Oracle of the Dead

11

Julia arrived late the next morning. With her was Antonia, who had been off visiting some friends in Capua. Circe, it seemed, had returned to Rome. I had scarcely noticed their absence, so preoccupied had I been. With them were most of the entourage who had accompanied me south. Apparently Julia had decided that I was a praetor again, so she would see that I was properly attended.

“What has caused this sudden new enthusiasm?” she wanted to know.

“Come and let’s take a walk beneath these trees,” I said. “This is not for everybody’s ears just yet.” Antonia glared at being left out, but of all the women in the world I wanted to confide in, the very last would have been Antonia. She could no more keep a secret or resist gossiping than she could have sprouted wings and flown to the moon.

As we walked in the grove, I told Julia of what I had found, and of my suspicions, and how I intended to wrap things up so we could pack up for Sicily.

“Infamous!” she said. “Defrauding people with a false oracle, then robbing and murdering them!” She paused. “But they wouldn’t be able to do it very often, would they? How often would merchants going abroad carrying a lot of money have stopped by here?”

“More often than you’d think,” I said. “People about to travel abroad often visit oracles and seek the help of the gods. We don’t know how many confederates they had overseas, or whether they had men follow the victims and then choose a safe place out of Italy to kill them and dispose of their bodies. I also suspect that this was only one aspect of their depredations.”

“What else do you think they’ve been up to?”

“Campania, with all its attractions, its Sibyl of Cumae and so forth, is always full of transients. The overseas killing must have been unwieldy and difficult to set up. I suspect that it was done only when local people were to be robbed. If they were killed here, they would be missed immediately and suspicion would naturally fall on people living in the district. It wouldn’t be long before someone noticed that the last place they were seen was here at Hecate’s Oracle. No, murder of locals could only be risked when they were away from Campania, preferably out of Italy altogether.

“But a great many people from other parts of Italy and from foreign lands come here to consult with the Oracle. They are far from home, they wouldn’t be missed for a long time; without friends or relatives here, who would notice that the last place they were seen alive was here?”

She thought about this for a while. “But how would the killers know that these people had no local connections who might show up asking embarrassing questions?”

“They had slaves walking among the people as they waited to consult with the Oracle. People would let crucial information slip without noticing it. I’m not saying they did it every day. For one thing, the conditions would have to be perfect. It would be impossible if many people were present, but we know that sometimes there might only be one or two people here on a given day. When conditions were perfect, they might be given a false prophecy like Floria’s master, or they might just be killed down there in the chamber of the Oracle. Knocked on the head or strangled, I would imagine. Blood is hard to scrub from coarse stone.”

“But how would they dispose of the bodies?” Julia wondered. “That was the great convenience of killing a victim overseas. Or at sea. No corpse to explain away.”

“Easily,” I said. “A few days ago I almost got disposed of down there by accident.”

“The river? What a hideous way to die, your body swept down beneath the earth without the proper rites.” She shuddered at the horror of it.

“They were sent down-clothes, possessions, the lot. In an instant, there was nothing to connect their disappearance with the priests and priestesses of Hecate. Only sometimes they were not thorough enough. In our search we found a stylus, a sandal, a bone hairpin, and a necklace of Egyptian beads. They were lost when the bodies of victims were thrust under the water to be swept away by the current.”

“How long has this been going on?” Julia asked. “The Oracle has been here for centuries.”

“Not for that long, I think. I suspect that the operation has been running only in recent years. There was scarcely any soot on the ceiling of the ventilation tunnel.”

“Very observant. But why, and how, were the priests of Apollo murdered?”

“That is the most difficult question, and I think that if we can put together just a few more facts, we’ll have the answer to that, too, and we’ll bag the lot of them. But I can’t let anyone outside know how close we are to doing it. That would mean fleeings and undoubtedly more murder attempts. I personally don’t want to be the recipient of a successful murder attempt. The bungled one was bad enough.”

“How many people do you think are involved?”

“The entire staff of the Oracle, for certain. There must be at least a few outside partners, and maybe many. Although it would make sense to keep the outsiders to a minimum. Everybody knows that the more people involved in a crime, the greater the likelihood of being found out.”

We went back out to the temple area and everyone had questions which I refused to answer. About noon, the historian Cordus arrived. “Has the praetor a task for me?” he asked, smiling. These were probably the happiest days of his life, employing his lonely work at the behest of the powerful. He’d be dining out on this story for years to come.

“Indeed I have, Cordus my friend.” I took him by the arm and led him to a little table where, as before, I had laid out a generous repast. “Here, sit, refresh yourself. It’s very good of you to come at such short notice.” It never hurts to flatter the humble. They get it so seldom. “It’s very important work indeed. But please, have something first.”

For the sake of good manners he ate a little and drank some wine, but curiosity got the better of his appetite. “Please, Praetor, what can I do for you?”

“First,” I said, “there is the matter of the slave girl, Hypatia.”

“Is she the one that was murdered?”

“Precisely. She said that she was sold to the temple by an itinerant slave trader named Aulus Plantius. I am informed that he is a dealer in high-quality slaves and that he appears here once or twice a year. This would have been about three months ago. Can you find me a record of that sale?”

“I am sure that I can, providing all the legal forms were followed in the sale.”

I sighed. “Legality is about the last thing I expect to encounter in this Gordian knot of a case, but see what you can turn up.”

“I am at your service. Surely this is not all?”

“By no means. Would any records be kept around here concerning the priesthood of the Oracle? By this I mean names, the dates when each took office and left it, that sort of thing?”

“Naturally there should be records here at the sanctuary of Hecate. Have you looked for them?”

“I have. It seems there are no such records on the premises and the priesthood are not inclined to cooperate with me.”

“I see. If there are such records to be found, I will locate them.”

“Very good,” I commended. “If you can do these things for me, and do them as quickly as possible, I will be forever in your debt.”

“I shall do it at once, Praetor,” he said.

“No, stay here and finish your lunch. It will be two or three days before I am ready to make my presentation. Will that be sufficient time?”

“A day should be sufficient, Praetor. The matter of the slave’s sale should take little time. As for the priests, if such records are to be found at all, I should be able to turn them up quickly.”

“Excellent.” It was good to know that I could delegate a task to someone who knew his business and could be trusted to carry it out quickly and efficiently. I had often thought that it would be a good thing if the state could employ a permanent staff of such people to be at the disposal of the magistrates. Slaves could not be trusted to do the work. It would have to be done by free men, but who would pay them?

Shortly after the historian departed, Hermes rode in with the woman Floria, under heavy guard. She looked numbed with fright, not an uncommon thing in a powerless person who finds herself suddenly in the grip of the Roman legal system.

“I tried to tell her nothing is going to happen to her,” Hermes said, “but she wouldn’t believe me.”

“Come down, Floria,” I said. “You have nothing to fear. The guards are for your own protection. I just want you to repeat to a court what you told me.”

“I just have to talk?” she said in a weak voice.

“That is all. You’re free now, you can’t be tortured.”

“Of course she can’t be tortured!” Julia said, pushing me aside. “Come, my dear, you’re safe here. You will stay in our own quarters. Let me help you dismount.” Julia and one of her girls helped the woman down, and already she looked vastly relieved. Julia had that way with people. She could put a man about to be crucified at ease.

“Naturally there should be records here at the sanctuary of Hecate. Have you looked for them?”

“I have. It seems there are no such records on the premises and the priesthood are not inclined to cooperate with me.”

“I see. If there are such records to be found, I will locate them.”

“Very good,” I commended. “If you can do these things for me, and do them as quickly as possible, I will be forever in your debt.”

“I shall do it at once, Praetor,” he said.

“No, stay here and finish your lunch. It will be two or three days before I am ready to make my presentation. Will that be sufficient time?”

“A day should be sufficient, Praetor. The matter of the slave’s sale should take little time. As for the priests, if such records are to be found at all, I should be able to turn them up quickly.”

“Excellent.” It was good to know that I could delegate a task to someone who knew his business and could be trusted to carry it out quickly and efficiently. I had often thought that it would be a good thing if the state could employ a permanent staff of such people to be at the disposal of the magistrates. Slaves could not be trusted to do the work. It would have to be done by free men, but who would pay them?

Shortly after the historian departed, Hermes rode in with the woman Floria, under heavy guard. She looked numbed with fright, not an uncommon thing in a powerless person who finds herself suddenly in the grip of the Roman legal system.

“I tried to tell her nothing is going to happen to her,” Hermes said, “but she wouldn’t believe me.”

“Come down, Floria,” I said. “You have nothing to fear. The guards are for your own protection. I just want you to repeat to a court what you told me.”

“I just have to talk?” she said in a weak voice.

“That is all. You’re free now, you can’t be tortured.”

“Of course she can’t be tortured!” Julia said, pushing me aside. “Come, my dear, you’re safe here. You will stay in our own quarters. Let me help you dismount.” Julia and one of her girls helped the woman down, and already she looked vastly relieved. Julia had that way with people. She could put a man about to be crucified at ease.

So that was two tasks accomplished. I dictated a few letters to some people: to Belasus in Pompeii, asking him to come to my court and bring the letters and evidence we had found in the house of Elagabal the fence; and to Pompey, asking him to attend. I even gritted my teeth and sent one to Cato. Much as I disliked him, he had that horrible honesty. I was going to have to do things that might exceed my authority as praetor peregrinus, and I wanted someone I could trust to testify that I had done these things for good reasons, not because I was corrupt or tyrannical. My enemies in Rome would lying in wait for me as soon as I should step down from office and would charge me for what I did here. Cato was not afraid of them or of anybody else, and he would not lie about what he had witnessed.

When I had dispatched my messengers to their various destinations, I sat back, at loose ends for a little while. Things had been so hectic lately that this felt good. Then I got up and wandered out into the temple enclosure and thought, What were you up to, Eugaeon? Why were you murdered, along with your fellow priests? Were you just the last victims of this gang of murderers, or were you one of them?

These gloomy but important thoughts occupied me for a while, while I enjoyed my solitude. Not that I was perfectly alone. Several of my men hung off at a discreet distance, armed and bearing shields. Then there came a voice from behind me.

“Praetor, why aren’t you with your suite? You shouldn’t be wandering about alone out here in the dark.” I turned to see that it was Sabinilla.

“Why, what brings you here? I thought you’d be plotting your next party, the one that’s going to top even the one you gave for us.”

“Oh, never fear, I’m putting together another. Word reached me that something has been happening here today and I yield to no one in my mastery of local gossip. I had to come see what was happening. I rejoice to see you are fully recovered from your wound. You are fully recovered, aren’t you?”

“I am touched by your concern. Yes, I am as good as new, strength restored; the wound no longer even pains me.” This was not quite true but it was beneath my dignity as a praetor to admit to pain from minor causes.

We walked back toward the terraces of the temple, where torches were ablaze. I saw that her wig was blue this time. Odd-colored wigs were just coming into fashion, and I didn’t doubt she had one for every day of the year.

She stopped and turned to me. “Praetor, I-”

In that instant I heard a sound I had become all too familiar with. It was the whiz of an arrow, like the sound of a fast-moving insect. It went right past my ear and suddenly Sabinilla was standing there with an astonished expression, trying to say something, but nothing came from her mouth but a great gush of blood.

I wasted not an instant gaping. I hit the ground rolling, and the second arrow whizzed through the air where I had been standing and buried itself in Sabinilla, halfway between navel and sternum. It would have gone into my spine if I hadn’t dived when I did. She was still upright, now trying to pull out the arrow that had gone through her throat. An arrow will not drop a person instantly to the ground the way a javelin or spear will. They don’t have enough force. They pierce organs and cut blood vessels. I kept moving, and Sabinilla finally fell, as if she had just learned that she was dead.

I was shouting without being aware of it. My men were running toward me and I was still rolling, changing speed and direction constantly to keep from being an easy target. I had lost all interest in dignity. I was not going to catch another arrow if I could help it. In moments my men were all around me, shields up. I heard a final arrow glance from a shield, then quiet.

“Bring torches over here!” I yelled at the top of my lungs as I got to my feet. “Bring lots of them! I want you to fan out and find that archer. Bring him to me, alive if possible, but don’t let him get away under any circumstances!” I am afraid that I lost my temper. Ordinarily I let little disturb me, but this was just too much. I railed at my men even as they went to search for the assassin.

“What is wrong with you?” I shouted at them. “Is it so difficult to keep a murderer armed with a bow away from here? Do all of my guests have to be killed before you bestir yourselves enough to notice that there is a man with a bow somewhere on the premises?”

Julia came running. “Come away from here now!” she ordered. “You’re lit up like a statue at Saturnalia and the bowman is out there in the dark somewhere. Come inside immediately. Hermes has already taken charge of the search.”

“But Sabinilla-” I began, gesturing toward the recumbent, bloody figure on the grass.

“She’s dead. She’ll be just as dead an hour from now. I’ll have her body brought in, but first you have to be less of a target. Come along.”

The rage went out of me. She was right, of course. We walked back to the temple with four men surrounding me with shields. Once inside, I sent them out to join the hunt. Then I poured myself a large cup of unwatered wine. This night, I felt I didn’t need to observe my new regimen. Julia had wooden screens erected before all the windows.

“The assassin missed me with his first shot and hit Sabinilla instead,” I told Julia. “I was moving by the time he drew his second arrow. It struck her too. The poor woman. She picked the wrong time to come visiting.”

“Unless she was the target. The bowman may have tried to kill both of you with two arrows.”

“Eh? Why?” The shock of the events had made me slow.

“She came here without sending word ahead and arrived unfashionably late. That woman was nothing if not fashionable. When she got here, she never came to the quarters to find me. She went straight out to where you were foolishly walking about in the dark. Perhaps she wanted to tell you something and the killer wanted to silence her.”

“Yes, that could be how it was,” I admitted. “I’ve said before that everyone is a suspect in this business. She may have been involved somehow. When she is brought in, I want her clothing searched. She may have brought something in writing. Who came with her? She wouldn’t have come alone and she wouldn’t have walked.”

“I’ll send to find out,” Julia said. She went out and began to give orders. When Julia gave orders, they were obeyed quickly. A short while later she came back.

“She came in a litter carried by some of those Gauls of hers. She was accompanied by a bodyguard of her Gallic gladiators as well. The only other member of the party was this man.” She snapped her fingers and a gray-haired man came in, carrying a small chest.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“I am Eteocles, my lady’s steward,” he said. I vaguely remembered him from the party. “Praetor, is it true that my lady is dead?”

“I am afraid so. She was murdered in an assassination attempt on me.” I saw no reason to burden him with my suspicions just yet. He gasped and turned pale. I allowed him to collect himself.

“Eteocles, your lady was traveling light when she came here. Did she usually travel with so few servants?”

“Why, no, sir. Ordinarily she traveled in considerable state, as befitted her wealth and position. Today she was in a great hurry and called for her swiftest team of bearers and a few guards and me.”

“Why you?” Julia asked.

“Well, she told me to get this together”-here he raised the box in his hands-“and come with her and not allow it out of my possession. It was all very puzzling and she said nothing all the way here.”

“What is it?” I asked.

In answer, he placed it on a table. It seemed so heavy he could barely hold it. Then he threw back the lid. The chest was perhaps a foot on a side and a foot deep. It was packed with gold coins, a considerable fortune.

“Leave us,” Julia said peremptorily. The man bowed and backed out of the room. When he was well away, Julia turned to me and said, “What is this?”

I picked up a coin and looked at it. It was a beautifully struck Alexandrian piece with the profile of Ptolemy Auletes on its front. I tossed it back into the box. “This, my dear, is a bribe. The woman came here to strike a deal with me. She learned that something was happening here and figured out that everything was about to come to light. She decided to get to me before anyone else could and bribe me to keep her out of it somehow.”

“She must have had a low opinion of Roman praetors.”

“For that much money, most praetors would have accepted gladly. I, however, am incorruptible. She merely got killed for her pains.”

One of the servants stuck her head in the door and informed us that Sabinilla’s body had been brought in. “Let’s have a look at her,” I said resignedly.

She had been lain on a table and nothing had yet been done to clean her up. The first arrow had gone through her windpipe and a jugular. In dying, she had lost almost all her blood. It covered the front of her gown as if it had been recently dyed red. The second arrow was no more than a gesture. She was dead within seconds of the first strike. Julia ordered two of her female slaves to search the woman’s clothing. Reluctantly, they complied. They found nothing. Julia told them to go wash the blood off their hands and they ran out, gagging.

“I don’t think we’ll learn anything from her now,” Julia said.

“Remove her wig,” I ordered one of the slaves.

“Why?” Julia asked. “Do you think she hid something under it.”

“No, I just want to know the true color of her hair.” Julia snorted. The man lifted the wig which, thankfully, was unbloodied. Her hair was red, a striking shade. I wondered why she did not display it. Then again, red hair is often associated with bad luck, so perhaps she thought it best to hide it.

“She can go back home in the morning in her litter,” I said.

Shortly after that, Hermes came in to tell us that the assassin had not been found.

“Somehow I am not surprised,” I said. “This killer gets about like a phantom. Just flits from place to place to shoot arrows at me.”

“I’ll get the huntsmen and their dogs in the morning,” Hermes said. “Maybe they can get a scent off the arrows.”

“You can try,” I said, “but I don’t hold out great hopes. Whatever else he may be, this assassin knows what he is doing. I don’t doubt he has taken precautions to confuse dogs.”

So it transpired. The next day, the huntsmen arrived with their dogs. The animals sniffed the nock-ends of the arrows, where the shooter’s scent should have been strongest, then they ran all over the temple compound, yipping happily.

“So much for that, then,” I said.

“From now on, until this is settled,” Julia said, “you will be indoors well before dark.” I gave her no argument.

“Maybe we should just wait,” I said. “The thieves are falling out now. They’re afraid their confederates will betray them, so they are killing each other off. Soon there may be nothing left for me to do. They’ll all be dead.”

“Don’t count on it,” Julia advised.

I went outside, took a look around, and groaned. “They’re back!”

Already, the mob was assembling: the vendors, the mountebanks, the vast number of gawkers. More murder. More fun.

“Why do they do this?” I inquired of no one in particular. “Don’t they have anything else to do? This is southern Campania! There ought to be plenty of other diversions to occupy the idle.” I received no answer from the gods or anyone else. There was no explanation. There is just a basic flaw in human nature that causes people to flock like vultures to a place where ghastly events have occurred. Doubtless they hope something equally ghastly will happen that they can actually witness. This was probably something that escaped when Pandora opened her box.

I sent Sabinilla’s body home in her litter. I’d had undertakers come in so she was properly cleaned up and Julia had donated a gown so she wouldn’t arrive looking as if the Furies had been at her. Whatever she had done, she was beyond the hand of justice now, and I felt the decencies should be observed. Needless to say, the gawkers lined the road to see the litter pass. I wondered what it was they expected to see. Just another of those inexplicable things, I supposed.

While I awaited the people I had summoned, who would not be likely to arrive before at least the next day, and the reports of those who were digging up evidence, I retired to a terrace that was away from the crowd and allowed me a broad vista. I was in no mood for appreciating the scenery, but it kept any archers from creeping within range. Just to make sure, I had stationed a lookout atop the Temple of Apollo. Young Vespillo was my choice, because he had exceptionally good eyesight.

I did not idle away my time, but began to write down my arguments and list my evidence, not all of which was gathered, but which I expected soon to have in my hands. I wrote out the events as they happened, in sequence. (I have that account by me now and it has been a great aid to my memory. It pays to keep all your old papers.) I organized my oration as I had learned from Cicero, in the fashion of the day, not neglecting the occasional character assassination, snatches of relevant poetry, and so forth. I knew I wouldn’t be using all of it, but it helped to keep things orderly in my mind.

Around noon the next day Cordus arrived, and with him was a man of about thirty-five years, wearing a dingy, dark toga, his face unshaven. Accompanied by my guards, I went to greet them. “I believe I have found what you want, Praetor,” Cordus said. “This is the distinguished Lucius Pedarius.” Apparently “distinguished” was how the locals referred to genuine patricians. From his dress and grooming, it looked as if the family had fallen on truly hard times.

“Pedarius?” I said. “I wondered when some representative of your clan would see fit to show up.”

“I do beg your pardon, Praetor. My household has been in mourning for my father.” His Latin was impeccable. That explained the dingy toga, beard, and tangled hair. The Pedarius family still took the old-fashioned mourning practices seriously. In Rome, we usually just borrowed an old toga from a freedman, allowed a little stubble to show, and left our hair unbarbered but combed.

“I see. Well, why don’t the two of you come join me for lunch.”

I sent word to Julia that we had a patrician guest. She wouldn’t want to miss this. She arrived with a small crowd of her servant girls, greeted Pedarius and Cordus, and set about arranging an informal lunch, which on this occasion included placing the guards where they would be unobtrusive but effective. Pedarius regarded these precautions with some apprehension, for which I could not blame him. Lunch with the praetor doesn’t usually mean a visit to the war zone.

“Then it’s true that your life is in danger, Praetor?” he said.

“Everybody is in danger around here,” I told him. “I’m rather surprised to see that you are alive. Here, have some of this cured ham. It’s excellent.”

“Are you serious? Not about the ham, about my being alive. Am I in personal danger?”

“Serious as the gods’ displeasure,” I told him. “Can you tell me the circumstances of your father’s death?”

Julia was annoyed. “Must you broach such a subject when we have just begun eating? Surely after lunch is the time for serious talk.”

“Time is what we are running short of,” I told her. “My apologies for my rudeness, but these are quite literally matters of life and death. Was there anything suspicious in the circumstances of your father’s death, Lucius Pedarius?”

“Well, my father was in his fifty-sixth year, not young by any means, but quite vigorous and healthy. He rode and hunted most days when he was not preoccupied with overseeing our land. About three months ago, he began to complain of pains in his chest and abdomen. Very soon he could no longer ride and took to his bed. The physicians couldn’t determine a cause for his decline and prescribed the usual purges, poultices, herbal infusions, and so forth. None of it did any good. His decline continued, slow but steady. This is why he could not call upon you as he wished to, and with his situation so precarious, I could not come in his place. Again, I extend my apologies.”

“No need to,” I assured him. “When did your father die?”

“Fifteen days ago. He had been getting weaker and thinner for some time, and could only take a little wine or broth. In time he lost consciousness and never regained it. Within one day of lapsing into unconsciousness, he was dead.”

“I see. Tell me, did any new slaves join your household just prior to your father’s illness?”

“Slaves?” He frowned, thinking. “Well, yes. My father came home with a slave woman just a few days before he fell ill. Why?”

“It’s part of a pattern I’ve worked out,” I told him. He looked at me the way people usually do when I say things like that. “Did he say where he bought her?”

“He said that he had acquired her from a neighbor.”

“And this neighbor’s name?” I asked.

“He never told me. He was not a very communicative man. I know there was a neighbor he visited from time to time, but he never took me with him, and he never mentioned names.”

“Did that not seem odd to you?”

He shrugged. “Men often go visiting people they’d rather not talk about. I was too discreet to press the matter.”

“And this slave. Was she young and pretty?”

“No, my father never bought slaves for decorative purposes. This was a stout, older woman. She was put to work in the kitchen.”

“In the kitchen,” I mused. “That is a strategic location. Is she there now?”

“Ah, no, Praetor,” he said, his face flushing with embarrassment. “She disappeared a few days ago. I thought she was just another runaway. I hired slave hunters, but they have not turned her up. It never occurred to me to be suspicious. My father was poisoned, wasn’t he? And the woman did it.”

“I fear that is so. But don’t feel that you are alone in being deceived. The person behind this is an expert in these matters.” I looked to Cordus. “How is it that you came here with Lucius Pedarius?”

“After I found the slave sale document you wanted, I searched for records of the priesthood of the Hecate cult. I could find nothing in the public records, but it occurred to me that, as hereditary patrons of the Temple of Apollo, the Pediarii might have something. So, I went to call upon them and found a house in mourning, but Lucius Pedarius very kindly let me come in and look at his father’s papers.”

“I had just been going through them,” Lucius said. “My father never took me into his confidence concerning business matters and rarely said anything about the temple, other than to complain about the expense of its restoration.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “The temple has undergone some extensive renovations recently. Your family paid for that?”

“It was our hereditary duty as patrons,” he said. “Of course our own patron, the great general Pompey,” I noted that he said this without irony, “covered part of the expenses. I believe he would gladly have covered it all. Such sums mean nothing to him. But my father was too stiff-necked and proud a patrician to let someone else help out more than was proper.”

“That was quite admirable,” said Julia, predictably.

“Yes, well, it didn’t make him happy about the necessity.”

“I don’t mean to pry into the finances of your family,” I said, “but do you know how your father managed to pay for the restorations?”

He smiled sourly. “You mean since we Pedarii are notoriously penurious despite our patrician status? To be honest, I do not know. I thought that he had sold off some old family treasures that he had hidden somewhere. I began to think differently when I went through his papers after his death.”

“When were the restorations undertaken?” I asked him.

“About nine years ago. It seems odd, now,” he said.

“Odd how?”

“Because that was when he stopped visiting the temple altogether. You would think he would have taken pride in the task he had paid for. When men do that, they seldom omit to show themselves and accept the honors of the community.”

“That is very true,” I said. I had paid for such things myself, and I certainly would never have gone to the expense if it hadn’t spread my fame and made people remember my name at election time. This is the traditional motivation that causes prominent men to undertake public works. So why did old Pedarius pay up and then avoid the place?

“I am going to want a look at those papers,” I said.

“I’ve brought them, and, as my friend Cordus suspected, among the family records is a tolerably complete listing of the priests of the Oracle of Hecate. Although our association is with the Temple of Apollo, the temple and the Oracle for all practical purposes form a single complex. It seems that in centuries past they were not on a basis of mutual hostility and shared in the patronage.”

I sighed. “Yes, much that appears terribly ancient here is of comparatively recent origin. Only the tunnel to the underground river itself, and the recently uncovered ventilation tunnel, are of great antiquity.” This was the first Cordus and Pedarius had heard of the ventilation tunnel, but I was not yet ready to make that common knowledge. “I am convinced that this whole business has been about money.”

Julia looked uncomfortable. She was ready enough to discuss these sordid matters in private, but she felt it improper to speak of matters as base as money in front of a fellow patrician.

“Now, my friend Cordus,” I said. “About that slave sale.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said the historian. “There was nothing at all difficult about its location. The town praetor’s office keeps records of all such transactions. But there was one thing that threw me off the scent, so to speak, and caused quite a bit of searching. You said that the seller was one Aulus Plantius, an itinerant slave dealer. .”

“That was the name given me by the girl herself,” I told him. “It comes as no surprise that she lied, but she had been coached. My friend Duronius, who was my host that evening, confirmed that there was a slave dealer of that name, who sold him a cook.”

“Yes, I ran across a record of that very transaction, which took place several days before the sale of the girl.” He passed me his copy of the record of sale. I read the name of the seller and smiled. I passed it to Julia and her eyebrows went up. Then she looked at me.

“Gentlemen,” I said, “I thank you. I will study the records Lucius Pedarius has brought later. I think I have everything I need now. I do hope you will accept my hospitality and stay for the-well, I won’t call it a trial, but it will be a most damning presentation before the public.”

“I would not miss it for anything,” Cordus said.