Under Vesuvius

11

When Gelon arrived the next morning our interview was unproductive.

"Patron?" he said.

"Yes. Patron, partner, hospes, what have you. In order to practice business in Italy, he must have had one. You mean you were never introduced?" I was seated in the impluvium that morning. Since the town house was three stories high, this formed a veritable well, with the dining room, master bedroom, entrance hall, and so forth opening off the central collonaae, the upper floors for storage and the household staff. It was bright and airy, with a beautiful fountain and many potted plants. But I was too frustrated to appreciate its charms.

"Not to my knowledge. If he had one, I am sure it was purely as a matter of convenience. No one was ever introduced to me as such."

"You mean he never mentioned that he had a patron, one who no

doubt demanded a percentage of his profits? This is a grave oversight in an otherwise exemplary man of business."

Gelon jerked his head sideways, the Numidian equivalent of a shrug. "Nonetheless, he never spoke of such a person to me."

Marcus awaited nearby. I caught his eye and nodded. Silently he left the house, bound for the municipal archive.

Hermes' report was likewise unproductive. "This town's gates haven't been guarded since the rebellion of Spartacus more than twenty years ago," he said. "You should see the hinges. They're solid with rust. They couldn't get the gates shut if the Parthians invaded. Nobody keeps track of who enters or leaves the town at any hour. They don't want to do anything that might slow down business."

"Somehow this doesn't surprise me," I said. "Cato sounds like a wiser man by the minute."

An hour later Marcus returned, smiling so sunnily that I knew he had bad news to report. "The archivist was of no use at all."

"Gaeto's registration has to be on record there," I said. "Have you forgotten how to bribe a public slave? It's a simple transaction involving money."

"Oh, he was happy to be of assistance," Marcus protested. "You know how boring his job must be. It seems that the relevant documents are no longer there."

"Misplaced?" I suggested. In Rome, the archive slaves kept the filing system deliberately chaotic, so that only they could find anything. You had to bribe them generously if you wanted them to find anything for you.

"No, the archive is in impeccable order. They use the Alexandrian system, with the ends of the scrolls painted in various colors by category, and each category arranged by alpha-beta-gamma, so that any document can be found in seconds. He walked right to where it was supposed to be, but it wasn't among the registrations of alien merchants. And we quickly saw that it wasn't misfiled among other documents. It's just gone."

I kneaded the bridge of my long, Metellan nose. "My day is a shambles and it's not even mid-morning yet. I suppose the slave has no idea who might have appropriated this document?"

"He says he's only been there a year. It might have been taken any time before that."

"Or," Hermes said, "somebody might have gone there yesterday and bribed him to turn it over. He would hardly court a severe flogging by admitting it."

"Everyone here has something to hide," I said, "and the favorite thing to conceal seems to be any connection to Gaeto the Numidian."

This left me with one possible source of information: the grieving widow. Just after mid-morning I was at her front door, accompanied by my lictors. The janitor admitted us and Jocasta received me in the atrium.

"Official business today?" she asked.

"It isn't a court day," I told her, "but I have some informal questions I'd like to ask."

"Then please come this way." As I followed her within the house I admired the way she moved. She had a walk that was both graceful and provocative; its sway emphasized by her long, red hair, which was tied back that morning in a tail that hung down as far as her very shapely buttocks. These and her long legs were clearly delineated by the gown she wore; one of those sheer, close-pleated Greek garments you see in Greek vase paintings, not as shameless as the Coan cloth dresses but extremely bold by stodgier Roman standards. In fact, she was in full Greek regalia that morning, with armlets banding her bare upper arms, her hairstyle and her cosmetics-everything as Greek as Homer.

Instead of the irjipluvium, this time she led me to a small library that opened off the'collonacle. 'l scanned the titles in the honeycomb racks lining three walls. Her taste seemed to run to Greek playwrights and poets, no historians or philosophers. I had the impression that now, free of her husband, Jocasta was detaching herself from all things Numidian and Roman, reverting to her pure Greek heritage.

We took seats at a small table, and a slave set watered wine and a plate of fruit between us. I took a sip and, the amenities now taken care of, got down to the matter at hand.

"Jocasta, you've told me that when your husband was away from Italy, you handled all his business dealings."

"Yes, I told you that," she agreed.

"So you dealt with all his business associates?"

"I believe I did."

"Then you must know Gaeto's citizen partner."

She didn't pause a beat. "Oh, yes. It was a man named Gratius Glabrio." Just because she didn't pause didn't mean that she was not lying, of course.

"Glabrio? Is he a citizen of Baiae? Of Cumae or Stabiae or Pompeii, by any chance?"

"Oh, no. He lives in Verona. It will be days before he even knows that Gaeto is dead."

"Which would account for his absence from the funeral. Have you any idea why there is no record of the affiliation in the local archive? It is required by law."

"I've no idea at all. The partnership was established when my husband first set up business in Italy. That was several years before we were married. I've never met the man personally, although just last year I sent him his percentage of the year's profits."

Another dead end. Verona was nearly as far from Baiae as it was possible to go and still be on the Italian peninsula. By the time I could prove or disprove the existence of this Gratius Glabrio I would already have, hopefully, solved this case. And by that time Gelon might well have been tried, condemned, and executed for a murder I did not believe he had committed.

"You make much of Gaeto's outcast status," I said, "yet you are a woman of education and refinement. If I may be so personal, how does one of your breeding end up married to a Numidian slaver?"

"Haven't you guessed?" she said with a sultry tilt of her head. "Gaeto bought me."

"You were a slave?"

"Nothing quite as crude as that. I am from Athens. Like my mother and grandmother before me, I was raised to be a hetaera."

This explained much. Most Romans think that a hetaera is just a high-class whore, but the truth is more complex. The word means "companion," and they are just that: women raised from childhood to be fit companions for well-bred men. To this end they are educated far beyond the usual level allowed women. They must be able to converse knowl-edgeably and with wit on a wide range of subjects: politics, history, art, and so forth. They learn music and poetry and, of course, a great many sexual refinements.

It just goes to show you that not all Greek men are pederastic boy humpers. Some of them actually desire the companionship of intelligent, educated women and are willing to pay very high fees for the privilege.

"Gaeto was just a wealthy merchant in need of a refined wife for his Italian home. My mother named a price, and he paid it without haggling. The status of rich man's wife is not a bad one for one of my heritage. Of course, at the time I didn't know what his business was, nor about the other wife in Numidia. Still, it wasn't a bad arrangement. Amid great luxury I set about applying some polish to my new husband and I think you will agree I was successful in this."

"He was a charming as well as an imposing man," I concurred.

"Yes, and our union was a rather happy one as such things go. I can tell you for a fact that few of the women here in Baiae are as satisfied with their husbands as I was with mine."

And some of them were content with yours as well, I thought. "And was your husband at odds with any of the great men of the town?"

"If you mean the rich ones, he was not."

"What of the not so rich ones?"

"Well, the priest, Diocles-"

"The one you told me on our last interview you believe to be the go-between in a network of treasonous activity?"

She shrugged. "Just a suspicion, on the word of a few suborned slaves. And, anyway, Gaeto never had anything to do with that. No, the priest was extremely angry with Gaeto, even threatening. I believe it was because poor Gelon was paying court to the old man's daughter."

"Threatening? You said nothing of this at our last interview."

"My husband was alive at the time of our last interview. He would have taken a very dim view of my speaking of his feuds to an official. Numidians settle such matters personally."

"And did you not suspect Diocles of murdering your husband?" I demanded.

She snorted delicately. "That feeble old man kill a man like Gaeto? Only a strong man with a sure hand and eye could have struck that blow." She smiled. "At least you know it wasn't Gelon. He was in your custody when my husband was killed."

"So he was. What were relations like between father and son?"

"Probably better than between a Roman father and son. You Romans are known for your tyrannical attitude toward your children. Oh, Gelon chafed a bit under paternal authority. What spirited young man does not? But Gaeto adored him and indulged him shamelessly. You saw his horses, his trappings, his personal escort, like that of a young prince. No, Gelon had little to complain about."

"Did Gaeto forbid him to see the priest's daughter? I spoke to Gaeto about this personally, because I foresaw trouble in my district."

"I believe they exchanged some sharp words on the matter, but I heard nothing clearly. And if you foresaw trouble, you share the gift of the Cumaean Sibyl."

"Actually, I had no idea just how bad trouble could get in this district. But I am learning."

"You know," she said, subtly shifting her shapely body, "you are a very interesting man. I've heard how you all but wiped out those bandits by yourself."

"An exaggeration," I assured her. "I accounted for two of them. My men and Gelon's did for the rest."

"But Rutilia told me how you faced down the whole power structure of Baiae with a sword in each hand, drenched in blood from head to foot. She said it was a most stimulating sight. From the way she gushed on about it, you probably could have mounted her right there on the road in front of everybody and she'd have loved it."

"What is life but a series of missed opportunities?" I said.

She laughed gaily, apparently quite recovered from her recent bereavement. "You are just not what one expects in a Roman official. Most of them are such dullards."

"I try to be entertaining. So you have been socializing with Rutilia? I thought the local ladies cut you dead."

"Oh, in public they elevate their noses, but I fascinate them. Last night Rutilia called on me, ostensibly to console me in my loss. Of course she claimed that she truly wanted to attend the funeral, but Norbanus wouldn't hear of it. She really wanted to get all the details of the murder and learn what was to become of Gelon. Quadrilla had already been by earlier, on the same mission. I know them well, you see. Them, and the other society wives of Baiae. They come to learn from me."

"And what do you teach them?"

"Can't you guess? They want to learn how to best please their lovers. No woman is more accomplished than a Greek hetaera, after all. That is our reputation, at least."

"Their lovers, not their husbands?" I queried.

"Why waste fine technique on a husband? First, they'd wonder how their wives learned such depraved practices. Then, they'd just go and teach their mistresses how to do it."

"I thought we were cynical in Rome. You people make us seem like infants."

"You Romans vie with one another for world power, which is political and military. Here, men vie for local power, which is political and commercial. To that end they indulge in all manner of dirty politics, espionage, personal leverage, scandalmongering, slander, bribery-the list is a long one. Their wives and daughters please themselves while striving to improve their own positions. Rome and Baiae: the same game, just a different scale."

"And here you add a certain sophistication we lack in Rome," I said.

"Do you? Or is the famous Roman reticence, gravitas, stoicism, and so forth just a pose to cover the reality that you are a pack of voluptuaries as degenerate as any Sybarite?"

My conversations with this woman never seemed to manage to stay on the intended course, which was to find out what had happened when the priest's daughter and Gaeto had been murdered, what had been going on in the Numidian's house and business. She was continually diverging down irrelevant and suggestive paths. To my distress, I found that I had little objection to this. I decided to let her speak on. I've often learned revealing truths in what is intended to be inane or misleading conversation. And if, in the meantime, I enjoyed the spectacle, well, what Roman doesn't enjoy a spectacle?

"Actually," I told her, "we're just a community of Italian farmers who happened to be good at fighting. We worry a lot that, if we get too accustomed to luxury, we'll lose our military edge. When we conquered Sicily more than two hundred years ago, among the loot brought back were fine couches and pillows. The censors were convinced that such luxuries would turn us into a horde of indolent, decadent degenerates. There were also some statues and paintings in the loot, and it was feared that these would cause us to become effete art critics."

"Couches," she murmured, "pillows. Yet in spite of these menaces you are still conquering away like drunken Macedonians following their golden-haired boy."

"Personally, I think these fears of decadence are overstated. I truly enjoy luxury and so do most other Romans. Yet Caesar's legions are the toughest we have ever fielded. But we have never felt-I suppose we've never felt really comfortable with the easy, abundant life. We feel that we should be out sleeping on the ground, wrapped in a thin cloak, eating coarse barley bread and goat cheese, washing it down with sour wine that's half vinegar."

"Perhaps that's why you are so belligerent, so that people won't get the wrong idea."

"We do emphasize public image," I agreed.

"And how closely does public image conform to private reality?" she asked. "You Romans hold ruthlessness to be a virtue and female un-chastity to be a great evil, but which causes more misery?"

"I didn't say we were logical. Logic is for Greeks. We value two things above all: military strength and our traditions. If the traditions are somewhat outdated, we love them anyway. As for wifely chastity, it was the attribute of our ancestral village women. These days, only the Vestals and Caesar's wife are above suspicion. The reigning queens of society are the likes of Clodia, Fulvia, Sempronia, and a score of others who are as scandalous as they are entertaining."

"What hypocrites you all are!" she cried.

"That's the advantage of being the greatest power in the world. You can be a hypocrite, take any pose, say what you like, and everyone has to smile and accept it."

"Power is a wonderful thing. Without it, what are we?"

"It strikes me that you are in a powerless position now, Jocasta. You are a widow; your husband's heir, your stepson, plans to abandon the business here and return to Numidia, where a woman's lot is not a desirable one, and I imagine that of a supernumerary widow is even less felicitous. Gelon may treat his mother with honor, but how will he, and she, treat you?"

"I have no intention of going to Numidia," she asserted, apparently quite unperturbed. "Gelon fancies a life there of living in tents, raiding the neighbors, endless riding and lion hunting, living on the flesh of gazelles, and trapping elephants and so forth. I'm sure it's all quite exciting, all something out of Homer. But while it may be a fine life for a man, it has few attractions for a woman, especially a woman of refinement like myself. I am quite capable of making my own way in the world. When Gelon leaves, I shall wave to him from the dock. Assuming, of course, that he is not executed for the murder of poor Gorgo."

"Speaking of which, that trial is coming up soon. At our last interview you speculated that your husband might forbid you to testify. That is no longer a factor. I shall summon you to speak."

She inclined her head. "As the praetor wishes, of course."

"And will your testimony serve to clear Gelon of the charge?"

"As I told you before, I saw him that evening and again the next morning. I shall testify to that."

"Most conscientious," I told her. "Expect my lictors to call upon you soon."

With a few more formal, meaningless politenesses, I left her and returned to the town house.

"You mean she is not even going to lie in court to save her stepson?" Antonia said, aghast. We were dawdling over lunch and I had given a somewhat abbreviated account of my interview with Jocasta.

"She will be under oath," Marcus said archly. "Perhaps she fears the anger of the gods."

Circe snorted. "She's a Greek. The Greeks think the gods admire a good liar. No, there must be a coolness between stepmother and stepson. Either she doesn't care if he's executed, or she actually wants him to die."

"If Gelon is executed," Julia said, "where does that leave his father's estate? If it passes to his local widow, that might be reason enough for her to want him to be executed."

"I've been considering that," I said. "My legal advisers tell me that the executor of a resident foreigner's will must be his citizen partner. I will have to summon this Gratius Glabrio all the way from Verona. By the time he reaches here, I will be in Bruttium or Tarentum. Then I will have to come back here to hear the case."

"If this Glabrio exists at all," Julia said. "And by then Gelon will be either executed or let go. I don't think much of his chances at the moment."

"What is her motive to lie about the partner?" Hermes wanted to know.

"One," Antonia said, "to cover her ignorance. She says she's been managing Gaeto's affairs in his absence. If he kept the identity of his partner secret, she may not want anybody to know it, so she makes up a fake one who is safely distant. As you say, by the time she's caught in the lie, this matter will be settled one way or the other." She popped a honeyed cherry onto her mouth, chewed, and spat out the pit. "Two, she knows, but she and the partner have an agreement to keep the arrangement secret for the time being."

"Why?" I asked, intrigued at this line of reasoning.

"You'll know that when you learn the contents of the will," she said, "but it will have to be something advantageous to both Jocasta and this partner, and it will require that Gelon be out of the way."

"I'm beginning to be glad that we brought you along on this trip," I said to her. She had a natural grasp of the ins and outs of devious, deceitful behavior. A typical Antonian, really. Her brother, the soon-to-be triumvir Marcus Antonius, was as close to a decent human being as that family ever produced, and even he was a criminal on a world scale.

"By the way," Julia said, "just where is the will and why hasn't it been read already?"

"It's deposited in the Temple of Juno the Protector in Cumae," Hermes reported. "That's the local custom. It won't be released while the dead man's son is under arrest, but the praetor can subpoena it for the trial."

"See that it's done," I said. "I want a look at it."

"Time is pressing," Julia said. "We have fewer than ten days before we must be in Bruttium for the scheduled assizes. When will Gelon be tried? You really can't stall much longer."

"The city council has already notified us," Hermes said. "Tomorrow is the day of a local festival and all official business is forbidden. The next day is a court day, and after that you have to hold court in Stabiae, so the day after tomorrow is the only day Gelon can be tried."

"At least the docket is otherwise clear," I said. "We can devote the whole day to the trial. Who will prosecute on Diocles' behalf?"

"A citizen named Vibianus," Hermes informed us. "He studied law with Sulpicius Galba and has won a number of important cases."

"And who will speak for Gelon?" Julia asked. "It seems that his father didn't live long enough to engage a lawyer."

"I may have to select one myself," I said. "Marcus, you could use some practice before the bar. Would you like to defend Gelon?"

"Impossible!" Julia protested. "For a member of the praetor peregrinus's own party to take part would seriously compromise the trial."

"Why?" Circe asked. "It happens all the time in Rome. Just last year I saw a Claudius prosecute a Claudius with a third Claudius defending and a fourth sitting as praetor."

"Rome is hopeless," Julia said, "but we must set a better example for the municipalities and the provinces."

"I suppose so," I concurred. "Pity Cicero wouldn't consider it."

"What about his brother?" Marcus asked.

"He does what Cicero tells him to," Hermes said. "But what about Tiro? He's a freedman now and a full citizen, so he can plead in court, and as a freedman it would not be a disgrace for him to defend a slaver's son. He's been Cicero's secretary since the beginning of his career, so he must know the law just as thoroughly. Plus, Cicero could coach him during the trial."

"Brilliant!" I approved. "I'll talk to Cicero this afternoon."

I wondered why I had not thought of it already. With Cicero defending through a proxy, Gelon would have a decent chance. Just as important, the trial was sure to be entertaining. A good legal spectacle might be just what was needed to restore the district to its customary mood of slothful good humor.

That afternoon I called on Cicero. He was socializing at the baths with a number of cronies and no few sycophants. In the Baiaean game of social one-upmanship, having the famous ex-consul among your intimates was a coup. And Cicero, for all his superiority of intellect, was not immune to such sycophancy.

The very fact that he was petitioning the Senate for a triumph was a sign of his declining powers of self-criticism. If ever Rome had produced a man of high political capacity who was utterly lacking in soldierly qualities, it was Cicero. His inflation of some trifling successes in Syria to a victory worthy of a triumph was a matter for considerable amusement in high political circles. The man who had saved the Roman situation there was young Cassius Longinus, and he had received no recognition at all.

My arrival was greeted with enthusiasm, for while my highhandedness had rankled the duumviri and a few others, my bloody brawl with the bandits had raised me in the esteem of most. After a long soak I got Cicero aside and made my proposal. He was at first astonished, but quickly came around to my point of view. He summoned his brother and Tiro and we discussed the matter.

"So you really think the boy is innocent?" Cicero said.

"Something is just not right. He is too convenient and there are too many other contenders."

"Decius always has good instincts in these matters, Brother," said Lucius, "and Tiro could certainly use the exposure. Trying a capital case in Rome might be too ambitious a start, but Baiae is just right-plenty of wealth without the distraction of great political power."

"I agree," Cicero said. "How about it, Tiro? Would you like to launch your career as a barrister here?"

"Well," Tiro said, "as a former slave myself, I might be reluctant to defend a slaver's son. However, since he plans to renounce his father's business and become a respectable thief and raider, how can I refuse?"

We were just leaving the baths when a clatter of hooves announced the arrival of my reinforcements. The forum crowd gawked as a full turma of thirty cavalrymen rode in, their scarlet cloaks streaming gaily. They wore glittering mail coats split at the sides to facilitate riding and scarlet-crested helmets of shiny bronze. Instead of the long, oval shields carried by Caesar's cavalry, these had the old-fashioned pompanum shield, so-called for its resemblance to the round, bossed cake used in sacrifices. Their long, slender spears waved gracefully. They were fine-looking young men and had all the earmarks of the sons of wealthy equites of southern Italy, too well-bred to slog around behind a shield in the legions. Still, they were full of spirit and verve.

Their leader was an even handsomer youth who wore a bronze cuirass sculpted to resemble the torso of Hercules. It was an immensely uncomfortable thing to ride in, as I knew from sore experience, but a splendid thing to see. His helmet was skinned with silver artfully embossed to resemble a head of curly hair. He reined in and spoke to Cicero.

"I am Marcus Sublicius Pansa, optio of the Ninth Turma, attached to the eleventh Legion, now being raised at Capua by the proconsul Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus. Have I the honor of addressing the praetor peregrinus Metellus?"

"No, you address the proconsul Marcus Tullius Cicero," I told him. "I'm Metellus." Technically, Cicero was still proconsul while he awaited his triumph, and would not lay down his office until he reentered Rome. The boy had made a natural mistake but he looked mortified.

"My apologies, sir! I thought-"

"Quite understandable," I told him. "It's only natural to think the most distinguished-looking man with a purple stripe is the one in charge. As it occurs, I am the one who sent for you. Who is your commander?"

"Sextus Pompeius, sir, the proconsul's son." The young man's diction reeked of the Greek rhetoric schools that were considered essential for a public career.

"Marcus Sublicius," I said, "we've had an outbreak of banditry in the region. I was personally assaulted and I take that as an insult to the dignity of Rome. I want them scoured out, and a few brought back alive for questioning. They are most likely on their way to the crater of Vesuvius, although they probably won't venture inside until the current venting dies down. Do you think you can handle that?"

He grinned. "It will be good training for the boys." The boys. He had to be all of nineteen years old.

"Good. Go first to the Villa Hortensia and get the horse master there. His name is Regilius and he's an old cavalryman and scout. He knows this countryside intimately and will guide you where you need to go. You have my authority to requisition supplies, grain, and remounts if need be anywhere in this district. With or without those men, be back here on the morning after tomorrow, in case I need you to keep civic order here."

"It shall be as you command, Praetor." He saluted, whirled, and rode out with his turma clattering at his heels.

"They seem to be a likely band of young men," Cicero said. "What do you think, Decius? You served with Caesar's cavalry. How would these match up to Caesar's?"

I didn't have to think about it long. "They're smartly turned out. Lots of glitter and panache, but they look like the horsemen of Scipio Africanus two hundred years ago. Caesar's cavalry look like bandits who plundered their gear off a battlefield. If it came to a fight, they'd eat those boys alive."

Cicero sighed. "That was what I was afraid you'd say."