, and when we were done with our ablutions Marcus Mummius rejoined us in the heated dressing room, where fresh undergarments and tunics had been laid out for us. Mine was of dark blue wool with a simple black border, befitting a guest in a household in mourning. The old slave had a sharp eye; it was a perfect fit, not even tight across my shoulders, as I often find borrowed garments to be. Mummius dressed in the plain but well-tailored black tunic he had worn on the night he summoned me.

Eco was less pleased with his costume. The slave, apparently thinking him younger than he was, or else too good-looking to be seen bare-limbed about the house, had brought him a long-sleeved blue tunic that reached to his knees. It was so modest that it would have been more suitable for a boy or girl of thirteen. I told Eco he should be flattered if the old slave found him so dazzling that he should hide himself. Mummius laughed; Eco blushed and would have none of it. He refused to dress until the slave brought him a tunic that matched mine. It was not quite as good a fit, but Eco made do by tightening the black woollen belt about his waist and seemed happy to be dressed in a more manly garment that showed his arms and legs.

Mummius guided us down long hallways where slaves bowed their heads and stepped meekly out of the way, down one flight of stairs arid up another, through rooms decorated with exquisite statues and sumptuous wall paintings, across gardens breathing the last sweet breath of summer. At last we came to a semicircular room at the northern end of the house, set above a crag of rock overlooking the bay. A slave girl announced us and then departed.

The room was shaped like an amphitheatre. Where the stage would have been, steps led up to a colonnaded gallery. It opened onto a spectacular vista of sparkling water below and the port of Puteoli in the distance, and far away to the right an unimpeded view of Mount Vesuvius on the horizon and the towns of Herculaneum and Pompeii at its feet.

The interior of the room was so dark and the light from outside so dazzling that I could see the woman who reclined on the terrace only as a stark silhouette. She sat with her legs extended and her back upright on a low divan beside a small table set with a ewer and cups. She stared out at the bay and made no reaction as we entered; she might have been another statue, except that a gende breeze wafted through the colonnade and caused the hanging folds of her gown to sway in the air.

She turned towards us. I could not yet distinguish her features, but there was a warm smile in her voice. 'Marcus,' she said, extending her right arm across her body in a gesture of welcome.

Mummius stepped onto the terrace, took her hand and bowed. 'Your guest has arrived.'

'So I see. Two of them, in fact. You must be Gordianus, the one they call the Finder.'

'Yes.'

'And this one?'

'My son, called Eco. He does not speak, but he hears.'

She nodded and gestured for us to sit. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I began to make out the austere, rather stark features of her face – a strong jaw, high cheekbones, a high forehead – softened by the lush blackness of her eyebrows and eyelashes and the softness of her grey eyes. In deference to her widowhood, her black hair, touched with grey at the temples, was not dressed or arranged but simply brushed back from her face. From her neck to her ankles she was wrapped in a black stola loosely belted beneath her breasts and again at her waist. Her face was like the vista behind her, more lofty than lovely, animated and yet serenely detached. She spoke in even, measured tones and seemed to weigh each thought before she spoke it.

'My name is Gelina. My father was Gaius Gelinus. My mother was of the Cornelii, distantly related to the dictator Sulla. The Gelinii came to Rome long ago from inland Campania. In recent years many died in the civil wars, fighting Cinna and Marius on behalf of Sulla. We are an old and proud family, but neither wealthy nor particularly prolific. There are not many of the Gelinii left.'

She paused to take a sip from the silver cup on the table beside her. The wine was almost black. It gave her lips a vivid magenta stain. She gestured to the cups on the table, which had already been filled for us.

'Having no dowry to offer,' she went on, 'I was very lucky to marry a man like Lucius Licinius. The marriage was our own choice, not a family arrangement. You must understand, this was before Sulla's dictatorship, during the wars; times were cruel and the future was very uncertain. Our families were equally impoverished and unenthusiastic about the match, but they acquiesced. I am sorry to say that in twenty years of marriage we had no children, nor was my husband as wealthy as you might think from the evidence of this house. But in our way we prospered.'

She began idly to rearrange the folds of the gown about her knee, as if to signal a change of subject. 'You must wonder how I know of you, Gordianus. I learned of you from our mutual friend, Marcus Tullius Cicero. He speaks of you highly.'

'Does he?'

'He does. I myself met Cicero only last winter, when Lucius and I happened to be seated at the divan next to his at a dinner in Rome. He was a most charming man.'

'That is a word some people use in describing Cicero,' I agreed.

'I asked him about his career in the law courts – men are always happy to talk about their careers,' said Gelina. 'Usually I only half listen, but something in his manner compelled me to pay attention.'

'They say he is a most compelling speaker.'

'Oh, he is, most certainly. Surely you've heard him yourself, speaking from the Rostra in the Forum?'

'Often enough.'

Gelina narrowed her eyes in recollection, as serene as the profile of Vesuvius just above her head. 'I found myself quite enthralled by his tale of Sextus Roscius, a wealthy farmer accused of murdering his own father, who called upon Cicero for legal counsel when no one else in Rome would come to his aid. It was Cicero's first murder case; I understand it made his reputation.* Cicero told me he was assisted by a man named Gordianus, called the Finder. You were absolutely invaluable to him – as brave as an eagle and as stubborn as a mule, he said.'

'Did he? Yes, well, that was eight years ago. I was still a young man, and Cicero was even younger.'

'Since then he has ascended like a comet. The most talked-about advocate in Rome – quite a feat, for a man from such an obscure family. I understand that he has called upon your services a number of tunes.'

* Roman Blood (Robinson 1997).

I nodded. 'There was, of course, the matter of the woman of Arretium, only shortly after the trial of Sextus Roscius, while Sulla was still alive. And various murder trials, cases of extortion, and property disagreements over the years, not to mention a few private affairs concerning which I cannot mention names.'

'It must be very rewarding to work for such a man.'

Sometimes I wish I were mute like Eco, so that I would not have to bite my tongue. I have fallen out and made up with Cicero so many times I am weary of it. Is he an honest man or a crass opportunist? A principled man of the people or an apologist for the rich nobility? If he were clearly one thing or the other, like most men, I would know what to think of him. Instead, he is the most exasperating man in Rome. His conceit and superior attitude, no matter how well deserved, do nothing to endear him to me; neither does his propensity for telling only half the truth, even when his purpose may be honourable. Cicero gives me a headache.

Gelina sipped her wine. 'When this matter arose and I asked myself on whom I could call – someone trustworthy and discreet, someone from beyond the Cup, a man who would be dogged in pursuit of the truth and unafraid – brave as an eagle, as Cicero said…'

'And stubborn as a mule.'

'And clever. Above all, clever…' Gelina sighed and looked out at the water. She seemed to be gathering strength. 'You have seen the body of my husband?'

'Yes.'

'He was murdered.' 'Yes.'

'Brutally murdered. It happened five days ago, on the Nones of September – although his body was not discovered until the next morning…' Her serenity suddenly departed; her voice quavered and she looked away.

Mummius moved closer to her and took her hand. 'Strength,' he whispered to her. Gelina nodded and caught her breath. She gripped his hand tightly, then released him.

'If I am to help you,' I said quietly, 'I must know everything.'

For a long moment Gelina studied the view. When she looked back at me, her face had recomposed itself, as if she were able to absorb the serene detachment of the panorama by gazing upon it. Her voice was steady and calm as she continued.,

'He was discovered, as I said, early the next morning.' 'Discovered where? By whom?'

'In the front atrium, not far from where his body lies at this moment. It was one of the slaves who found him – Meto, the little boy who carries messages and wakes the other slaves to begin their morning duties. It was still dark; not a cock had crowed, the boy said, and the whole world seemed as still as death.'

'What was the exact disposition of the body? Perhaps we should summon this Meto-'

'No, I can tell you myself. Meto came to fetch me right away, and nothing was touched before I arrived. Lucius lay on his back, his eyes still open.'

'Flat on his back?'

'Yes.'

'And his arms and legs, were they crumpled about his body? Was he clutching his head?'

'No. His legs were straight, and his arms were above his head.'

'Like Atlas, holding up the world?'

'I suppose.'

'And the weapon that was used to kill him, was it nearby?' 'It was never found.'

'No? Surely there was a stone with blood on it, or a piece of metal. If not in the house, then perhaps in the courtyard.'

'No. But there was a piece of cloth.' She shuddered. Mummius sat up in his chair; this was apparently a detail that was new to him.

'Cloth?' I said.

'A man's cloak, soaked with blood. It was found only yesterday, not in the courtyard, but about half a mile up the road that heads northwards, toward Cumae and Puteoli. One of the slaves going to market happened to see it among the brush and brought it to me.'

'Was it your husband's cloak?'

Gelina frowned. 'I don't know. It's hard to tell what it must have looked like; you would hardly know it was a cloak at all without examining it – all rumpled and stiff with blood, you understand?' She took a deep breath. 'It's simple wool, dyed a dark brown, almost black. It might have belonged to Lucius; he owned many cloaks. It could be anyone's.'

'Surely not. Was it the cloak of a rich man, or a slave? Was it new or old, well made or tawdry?'

Gelina shrugged. 'I can't say.'

'I'll need to see it.'

'Of course. Ask Meto, later; I couldn't bear to look at it now.'

'I understand. But tell me this: was there much blood on the floor, beneath the wound? Or was there little blood?'

'I think – only a little. Yes, I remember wondering how such a terrible wound could have bled so little.'

'Then perhaps we can assume that the blood on this cloak came from Lucius Licinius. What else can you tell me?'

Gelina paused for a long moment. I could see she was faced with a disagreeable but unavoidable declaration. 'On the morning that Lucius was found dead, there were two slaves missing from the household. They've been missing ever since. But I cannot believe that either of them could possibly have murdered Lucius.'

'Who are these slaves?'

'Their names are Zeno and Alexandros. Zeno is – was – my husband's accountant and secretary. He wrote letters, balanced accounts, managed this and that. He had been with Lucius for almost six years, ever since Crassus began to favour us and our fortunes changed. An educated Greek slave, quiet and soft-spoken, very gende, with a white beard and a frail body. I had always hoped, if we ever had a son, that Zeno could be his first tutor. It is simply not conceivable that he could have murdered Lucius. The idea that he could murder anyone is preposterous.'

'And the other slave?'

'A young Thracian called Alexandros. We bought him four months ago at the market in Puteoli, to work in the stables. He has a marvellous way with horses. He could read and do simple sums, as well. Zeno used him sometimes in my husband's library, to add figures or copy letters. Alexandros is very quick to learn, very clever. He never showed any signs of discontent. On the contrary, it seemed to me that he was one of the happiest slaves in the household. I can't believe that he murdered Lucius.'

'And yet both these slaves disappeared on the night your husband was murdered?'

'Yes. I can't explain it.'

Mummius, who until then had been silent, cleared his throat. 'There is more to the story. The most damning evidence of all.' Gelina looked away, then nodded in resignation. She gestured for him to continue. 'On the floor at Lucius's feet, someone used a knife to carve out six letters. They're crude and shallow, hastily done, but you can read them clearly enough.'

'What do they spell?' I asked.

'The name of a famous village in Greece,' said Mummius grimly. 'Although someone as clever as you might presume that whoever did the scrawling simply didn't have the time to finish the job.'

'What village? I don't understand.'

Mummius dipped his finger into his goblet and wrote the letters in blood-red wine on the marble table, all straight lines and sharp points: