Oracle of the Dead

12

The day dawned splendidly. It had the sort of clear light spilling over the unspoiled countryside that the pastoral poets love to sing about. I detest pastoral poetry. To me the day was splendid because it put me one day closer to Sicily. As much as I loved southern Campania, I was anxious to be away.

At midmorning, Cato and his little band came clumping down the road, Cato giving the impression of wearing army boots despite his bare feet. He wore an expression of grim determination. Now that I think of it, that was the only expression he ever wore, with variations that included scorn, anger, and contempt.

“Hail, Praetor!” he shouted, saluting with upraised arm. “I take it you have things wrapped up here?”

“Just about,” I said. I’d already sent a servant for copious wine and now we sat and she poured drinks all around.

“What do you want me to do?” Cato said, after he’d drained his cup and held it out for a refill.

“I want you here as a witness. I am about to do some things of questionable legality and I know that you will report to the Senate exactly what you have seen. There are few senators I can trust to do that.”

He nodded. “Yes, there are no other senators who have my integrity.” He said this with absolute sincerity and not a trace of humor. He was absolutely sincere about everything-and absolutely humorless. “How do you intend to proceed?”

I gave him a brief rundown of my plans. He nodded. “You will be exceeding your authority, all right, but I agree that the circumstances of this case are unique. Unique cases call for unique action. When Cicero condemned the Catilinarian conspirators to death without trial, he exceeded his powers as consul by a great margin, but I supported him because there was no other way he could have proceeded with sanity. When traitors are about to overthrow the constitution with violence, it is pure foolishness to give them the benefit of the constitution.”

“Despite your support, which was admirable, Cicero ended up in exile,” I noted.

He shrugged. “Sometimes a man must pay a price for his patriotic actions. At least he escaped death, which a good many senators wanted to inflict upon him.”

“Things may get rough. I don’t know for sure how many are involved in this and some may not come along quietly.”

Cato gestured toward the men who followed him. They all looked supremely tough. So did Cato. “We don’t object to a little bloodshed. Speaking of which, I heard you got shot with an arrow.”

So I entertained him with the tale of my close brush with death. He and his men thought the whole affair was funny. I have said that Cato was humorless, but he did find amusement in things like pain and suffering. At the end he nodded with approval.

“That’s the way to handle wounds: get back to the gymnasium as soon as you’re back on your feet. A Roman on public service can’t let something as trivial as being skewered by an arrow slow him down. You’re just lucky that arrow wasn’t poisoned.”

I shuddered to think of it. “Apparently it didn’t occur to my enemy to poison the arrows. About the only serious lapse in an otherwise excellent plan of mass homicide.”

I sent for Hermes and he appeared within moments. “Hermes, take some men and go arrest the woman Porcia. Search her house thoroughly and bring back anything you find interesting. Put her under close guard in one of the rooms here. That means a permanent suicide watch.”

He grinned. “So she’s one of them after all, eh? I’m off!” He ran down the steps, calling out names, calling for horses. In moments he and a dozen other armed men were mounted and pelting down the road toward the villa. Then Cato surprised me.

“You’ve raised that one well. He’d make fine material for the army and even the Senate. It’s too bad he’s a freedman and barred from office. He’s better quality than half the men in the Senate.”

I was dumbfounded. For once, Marcus Porcius Cato had said something absolutely correct and sensible. “I’ll tell him you said so. Coming from you, it will mean a lot to him.”

“War is coming. When it comes, if you don’t have a position for him, send him to me. I’ll have command of at least one legion. I’ll give him a centurionate.” In those days it was still possible for an exceptional man to be appointed centurion without spending years in the ranks first.

“I will keep that offer in mind,” I said, “but I expect that I’ll have plenty of use for him.”

Cato favored me with one of his rare smiles. “Of course, you’ll be taking the field yourself.” Cato always assumed that I was as military-minded as he was, and that I would look forward to wielding command. I had won a certain military distinction, but it was almost all against my own inclinations. He could never understand that. I certainly was not about to send Hermes to serve with Cato, no matter in what capacity. Not that Cato wasn’t a good commander, but I knew he would sacrifice his army and himself over some point of principle that meant nothing to anyone else.

“All right,” Cato said, “you’ve just taken your first extralegal step. I take it we are to expect more?”

“Far more,” I assured him. He meant that I had no power of arrest here and the arrestee was not a foreigner.

“Good,” Cato said.

Early in the afternoon, Pompey arrived. He was in full military fig and accompanied by a rather large bodyguard, around fifty mounted men. This was because of what I had written to him:

If you would like to see the end of this, come to my court as soon as you can. Bring some of your men. There may be trouble.

He heaved himself from his saddle a little more adroitly this time, but he was still struggling with his weight. There was a two-inch gap between the front and back plates of his bronze cuirass. I took him to the terrace where our strategy session was still in progress. By this time I’d had a larger table brought out to accommodate our expanded numbers. He exchanged greetings with Julia, Cato, and some others. I gave him an abbreviated briefing on my findings and plan.

“I always thought it was unreasonable of Pedarius not to let me just go ahead and pay for the restoration of the temple,” Pompey said. “I wouldn’t have insisted on putting my name on the pediment.”

“Poor men can be prouder than rich ones,” I told him. “This one was so intent on preserving the dignity of his patrician name that it led him into some foolish choices.”

“I hope he hasn’t made me look foolish along with him,” Pompey said ominously.

“You wanted this district to be quiet. When this is over it should be and you can concentrate on your recruiting.”

“When do things start?” he wanted to know. “My time is limited.”

“Almost everyone has arrived at my summons,” I said. “We should be able to begin tomorrow. If all goes well, it should be over tomorrow, too.”

A prodigious crowd had gathered for the opening of my court the next morning. Actually, I use the word “court” advisedly. I was going to do something quite contrary to long-established Roman court practice. Perhaps if I had had more time and manpower, I might have called down some jurists from Rome to put it on a more conventional footing and make sure that the precedents were followed, but I had neither the time nor the resources.

A Roman praetor is not supposed to bring charges himself. He does not prosecute or defend. He presides in majesty over the arguments of lawyers and the deliberations of juries. He takes no part himself except to see to it that the proper forms are followed, that the jury’s decisions are correctly arrived at, and at the conclusion he delivers his judgment in accordance with the findings of the jury. This was going to be very different.

My dais had been arranged so that Pompey and Cato sat beside me, my curule chair slightly elevated above theirs. Pompey had his own curule chair, spectacularly draped with tiger skins. Cato did not hold an imperium office and his chair was an ordinary one, slightly lower than Pompey’s. My six lictors and Pompey’s twelve made an impressive sight ranged before the dais, the polished wood and steel of their fasces shining in the morning sunlight. Just to add to the drama, Pompey had provided a pair of trumpeters with their great cornus curling over their shoulders.

I had Hermes make sure that everyone was present. It is always embarrassing to call a witness only to find that he is absent. It breaks the rhythm of the proceedings and makes the caller look foolish. He returned a while later to report that everyone was present. Just in front of my chair was a table, and it bore the documents I would need for my case.

In the forefront of the crowd were many of the most prominent persons of the district, and in the forefront of these were the various praetors, duumviri, dictators (yes, some towns called their elected headman dictator), and so forth of all the nearby towns. Ranged behind them were priests, guild chiefs, and other persons of consequence, many of them just plain rich. Those local lawyers looked at me with curiosity mixed with fear and anger. They knew that something here didn’t smell right.

When I judged that the level of tension had reached the right pitch, I signaled the trumpeters and they blew a long, ringing blast. Instantly, the crowd fell silent. I stood and gathered my purple-bordered toga about me in the manner approved by all the best rhetoric instructors.

“Citizens!” I said, pitching my voice in outdoor-oratory mode, and flattering them somewhat since by no means all of them were citizens. “For some time now, this district has been afflicted by a most distressing series of murders. All the priests of the Temple of Apollo,” here I gestured grandly toward that building, “a slave of that temple named Hypatia, a Syrian merchant of Pompeii named Elagabal, the wealthy widow Sabinilla, and now, I have learned, the patrician patron of the temple, Manius Pedarius, have been murdered!”

A murmur went through the crowd. Most of them had never heard of Elagabal, and this was the first proclamation that the death of the elder Pedarius had been a murder. They had a lot to murmur about.

“Not only that,” I continued, “but I myself was nearly murdered, an arrow shot from ambush missing my heart by the breadth of a finger.” This was something of an exaggeration for dramatic effect, but it had been close enough.

“These murders,” I cried, “are only the latest and most public of a long line of homicides, going back many years, of which the people of this district were entirely oblivious. Consider this, citizens. Visitors have come to this area to consult with your oracles from all over Italy, from Greece and even from Ionia and beyond. They have come here, never to return to their homes. Murdered and robbed in your midst, their bodies disposed of, and you have known nothing of it. You have not even suspected that any of this was happening.”

Those important dignitaries in the front row didn’t like the sound of this. They depended on the transient trade. If people should get to thinking that this place was a death trap, those dignitaries stood to lose a good deal of money.

“Praetor!” one of them shouted. “These are outrageous accusations!”

“You will be silent while I speak,” I proclaimed grandly. “As it happens, I have indeed marshaled a most incriminating host of documents and witnesses, sufficient to prove my charges accurate in the last detail.” Then I gestured toward the two who flanked my chair. “Here to act as witnesses on behalf of the Senate of Rome are two of the most distinguished senators of our day: General Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, most famous soldier in the world, propraetor of Spain and minister extraordinary of the grain supply, and the distinguished Marcus Porcius Cato, former praetor and the most incorruptible governor and minister Rome has ever produced.” People cheered for Pompey and Cato. I hoped Pompey wasn’t interpreting this as support for his military plans. Cheers cost nothing. “They will render to the Senate a full account of all that transpires here today.”

I drew myself up. “Citizens, what has happened here was never the doing of a single murderer. It was the result of a conspiracy involving many persons, some of them active agents in robbery and murder, others passive accessories, who profited from their passivity and their silence.”

They were quiet, half-stunned. “First of all, I charge Iola and the entire staff of the Oracle of Hecate!”

A local lawyer could stand no more. “It is no part of a praetor’s duties to bring charges. This is an outrage and an example of Roman highhandedness and, dare I say it? Roman tyranny!” There were growls of agreement from the crowd.

“Don’t arrest him or kill him,” Pompey muttered in a low voice. “I need these people.”

“Don’t worry,” I muttered back. I had expected exactly this accusation and had prepared for it.

“Citizens,” I said with utmost scorn, “I would have been most happy to see some public-spirited local citizen come forward to indict these miscreants, but nobody has seen fit to do so. Nobody has raised a voice in the ten years that this outrageous conspiracy has existed! And it may go farther back than that. I felt it incumbent upon me to take up the task at which you have failed so miserably.”

I switched to sarcastic, Ciceronian mode. “Of course, should one of you already have a case prepared and be ready now to come forth, I will be most happy to let you come forward, and I will resume my chair and preside.” In a grand rhetorical gesture I cupped a hand to my ear and pretended to be listening. “What’s this? Not a single voice to be heard?” I lowered my hand. “Then, if you will allow me to proceed.” I turned to my lictors. “Bring forth the accused.” The lictors marched off and returned with Iola and her crew, looking a bit the worse for a few nights in custody. At least they didn’t have their dogs with them.

“Iola, I charge you and all your associates gathered here with the most heinous crime of murder, and not merely of murder but a whole series of murders. I charge you with sacrilege for falsifying oracles to lure your victims to their death, and with committing murder, and disposing of the bodies of the slain without the proper rites, in a place deemed holy for many centuries. How do you plead?”

She seemed to speak past some obstruction in her throat. “Not guilty, Praetor.”

“I scarcely expected you to plead otherwise. Iola, stand with your other women over there, aside from the men.” Mystified, she complied.

“Citizens,” I went on, “I will now present you with the account of a crime typical of those perpetrated here. Ten years ago, there was an oil importer of Stabiae named Lucius Terentius. It was his custom to make voyages to consult with his suppliers overseas. Before undertaking a voyage, like many another traveler he would consult an oracle. On that occasion, he made the mistake of consulting the Oracle of the Dead, here at Hecate’s sanctuary. I call the woman Floria, freedwoman of Terentius.”

The woman was brought out and administered the terrible oath that calls down the vengeance of the gods on perjurers. Personally, I have never noticed anyone to suffer for committing perjury unless they were caught and couldn’t bribe their way out of it. Still, I suppose the oath does no harm and scares some people into telling the truth.

“Floria,” I said, “tell this court exactly what happened when your former master came to this place, and of what transpired afterward.”

So she recited her story, much as I had heard it earlier. At first, her voice was weak, and I told her to speak up. When she finally understood that she would truly not be tortured or abused, she gained confidence and her voice steadied. It was actually far more effective than a rehearsed speech, and I could see that many of the onlookers were beginning to believe there was something to all this.

“Well done, Floria,” I commended, when she was done. “Now, I want you to go over there”-I pointed to the knot of black-robed women-“and tell this court if you recognize the slave girl who so treacherously extracted crucial information about your master from you.”

She walked over to them slowly. “I am not sure, Praetor. It was ten years ago.”

“Just examine them carefully and see if you can recognize her.”

The woman looked closely at them, one by one. Then she stopped and gasped. She pointed at Iola. “This is she, Praetor!”

“Are you certain, Floria? Be sure you are not mistaken.”

“There is no mistake, Praetor! Now that I see her, I know her as if it was yesterday I saw her.”

“Thank you, Floria. You are dismissed.”

“So you see, citizens,” I continued, “how they chose and deceived their victims. Those they picked were conducted to the shrine of Hecate, not the riverine Oracle chamber below, and given a false prophecy, which the victims believed to be the voice of Hecate herself. You will now learn how they performed this deception. I call the master stonemason Ansidius Perna.” The man stepped forward and took the oath. “Perna, explain to this court the ventilation system that supplies fresh air to the subterranean tunnel.”

Baldly, Perna explained how a second tunnel, above the first, provided ventilation. When he was done, I dismissed him.

“Ansidius Perna and his workmen cut me an access to the tunnel above. He did not accompany us on our exploration of this second tunnel. That was undertaken by myself and several of my companions. Directly above the chamber of the shrine we found lamps and litter indicating where Iola’s confederate provided the false voice of Hecate. I would now like some of the distinguished men of this district to go and examine the ventilation tunnel and confirm that all I say is true. I have provided a ladder and my men will be there with torches. The more energetic of you may wish to travel the whole length of the tunnel, but it is a long walk, about two miles there and back.”

As I had expected, quite a number of the prominent and less prominent people were eager to see this unprecedented marvel. While they were thus preoccupied, I decreed a recess, and most of the crowd headed for the vendors. I retired with Pompey and Cato to an inner room where we could drink without scandalizing anyone. Roman magistrates on court duty are supposed to abstain from food and wine for the duration. I had never seen this custom observed rigorously, but most officers tried to be discreet about it.

“Not much trouble so far,” I said. “I expected more outrage.”

“There would have been,” Pompey said, “if we hadn’t been here.”

“True,” I acknowledged. “The presence of heavily armed Roman soldiers has a remarkably calming effect.”

Julia joined us. “I must say this is the strangest trial I have ever attended.”

“The usual forms won’t work in this situation,” I told her.

“I am wondering,” she said, “how you can get a verdict without empaneling a jury.”

“Oh, I shall manage, my dear,” I told her. She was not satisfied, but she knew better than to have at me in the presence of two high-ranking Romans. Roman wives, especially patrician wives, were not supposed to act that way, so she had to observe the proprieties. How she and all the other wives acted in private was another matter.

When we got word that people were returning from the tunnel, we went back out and I declared recess at an end.

“Are you satisfied,” I asked, “that the circumstances of that tunnel are as I have described them?”

“We are, Praetor,” said a man of distinction who appeared to be the spokesman for the group. “But we are at a loss how the false voice of Hecate reached the place above the shrine.”

“When those who decided to go the whole length of the tunnel return, they will affirm that it ends at the bottom of what appears to be a deep and wide well, but which is in reality a sort of mundus. It is located in a remote area on the property of the woman Porcia, well known in this area.” This raised a loud murmur from the spectators.

“Bring out Porcia,” I said to my lictors. They tramped off and returned with the woman, who looked decidedly angry.

“Praetor!” she shouted before I could speak. “What is the meaning of this travesty? This is not a proper trial and you are charged only with hearing cases that involve citizens and foreigners. You have no right or authority to do this!” There were mutters from the crowd that she was right.

“As a matter of fact, Porcia, you are a woman of citizen status and she”-I pointed to Iola-“told me herself that she came here from Thrace. So she is a foreigner. I interpret this to mean that this matter falls beneath my purview. You will now take the oath.”

Fuming, she did so.

“Very well,” I said. “Now, Porcia, what was your father’s name?”

“My father was Sextus Porcius,” she said sullenly.

“I now summon Marcus Belasus, duumvir of Pompeii,” I said. Belasus came forward, accompanied by a secretary. The secretary carried a satchel of the type used for holding papers. There was the usual oath taking and I continued. “Duumvir, will you tell this court the circumstances of my visit to Pompeii some days ago?”

Belasus explained about the murder of the Syrian Elagabal, and about my visit and what proceeded from it. He was a good public speaker, and threw in many embellishments and fine figures of speech. He left out the part about the party that evening.

“I thank you, Duumvir,” I said, when he was finished. The secretary took a paper and handed it to me. I held it up. “I have in my hand the first of many incriminating documents we found in the office of Elagabal the Syrian, supposedly a speculator in ships’ cargoes, but in reality the most prodigious fence and receiver of stolen goods in all of Italy!” Once again, an exaggeration, but lawyers are expected to exaggerate. It is part of what makes a trial such a popular entertainment. I read off its list of goods. “These are typical robbers’ and burglars’ loot, and it was brought to Elagabal, something more than ten years ago, by none other than Sextus Porcius!” This went over well with the crowd. Many scornful looks were directed toward Porcia. Had she been wellborn as well as rich, she might have drawn more sympathy, but she was a mere freedman’s daughter, and her riches probably made her resented all the more.

“There are probably a hundred men named Sextus Porcius in Campania, Praetor!” she shouted. “Probably far more than that. This means nothing!”

“By itself, no,” I agreed, “but it is only a small part of the evidence against you.” I paused for drama. Then I held up a couple of the tiny arrows. “These, for instance. When we visited the mundus on your property and found some of these nearby, I asked what their significance might be, since they represented no Roman custom. You said that you didn’t know what they were for. Yet I discovered that everyone else around here knows that they are used to petition a god for vengeance. Why this ignorance on your part, Porcia?”

“You think I know every detail about what people here believe? I’ll bet there’s lots you don’t know about Roman religious practice. Everyone’s got more superstitions and beliefs than any one person can know about.” The woman had a quick wit, I was forced to acknowledge.

“Yet,” I said, “at the banquet held by my friend Duronius, whom I see in the first rank of those gathered here, you seemed to have a comprehensive command of local beliefs. And that mundus we visited, the one you said you thought was just a long-dry well that had been abandoned: That is the entrance to the ventilation tunnel.” This last I spoke with the rising inflection employed by all lawyers and actors for making a major point. There came a collective gasp from the crowd.

“I told you I hardly ever visited there, and I spoke the truth!” she said. “You’ve seen my property. Anyone can go to that mundus without my ever knowing about it.” I saw how Iola glared at Porcia. Iola sensed that she was doomed, but that Porcia might somehow get out of this. I was counting on her resentment.

“Yet the evidence is mounting against you, Porcia. You see, when I first suspected that the Oracle was faked, it occurred to me that whoever spoke as the voice of Hecate, a goddess, had to be a woman. You were the voice of Hecate, Porcia. On a day when a victim was to be fleeced by means of a false prophecy, you went down your mundus-we saw where you placed your ladder, by the way-and went down the tunnel to lie with your ear to the vent hole and listen for your cue like an actress about to go onstage. If it was going to be a long day, you took some refreshments with you. You left plenty of evidence behind.”

“It wasn’t me,” she maintained.

“Iola, come over here,” I said. Both women looked a bit startled, which was all to the good.

“Iola, you told me you came here from Thrace about seven years ago, but you were lying. According to the testimony of Floria, you were here ten years ago. You were a temple slave, or posing as one. Which was it?”

“The woman is lying. I was not here then and I was never a slave!”

“I believe you were here then, and that you were a slave, Iola. You see, the estimable Lucius Pedarius, whose family have been patrons of the Temple of Apollo for generations, has provided me with papers detailing the priests of Hecate as well as those of Apollo, their dates of accession and their deaths, providing some details of how they died. It also seems that there was a purchase of slaves twelve years ago including one young woman, unnamed, from Thrace. A lot seems to have started happening here right about that time.”

“That was not I!” she cried, her voice trembling on the edge of hysteria. “The sanctuary has always had slaves, and many of them are from Thrace because that is the homeland of the goddess. I was born a free woman and I came here as a priestess!”

“Yet I believe you to be this Thracian girl in the records. There is no record of her manumission. You know what that means, do you not?” Iola went dead pale. As a noncitizen, a foreigner and a slave, she was subject to judicial torture.

“At the time you arrived, the priest was one Agathon. He died within a year of your purchase, displaying symptoms identical to those of the late Manius Pedarius, whom I am firmly convinced was poisoned by another slave recently arrived in his household. The position was then taken by one Cronion, who died shortly thereafter from an unspecified fall which resulted in a broken neck. Next to take up this hazardous office was Hecabe, a priestess, who lasted quite a bit longer, several years, before being found dead in her chamber from what appeared to be some sort of seizure: face blackened, eyes bulged and red, foam at the lips, and so forth.”

“These were all natural deaths, Praetor,” Iola protested.

“One such might not arouse suspicion,” I admitted. “Even, perhaps, two. But three priestly deaths in a row that could easily be interpreted as violence or poisoning? This strains the limits of coincidence.” Iola looked as if she was staring directly at her doom. Porcia, for her part, was glaring at Iola. She knew the other woman would break first.

“Oh, yes,” I said, as if I had just remembered something, “there is a peculiarity about these records of the Pedarii. They go back for generations, kept by ancestors of the present generation of that family. They include fairly detailed records of their patronage of the Temple of Apollo. They also include much briefer records of the priesthood of the sanctuary of Hecate, since it seems there was a limited patronage of that cult, probably because both occupy essentially the same property. However, these record only such things as the accessions and deaths of the high priests and priestesses and, very occasionally, of large purchases of property such as slaves, this I presume because the Pedarii contributed some of the purchase money as partial patrons. These details of how the priests and the priestess died occur only in the records kept by Manius Pedarius, and only for the last ten to twelve years. Why do you think that might be?” I looked back and forth from Iola to Porcia. The crowd was utterly silent. I had them now.

“I will tell you what I think. I believe that Manius Pedarius was a man with a great deal of pride and very little money. His was once one of the great patrician families of Rome. They fell upon hard times, as have many other fine families, through no fault of their own but through bad luck or the malice of some god.” Here I made one of the gestures to ward off the unwelcome attention of the immortals. It was repeated by everyone present, along with some local variants.

“Rather than continue dwelling in Rome as virtual paupers among the great families, they chose to remove to the south of Campania, where they prospered modestly and upheld the obligations of a patrician family through patronage of this unique double temple. It is not one of the great temples of Italy, but even its modest requirements strained the finances of the Pedarii.

“Some years ago, the priests of Apollo approached Manius Pedarius. The temple was in need of restoration. Could he undertake the costs incurred by this project? He could not, but he was too proud to say no. His patron and my friend General Pompey,” here I gestured toward that resplendent figure, “very generously offered to underwrite the entire expense, and not even place his name on the pediment, the usual custom of one paying for such a project.” There was applause for this largesse, which Pompey acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head.

“But Manius Pedarius thought it unfit that he should accept more than a fraction of the required money from his patron. Apparently, the priest of the sanctuary of Hecate knew of the proposed restoration and realized that this would put Pedarius in a very difficult situation. This was probably the priest Agathon, but I cannot be certain. He offered to cover the cost, but with a proviso: Pedarius was never again to visit the sanctuary, to take no interest in its doings. Naturally the man was suspicious, but he needed the money badly to save his honor. He stayed away, but he kept track of certain things, such as how the priests came and, more importantly, went. He had to be suspicious that the sanctuary had to have come by this wealth in some less than holy fashion.”

“Praetor,” Iola said, “this is pure speculation.”

“Then call me a philosopher,” I advised her. “My school of philosophy consists of collecting facts, even tiny facts that seem irrelevant, and building them into a picture of what has happened. With these facts and pictures, I can form a model, or to use the Greek word, a paradigm, of events as they are most likely to have occurred.” I could see that nobody had the slightest idea what I was talking about. Well, I shouldn’t have strayed into a field that I couldn’t explain very well.

Pompey whispered behind me so only those on the dais could hear, “How far would this sophistry get you in a Roman court?” Even Cato chuckled.

“Thus,” I said, getting back to business, “we can see that the illicit practices of the sanctuary of Hecate go back a number of years, probably before this woman Iola even came here. Perhaps they go back centuries, but we can do nothing about that. What is clear is that Iola brought a new scope to the proceedings-and I do not believe that she came up with the plan alone. Porcia was its creator.”

“Prove that, Praetor,” said the woman.

“In due time, Porcia. Be patient. We now come to the murder of Eugaeon and the rest of the priests of this venerable temple.” Another grand sweep of the arm, toward the temple that stood above and behind me. A finely draped toga makes this gesture especially graceful and impressive. When the toga has a purple border, it can scarcely be matched.

“In earlier days, before the advent of the resourceful Iola and the devious Porcia, the practice at the sanctuary of Hecate had been to find petitioners who were from places far from here and who had no local friends who would notice their disappearance. They were taken into the chamber of the Styx and the Oracle”-I pronounced these heavily loaded words in my most solemn tones-“and there, instead of receiving a prophecy, they were murdered and their bodies thrust down into the river, where its powerful current swept them down beneath the earth, never to be seen again, their shades destined to wander forever because they never received the customary rites.” My audience shuddered, their faces betraying horror.

“But Porcia,” I pointed at her, “knew something that the clergy of the temple did not, or had long forgotten. You see, the tunnel and its grotto were here long before the Greeks or the Oscans came. It was already ancient even before they arrived. The cult of Hecate moved in and claimed it not knowing that the tunnel had a ventilation tunnel above it, and that the ventilation tunnel debouched at the supposed mundus on the estate of Porcia. At least, they didn’t know until Porcia came and told them. But you didn’t tell the whole staff, did you, Porcia? You told Iola first, and between you was hatched a long-range plan. The priests, Agathon or Cronion or whichever it was, would of course have leapt at a plan that promised such abundant booty with such safety. Nevertheless, you wanted to narrow the field. You would do away with the superiors until you had maneuvered Iola into the position of high priestess.”

“I won’t even protest this,” Porcia said. “You have no power to condemn me. There is no jury here. Do as you like, I will take this all the way to the Senate at Rome.”

Then Iola turned on her. “Of course he can do nothing to you. You are a woman of citizen status. I am a foreigner and have no rights here!”

Porcia glared at her. “Be still!”

Yes, they were definitely falling out. Time to work on Iola again. “It was a cozy arrangement. Porcia provided the false Oracle. You picked the victims and committed the murders, except for those that had to be carried out at a distance by confederates, whom you will name for us later. Elagabal and probably others fenced the goods for you, and Manius Pedarius kept his mouth shut and stayed away. There was only one factor you did not have under control: those pesky priests of Apollo upstairs. They have been living side by side with you, only in a vertical fashion, for centuries. They just had to have noticed that there were odd doings going on down below.”

Now I addressed the assembled audience in sorrowful tones, “I would like to believe that Eugaeon was threatening to denounce the Hecate cult as criminals and mass murderers, but it is also possible that Eugaeon wanted in on it and demanded a cut for himself. Which was it, Iola?”

“You have no proof!” she said desperately.

“That’s a weak objection. No matter. Doubtless Apollo and Hecate will judge which of these people betrayed their trust, and in what fashion. Both are reputed to have terrible punishments in store for those who would violate their most sacred oaths.” Porcia looked unimpressed, but Iola was clearly terrified.

“Once Eugaeon approached her, for whatever purpose, Iola and her confederates began to plot his death and those of the other priests. Murder had always been a simple business for these cultists: a rap on the head or noose around the throat, rifle the bodies, and send them down the river to the underworld. Or else leave it to professionals overseas. Either way was eminently safe. This was different. The priests of the Temple of Apollo were persons of public importance, known locally by everybody. They would be immediately missed, even if you could kill them all quickly and dispose of the bodies down the river. It had to be planned carefully, so that no suspicion could fall on you. You had to know the schedules and routines followed by the priests, and exactly when they would be most vulnerable. There was only one way you could accomplish this: plant a spy in the temple.

“Whatever their other austerities, the priests of Apollo are no less captivated by feminine beauty than are other men. To this end you acquired the girl Hypatia, a remarkable beauty, intelligent, and a good actress. You taught and coached her carefully, then you presented her to Eugaeon at an outrageously reasonable price. Smitten, he complied at once. Once in the temple, she commenced her true duties. I suspect that you already knew all about the other tunnel, that it had no ventilation and that the priests stayed down there only a short time. Hypatia told you the days and hours during which the priests descended to their crypt, and that they stayed only a short time, during which all other persons were barred from the temple. It was perfect. The girl would simply shut the trap behind them and they would suffocate quickly because they took numerous lamps or torches with them. A day was appointed on which to carry out the deed.” I stood back and paused. Everyone was eager to hear what I had to say next.

“It would have worked, Iola, but two things happened that you could not have included in your calculations. First, a Roman praetor showed up and wanted to consult the Oracle. There was no way you could refuse. Second, when Eugaeon lost consciousness, he fell into the river and surfaced literally at our feet. Do you think it was the gods taking a hand in mortal matters to see that you suffer a horrible death in this world?”

“I never sold that girl to Eugaeon,” Iola maintained. “There cannot be a single witness to say I did!”

“Quite right,” I said to her. Then I pointed to Porcia. “You did.”

“Liar,” she said succinctly.

“One of the most gratifying things about criminal conspirators,” I said to the audience in the tones of a teacher, “is that they rarely think of the evidence they leave behind in the form of papers. The written word can condemn as efficiently as the spoken word. Witness the lapses of these murderers, who otherwise planned their actions so admirably. They killed the fence Elagabal, but did not think to take his papers. They did away with Manius Pedarius, but left his papers for his son, and consequently myself, to peruse at leisure. Here is another paper.” Again I held one aloft.

“When I questioned the girl Hypatia after the discovery of the dead priests, she said that she was sold to the temple by Aulus Plantius, a traveling slave dealer familiar to many here. When my suspicions were aroused and I began to put together my own explanation of what happened, I consulted with the distinguished historian Lucius Cordus and he generously found for me the relevant document.” I gestured to where Cordus stood in the crowd and he basked in the attention.

“This is a praetor’s office document for the sale of a slave girl named Hypatia to the Temple of Apollo. The seller is not identified as Aulus Plantius. The seller is named as Porcia, daughter of the freedman Sextus Porcius.” There were great sounds of outrage from the crowd. “Her father was indeed that same Sextus Porcius who had dealings with Elagabal. She followed her father into the business.”

At last Porcia saw the trap closing around her. “You two are guilty, and many others with you,” I told the two women. “You might as well come clean. I remind you that you stand condemned to the complete satisfaction of these people here assembled. Only the presence of these soldiers keeps them from tearing you apart right now. I may decide to withdraw that protection. Talk, and you may live to bribe your way out of this. Decide now.”

“She came to me with the proposition,” Iola said, while Porcia looked disgusted. “She showed me the tunnel from her mundus to the chamber of the shrine. She said she’d found it when she was a little girl playing in the fields.”

“And together you plotted out your future, but recently things went sour, as they usually do when too many people get involved with a criminal enterprise. It was time to eliminate most of your accomplices. You got rid of Pedarius, who was superfluous anyway. You got rid of Elagabal. There were plenty of other fences, ones who didn’t know quite so much about you. Why was Sabinilla killed?”

“Her husband,” Iola said, “the one we poisoned for her, was a partner of Sextus Porcius. She had overheard too many of his conversations with Porcius. She was stupidly extravagant and always in debt, always borrowing money from us. When you came here and she made such a point of cultivating you, we knew she would sell us out to you to escape prosecution for her involvement.”

“I see. Well, now to a relatively minor matter: the attempt on my own life. Porcia, when you were arrested, my men searched your house and among other interesting things they found this.” I gestured and Hermes handed me a very fine bow, made of layered wood and ibex horn, the sort a professional hunter would use. “You know, I had quite forgotten that, on our trip to the mundus, you had said that you enjoyed hunting. You didn’t even have to hire an assassin, did you? You shot me yourself.”

Finally, she gave up. “I hadn’t practiced in too long.”

“How did you ambush me? It was quite well done.”

“I knew you were in Pompeii. When you left the town, I was well ahead of you in a litter. My Gauls can keep pace with slow-pacing horses easily. When you stopped, I took them off the road and went back through the brush with my bow. Pity my aim was off.”

“Pity, indeed. And no wonder we didn’t find you when you tried again and killed Sabinilla. My men were searching the countryside all around, but you arrived by way of your tunnel, where we had thoughtfully made you a door to the temple grounds, and you returned the same way. The dogs couldn’t track you because your scent was all over the place, so often did you visit.”

Porcia shook her head. “That stupid bitch.” I knew she wasn’t referring to Iola.

“Yes, I was about to ask about that. Why did poor Hypatia reveal to us where the bodies were hidden?”

“The little slut went and got herself pregnant by one of the younger priests,” Porcia said. “It meant nothing to me. All the priests had to die. But she felt”-she searched, as if for an unfamiliar word-“she felt guilty or something. She thought if she showed you where the bodies were, she might get off if the whole story should come out. Another night, and we’d have gotten them disposed of, down the river. We never thought you’d set up your court right here and move in. It made things awkward.”

“So you sent word to her to come join you in the stables, that you’d take her to safety. Then you stabbed her just as you stabbed Elagabal. I have to hand it to you, Porcia, you don’t delegate the dirty work.”

“Like you said, Praetor, it’s not a good idea to have too many people in on an extralegal operation.”

“So it is.” I drew myself up and faced the crowd. “For crimes of multiple murder too numerous to enumerate and, I might add, including poisoning which carries extra penalties, I condemn all these people to death. I’ll think up some really nasty way to do it.”

The crowd was stunned by my abruptness. They had expected a summation, a great speech, something they could repeat in the bars, but some of the more legal-minded detected certain flaws in my actions.

“Praetor,” said a duumvir of Cumae, “while there can be no doubt that these vile creatures deserve the worst of punishments, you are still not authorized to carry out summary executions. There has been no true trial by a jury, no arguments, only the results of your own investigation, which all here must agree has been superlative. We must observe the legalities.”

“We must?” I said. “Well, I suppose you’re right. I’m done here. You can all go home.” I looked at the accused. “You’re dismissed. It looks like I can’t have you executed after all.”

“Praetor!” Iola said, looking around with bugged-out eyes at the surrounding crowd. “They will rip us apart!”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” I said. “What’s about to happen will be the most celebrated trial in Italy. Whoever prosecutes you will be famous. His legal reputation will be made. He can move to Rome and maybe win a seat in the Senate.” I pitched my words so that all could hear and already I could see the lawyers and politicians cutting deals.

“People of Campania,” I cried, “I have truly enjoyed my stay here and I hope to see you all again someday. Now, I’m off for Sicily!”

Of course, everyone knows what happened in the next years. Caesar crossed the Rubicon and the war came. Pompey perished miserably in Egypt and Cato died nobly in Utica. I tried to keep my head down and attached to my shoulders. My Julia died many years ago. Every December I sacrifice to her shade, hoping it brings her some comfort. I will know soon enough.

These things happened in Campania in the year 704 of the City of Rome, in the consulship of Lucius Aemilius Lepidus Paullus and Caius Claudius Marcellus. We did not know it then, but it was the last year of the true Republic.