Under Vesuvius

4

In the gray dawn I trudged back toward the villa. Halfway there I was met by the horse master. He was a tall man, a Spaniard by the look of him, who walked with a pronounced limp. I read the marks of the cavalry on him.

"The praetor sent for me?"

"Yes. You've ridden with the alae, haven't you?"

He looked pleased. "Fifth cohors equitata, attached to the Fourth Legion in the Sertorian War, first under General Metellus, then under General Pompey. I am Regilius."

"Well, Regilius, General Metellus was my uncle. General Pompey, I am happy to say, is no relation at all."

He grinned. "Wasn't much of a general, either, at least not in that war. At least your uncle fought Sertorius. Pompey bribed the traitor's friends to kill him."

"Very true. Regilius, I have a task for you. It is almost light. I want you to go all around the sacred olive grove and look for hoofprints. If anyone rode there last night, I want to know how many there were and what they were riding."

He grinned again. "Haven't done any scouting or tracking in a good many years, but I haven't forgot how. If there's horse sign out there, you'll know about it within the hour." He threw me a sloppy salute and whirled on his heel, shouting for his grooms. It was good to have someone around who knew his business.

Back at the villa I sat on a terrace and called for some breakfast. Trays of hot bread, sliced fruit, and pots of herbed oil and honey all appeared with magical swiftness, accompanied by heated, heavily watered, and slightly sour wine. This last was a wake-up drink much favored by Hortalus and others of his generation. Ordinarily I did not care for it, but just now it was what I needed. As I ate and pondered, I saw a line of litters coming down the road toward the villa: Julia and the other women, finally making it back from Norbanus's house.

The bearers brought the lead litter onto the terrace and set it down. Moments later Julia emerged. From within came a faint sound of snoring.

"Silly cows," she said, seating herself at the little table while I poured her a cup. "They slept the whole way back. Not even a murder can keep them awake." She took a sip and made a face. "This stuff is awful. Well, tell me."

So I filled her in on the night's doings. She followed me with great concentration. Julia's mind was as fine as any lawyer's, despite her overindulgence in Greek philosophy.

"All this evidence and you still don't think it's Gelon?" she said when I finished.

"Why do you think it was?" I asked her.

She bit into a sliver of melon. "A wellborn lady takes at least one slave girl with her when she goes to bathe. Gorgo dismissed her girls to their beds. Then she put on her best jewelry. A woman doesn't go out to bathe alone, in her best jewels, unless she is meeting a lover. We saw how infatuated she was with the boy, and he was clearly besotted with her."

"Lovers don't kill each other," I said.

"Yes, they do. More often than you'd think."

"But why?"

She shrugged. "You'll have to question him. But don't expect it to be a good reason, or one that would make sense to us. People in love are not sane."

"Profoundly true."

At this moment the horse master walked up to us and saluted again. "One rider, Praetor, on a small mare, Roman shod. It was hitched to a tree for no more than an hour."

"Would a Numidian ride a shod horse?" I asked him.

"We're talking about the slaver's boy, right? If I had beauties like his, I'd never ride anything else. No, Numidians don't ride shod animals and they don't ride mares, even unshod. Unless-"

"Unless what?" Julia demanded.

"Unless they don't want to be recognized as what they are. If I was a Numidian and I didn't want to be noticed around here, I'd put on some Roman clothes and ride a mare. A shod one."

"Thank you, Regilius."

"I'll keep my eyes open, Praetor," he said. "I'm pretty good at this. If I run across that mare's prints anywhere, I'll know them."

"That would be very helpful."

He grinned again. "This is like being in the cohors equitata again, chasing after the Lusitani in the hills."

"See that Norbanus's horses are returned to him."

"Already done, Praetor."

When he was gone I said to Julia, "I don't think it makes any sense. She might have angered the boy by obeying her father, telling him not to see her again, but if you are right, she was far from wanting to break it off."

"He may have come to confront her over another lover. It needn't have been anything serious. A jealous lover can see betrayal where there is none. Pass me the honey."

I picked up the pot. "It seems a little extreme-¦" She grabbed my wrist.

"What have you been up to? Have you been in my perfume box?"

It was as if she were speaking another language entirely. "Whatever are you talking about?"

"I can smell it on you. Have you been fondling another woman? It's on your hands."

"Just a dead one." I sniffed my fingers. Sure enough, they smelled faintly of perfume. Then I remembered. "Oh, it was Gorgo's bath kit. I took out a flask and unstoppered it. It was just scented oil."

She looked at me in exasperation, a familiar thing. "Did you think that it was just common oil steeped with rose petals? This is the scent called Zoroaster's Rapture. It is an incredibly costly perfume. It comes out of Persia in tiny amounts and nobody knows how it is made."

"Well, this is educational. How would a priest's daughter have come by such a scent?"

"At a guess, it was a gift, probably from Gelon."

"Is this one of the perfumes I was bribed with?"

"It was one of them. So we know the local source for it."

"Yes, I'll have to have a talk with Silva and his partner, Diogenes. See if they sold any to Gelon."

"And if they didn't?"

"Then we have a problem. Of course, they may lie about it. People often lie to investigators. It's almost reflexive."

"People are usually guilty of something, even if it's not what you are asking about. It makes them shifty and evasive."

"Too true. Well, I've gotten pretty good at ferreting out the truth. I'll take them one at a time and-"

"You'll do no such thing," Julia said firmly. "You are a praetor now, — not an investigator for one of your high-placed relatives. Send Hermes. You've trained him and he's very expert. Besides, he's younger."

"I'm not exactly doddering," I protested, but I knew she was right. Not that I was too old for it, but it would look bad for me to go personally to question suspects and witnesses. It would lower my dignity in the community, and I couldn't afford that.

"You haven't slept," she said unnecessarily. "What you need is a nap.

"Oh, a night or two without sleep shouldn't trouble a Roman magistrate. Why, in Gaul-"

"Go to bed!" she commanded.

"All right."

A few hours rest did me a world of good. I awoke in midafternoon, strode out into the courtyard, and splashed water on my face. A slave was there instantly with a towel.

"Has Hermes brought in the Numidian yet?" I asked the girl.

"They arrived not an hour ago, Praetor," she said chirpily. Like most of the slaves in this house, she seemed happy and content. I suppose if all you have to do is carry a towel around waiting for someone to splash water on his face, you certainly can't complain of overwork.

"Where?"

"The orchard-viewing wing, Praetor."

Old Hortalus was as dotty about his prize trees as he was about his fish. He watered some of his prize olive and apple trees with undiluted wine with his own hands, not trusting a slave to do it. It should come as no surprise that he built a special wing onto his villa to look at them.

There was a terrace outside the large dining room. Here Hortalus and his friends could eat and drink at their ease while they admired his trees. On the terrace my lictors lounged, keeping a wary eye on a sullen little group of Numidian bodyguards.

"Any trouble out of them?" I asked the chief lictor.

"No, Praetor. They wanted to resist, but the young man ordered them to lay down their arms."

I went inside. Gelon sat, dejected to the point of distraction, watched over by Hermes and several others of my following, all of them armed. The boy sprang to his feet and was about to say something, but Hermes shoved him back down.

"I shall speak to you presently," I told him. "Hermes, come outside with me."

We went out onto the terrace. "Where was he?"

"Not at his father's estate. He was in the family's town house in Baiae. Seemed to be still in bed when we arrived."

"What was the mood in the town?" I asked.

"Word was just beginning to spread when we got there, about two hours after daybreak. Things were getting ugly among the forum idlers and amateur orators. Someone was haranguing the crowd to go burn Gaeto's house down and lynch the boy, but it was still too early to whip up any real mob rage."

"Afternoon and evening are the times for mob violence," I said, having long experience with the phenomenon.

"Anyway, most of the indignation was from the Greek community. The Romans and others didn't seem all that enraged. If it had been a priest of Jupiter involved, it might be different."

"That's a relief. The best thing about a town like Baiae is there is no huge crowd of idlers with nothing to do except cause trouble. There's not much poverty or popular discontent. Perhaps we can handle this without too much unpleasantness. Now, we are going in there to talk to Gelon. After that, I have some tasks for you."

"Snooping?" he asked with a smile.

"Don't get ahead of yourself. If the boy comes right out and confesses, there will be nothing to investigate. But first, what is your impression? When you told him he was under arrest for killing Gorgo, how did he act?"

"At first he seemed numb, as if he were half-asleep when we called on him. Then he was like a bull hit between the eyes by the flamen's hammer. Too shocked at learning (he girl was dead to put up much resistance when the lictors laid hands on him. At least, that was the impression he gave. Whether it was false-" he shrugged "-I'd have a better idea if he was a Roman. With foreigners it's different."

I knew what he meant. People of different nations express the same thing in different ways. Gauls are happy in battle and hilarious at funerals. Egyptians shake their heads to say yes and nod to say no. Persians are solemn when making love, and Greeks weep at the death of their enemy. How could we know if a Numidian was really grief stricken or enraged?

We went back inside. "Gelon," I began, "I don't suppose I need to tell you in what an incredible heap of trouble you've landed?"

Again he jumped to his feet and this time Hermes didn't restrain him. "Praetor! You cannot believe that I would kill a woman I loved!"

"Actually, I can believe it quite easily, and that is giving you all the benefit of doubt. Others less favorably inclined than I are deeply convinced of your guilt. If you are truly innocent, you had better be able to prove it. I can promise you a fair, impartial trial, a Roman trial. Even now, your father is combing the district for the best lawyer to be found. There are some good ones living here."

"What advocate of repute would defend a slaver's son?" he asked bitterly.

"That would depend on how much money the slaver has. It is my impression that your father is not yet ready to apply for the dole. He'll get you a good one and you'll be well defended. It would help if you could provide evidence in your favor." Actually, it was forbidden for Roman lawyers to accept fees. It was quite all right, however, for them to accept presents. Hortalus had acquired his opulent villas and other properties through a long and successful career at the bar. He never accepted a fee, but few people had friends as grateful and generous as Quintus Horten-sius Hortalus.

"I swear I am innocent! By Tanit and Apollo, by Jupiter-"

I held up a hand for silence. "You'll do plenty of swearing and invoking at your trial, for whatever good it will do you. What I need to know, right now, is where you were last night."

"Why, I was at home."

I sighed. "I was afraid you were going to say that. You're quite sure you were not out carousing with your cronies? Sacrificing at the Temple of Pluto, perhaps? At least whoring in one of the more reputable lupanars?"

"I was at home," he said stubbornly.

"You will need witnesses to that effect. And they had better be free. I don't know about Numidia, but under Roman law, slaves can testify in court only under torture, and then nobody believes them anyway."

"My guards are free men, but they were off duty for the evening, in a tavern somewhere." He thought about it. "Jocasta was there."

"Jocasta? Your- Would the term be stepmother?" Now that I thought of it, she hadn't been at Norbanus's banquet.

"There is a Numidian word for the relationship between a son and a junior wife. I don't think it translates."

"Probably not. Can she testify that you were at home all night?"

"I–I think so."

The boy's ordinarily handsome face was contorted with his conflicting emotions: grief, rage, bewilderment, fear. I tried to discern guilt among them but I could not. This, as Hermes had indicated, meant little.

"I will speak to her. Anyone else?"

He shook his head. "No. Father was away, as you know. The rest of our family are in Numidia. The guards are men of our tribe. The rest of the household are slaves."

"And you had no assignation with Gorgo last night?"

"Assignation? What do you mean?"

I described the circumstances under which we had found the unfortunate girl. Now a new anguish came over his face: on top of everything else, betrayal.

"If she didn't go out to meet you," I said, "then who?"

"It-it can't be! She would not have-"

"For your sake," I told him, "you had better hope she would. Whoever was waiting for her in the olive grove, she went to meet him more than willingly.'* I let that sink in for a minute, softening him, then, "Young men courting women send them gifts. What did you send her?"

He stammered for a moment. "Gifts? Just small things: a silk scarf, a book of poetry by Catullus, a ring set with a carnelian."

"Small things," I said, "small but costly. The sort of things she could hide from her father. How did you get them to her?"

"We met in public places on festival days-there was never a secret meeting. Other times, I would meet one of her girls in the market and send things that way."

"Which girl was the go-between?" I asked, making a bet with myself.

"The Greek girl."

I'd won my bet. It was bold-eyed Charmian. "Nothing else? No costly perfumes, for instance?"

"Perfume? No, I thought of it, but the Greek girl warned me not to. She said the old priest might notice such a thing, since Gorgo used only rose water."

"I see." I arranged my toga in an imposing manner and gave him a brimming measure of Roman gravitas. "Gelon, I am giving you an unusual measure of attention because I think this is a very unusual case. Hear me now: I am giving you freedom of this villa, although you will be watched at all times. If you try to run, that will be construed as an admission of guilt. You will be tried in public, prosecuted by one advocate, defended by another, and your guilt or innocence decided by a jury. As praetor, I merely preside over the court and pronounce sentence should the jury return a verdict of guilty."

"But I did not-"

"Should the verdict be guilty," I went on, "there will be calls for your crucifixion. Roman citizens may not be crucified, but slaves and foreigners may. I can promise you only this: If you are found guilty, I will not condemn you to the cross nor to the arena nor any other degrading death. A quick beheading will suffice. Do you understand?"

He swallowed hard. "Yes. Thank you, Praetor."

"Very well, then. I will go now and try to set this district in order. Rome is a riotous city, but we don't like to see disorder in the municipalities and provinces."

I left him in a miserable heap and went outside. Julia was waiting.

"I thought you were supposed to be a praetor," she said. "Why are you behaving like a defense attorney?"

"I find it difficult to believe that boy murdered the girl."

"It's not your job. You are to preside over the trial."

"But I always like to know when I'm being lied to," I pointed out. "The more I investigate, the better I am able to determine that."

"You just like to snoop. So do I. I was listening while you questioned the boy. Did you notice that he said 'you cannot believe I would kill a woman I loved,' not the woman."

"The distinction did not escape me. It needn't mean too much. His father has at least two wives we know of. The boy may not consider his affections to be exclusive to any one woman."

"That is an attitude he shares with the entire male species. What do you plan to do now?"

"Would you like to pay a visit to the Temple of Apollo?"

"Not to sacrifice, surely?"

"No. I want to search the girl's quarters before anyone thinks to hide evidence."

She smiled. "That is exactly what I would like to do."

So, arm in arm, we walked down the pleasant garden paths to the beautiful little temple. When we arrived, the temple slaves were draping it in dark wreaths to signify mourning. The remains of a sizable fire smoldered on the altar, small tongues of flame leaping from time to time amid the crackling of resinous wood. It formed a miniature of smoldering Vesuvius, visible in the distance behind the temple.

We climbed the steps and a slave rushed into the temple. Moments later Diocles the priest emerged. He looked drawn but dignified. "Praetor, my lady, welcome to Apollo's temple."

"We've come to pay our respects, Diocles," I told him.

He bowed. "I am honored. My daughter is honored."

So we tossed a handful of incense on the fire and passed within. Gorgo lay on a simple couch, covered with a thin shroud, at the base of the statue of Apollo. At her feet two of her slave girls, red eyed and still weeping, sat on the marble floor, their garments torn in token of mourning. They were fair-haired Leto and German Gaia.

"Her pyre is being prepared before the family tomb," the priest said. "Her ashes will be interred with those of her ancestors."

"We shall attend, of course," Julia said.

"And now, Diocles," I said, "I would like a look at Gorgo's quarters."

His bowed head snapped up. "What?"

I placed a hand on his shoulder. "Just a little formality, in preparation for the trial. I know you would prefer that I do this personally, rather than some appointed index."

"I- yes, of course, Praetor. I appreciate your, ah, delicacy in this matter."

We followed him through a door behind the statue of Apollo and into a fine garden, beyond which lay a modest house built in the austere Greek fashion. Inside, the priest led us to a room opening off the courtyard. It was no more than a cubicle, with a narrow bed, a clothes chest, a chair, and a small vanity table. While Julia examined the vanity, I felt the thin pallet. I looked over the sill of the small window but found no loose bricks or any other sort of hiding place.

I would have liked to ask Diocles to step outside, but I had no decent way to do so. He watched without expression as Julia opened the lid of the chest and went through its contents. She looked at me and shook her head.

"Is all satisfactory?" the priest said formally.

"Yes," I told him. "Now, where do her slave girls sleep?"

He seemed astonished. "Why, in the next room. Why do you ask?"

"All part of the investigation. I would like to see it."

"Very well."

We went into another small room, this one crowded with three sleeping pallets and a single large clothes chest. We repeated the earlier search.

"Where is Charmian?" I asked as I checked the pallets.

"That one is being disciplined," Diocles said.

I felt a stab of guilt. I should have spoken to him sooner. "Last night, I told the girls you would not punish them so long as they told me exactly what happened. It is not my practice to tell a man how to discipline his own household, but this is a criminal investigation."

"No, Praetor, it is not about- what happened last night. It concerned another matter entirely."

"I see. Well, I think we are clone here. Diocles, I apologize and I thank you for your forbearance. This had to be done."

He inclined his head gracefully. "You need not apologize for performing your duty, Praetor, and, again, I thank you for your discretion."

We took our leave of him. On our way back to the villa, we compared

notes.

"What did you find?" I asked.

Julia took out a small scroll tied with ribbon. "Just this. It was in the bottom of the slave girls' chest, tucked into an old purse. I stuck it beneath my stola while you distracted the priest. You?"

"There was a hard lump in Gorgo's pallet. I'll send Hermes to find out what it is this evening. He's an accomplished burglar, and the household will all be at the funeral."

"You noticed the altar?" she said.

"Oh, yes. There was a big fire burning on it just an hour or two ago, and it's past midafternoon. Apollo's sacrifices are performed just at sunrise and just at sunset."

"Exactly. Afternoon sacrifices to Apollo occur only during an eclipse and I don't recall one today. So what was being burned with such haste?"

"I'll have Hermes go through the ashes. Maybe something will be left. Now, let's have a look at that scroll."

We sat on the parapet of one of the smaller fish pools. The fat inhabitants swam up in hopes of food and then, disappointed, resumed their endless circling around a statue of Neptune in the pool's center.

Julia untied the ribbon and unrolled the scroll. It was made of the finest Egyptian papyrus, the writing done with a reed pen using red ink of excellent quality. It was in Greek, the writing precise, arranged in short lines. I read a few verses aloud and glanced at Julia to see if her face had reddened, but she was too sophisticated for that.

"This," she commented, "is some of the most heated erotic verse since Sappho."

I frowned in fake puzzlement. "So it seems, but why would one want to lick a doe's hoof?"

"As you know perfectly well," she said, "in erotic verse, the doe's hoof is a traditional symbol for the female genitals. All these other symbols are similarly inclined. Rather too many of them for good taste, but the verse is excellent."

"Do you think it's original or a copy of some poet's work?"

"I don't recognize the poem, but the style resembles the Corinthian."

"It's addressed to one Chryseis," I said.

"Of course. It's traditional to give your lover a pseudonym in such poetry. Everyone knows that Catullus's Lesbia was really Clodia."

"It was in the slave girls' room," I pointed out. "Do you suppose it might have been meant for one of them? They're all attractive girls, and some local swain might be paying court to one of them."

"Don't be dense, dear. Don't you remember who Briseis was?"

"Oh. Right." In the Iliad, of course, Briseis was the captive girl seized from Achilles by Agamemnon, setting off the chain of events that ended with the funeral of Hector.

Chryseis was the daughter of Apollo's priest.