SPQR XII: Oracle of the Dead Read online

  “At once,” he said, grinning. He knew his work well and was back a few breaths later with a silver pitcher and two silver cups. Sabinilla had even matched the tableware to the night’s theme. He poured for both of us and sat by me. He took a deep gulp and I grabbed his wrist.

  “Drink slowly. The way you’re sweating, that wine will hit you like a German’s club. Drink some water to take the edge off your thirst.”

  “Now who’s the spoilsport?” Then said, “Sorry, I forgot.” He tossed the lees from his cup and dipped it in the fountain, which ran with perfectly sweet, clear water, piped to that rocky crag from only the gods knew where.

  “I’m troubled,” I said.

  “You usually are. What is it this time?”

  First I told him about my strange interview with Floria and about my own thoughts on the matter, and Julia’s. He listened attentively, keeping his mouth shut and his thoughts to himself, as I had taught him.

  “Nothing quite makes sense,” I told him. “Nothing adds up. Either we don’t have enough information, or we’re looking at it the wrong way. I’ve been examining it all from my own peculiar viewpoint and experience and Julia from her philosopher-trained stance. What are your thoughts?” He took a while before answering. Hermes had been a slave for most of his life and had a view of things that Julia and I, aristocrats that we were, could never share.

  “This rivalry between the temples,” he said at last. “That’s been going on a long, long time. This profit-making scheme may be much more recent. Ten years isn’t so much time in the scheme of things. The priests of Apollo just may have been in on it. We’ve been thinking that they were uninvolved with the doings of the Oracle except for some sort of long-term effort to thwart or destroy the Hecate cult. What if they were killed to silence them before they could betray their own complicity?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” I admitted. “I don’t know why, since it’s my custom to suspect everybody of everything.”

  He grinned. “You’re getting slow, being so preoccupied with politics, and you’ve been talking with the wrong people. I think that now we should concentrate on finding out what the local slaves know. Leave that to me, I know how to talk to them. I’d especially like to find that temple slave this woman Floria spoke of.”

  “If she exists at all,” I cautioned. “The story could be a total fabrication.”

  He took a cautious drink. “I think it’s true, most of it, anyway. It has a feel to it. In the morning, I’ll start working with the slaves. I’ll just get rid of my toga and hang around the fountains and the bars that cater to the slave trade.”

  “You’ll seize any excuse to get out of court duty.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  At this moment a little slave girl padded up to us on bare feet. “Praetor, my mistress and your lady say you must come to the terrace for the most wonderful spectacle.”

  “How could I resist either the temptation or the command?” I said, standing. Hermes got up as well and started to walk a bit stiffly as he began to feel his stripes. The little girl led us by the shortest way to the terrace, where the company were gathered at the railing that faced the fire-topped crag.

  “Way for the praetor!” Hermes shouted, as if he were one of my lictors. Amid much inebriated jocularity, we made our way to the railing, where Julia and Sabinilla stood with the guests of greatest prestige.

  “Ah, there you are, Praetor.” Sabinilla said. “Just in time.”

  “And very rude of you to abandon our hostess and her guests at the height of the evening’s entertainment,” Julia said, glaring daggers at me and Hermes indiscriminately.

  “Duty called, my dear. A Roman in service to Senate and People must never neglect duty.” This raised a drunken laugh from the guests nearby. Julia had had a few too many herself, or she never would have berated her ultradignified praetor husband in front of all and sundry. Sabinilla clapped her hands for attention, and perhaps to prevent an unseemly scene.

  “Watch, everybody!” She signaled to a musician, who blew a series of shrill notes on his double pipes. It is a peculiarity of pipes that they can be heard at greater distances than a trumpet, and are clear even above a loud clamor such as that of a battle.

  All eyes turned to the bonfire atop the cliff opposite us. It had burned down, for pine burns very hot but very swiftly. What was there now was a huge heap of glowing coals with tongues of flame spurting up from it at intervals. At the signal from the pipes we heard a groaning, grinding, scraping sound. I could not guess at its origin until the heap of coals began to rise and hulk up in its center, as if it had come alive. The crowd gasped as if they were seeing some supernatural apparition. I was just a bit startled myself, though I am completely free of superstition.

  Then we could see two teams of oxen to either side of the coals and I understood. They were dragging a huge scraper like the sort that is used for leveling roads and grounds for building projects. I think it is called a grader or something of the sort. In any case, this time one was being used to drag that gigantic heap of coals toward the cliff. The coals continued to tower ever higher until, abruptly, the forward edge reached the rim of the cliff, which was all but invisible by this hour, just a blackness with a faintly visible mass of seething whiteness at its base, where the waves broke upon the rocks.

  Everyone gasped, all but stunned, as the coals poured over the cliff. They formed a huge cascade of glowing light, like a waterfall of fire. Flames burst anew from the coals, and in an instant there was a solid, broad stripe of living fire from cliff to surf, and when the coals hit the water below there was a hissing noise like a thousand dragons waking up and angry about it. Steam billowed upward in a cloud Jupiter could have hidden himself in. It flowed over us in a strange, warm wetness, lit from within so that the cloud glowed orange.

  Then the last of the coals dropped, the light and the hissing faded, the cloud dispersed, and we were all standing there, stunned, and there was no trace left of what had just happened. A long-pent sigh escaped from every throat, including mine, and I turned to our hostess. She looked at me with an almost demented eagerness.

  “That was the most spectacular thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” I told her.

  She smiled with maniacal relief and signaled the musicians. They began to play as if the evening were just beginning, but clearly it was at an end. Absolutely nothing could have topped what we had just witnessed. Everyone prepared to go home, but I was the ranking man and all would await my departure, then the rest would go, in order of rank.

  Julia and I took our most effusive leave of our hostess and told her we simply must retire to our quarters because I had a full day in court on the morrow. It truly had been an extraordinary evening. Amid loud ritual farewells from the other guests, we retired.

  In our luxurious chambers, Julia said, “Sabinilla is the happiest woman in Campania tonight. This must have cost her a fortune, but her position is assured. It’s given me some ideas about entertaining when you are consul and we are back in Rome.”

  “I was afraid of that. Sadly, there are no good cliffs in Rome.”

  She thought about that for a while, as her girl dressed her hair for bed. “Do you think we could build one? A tower about four hundred feet high would do it. You could build it in the Valley of Murcia and people could gather on top of the Aventine to watch.”

  “Good night, dear,” I said, going out to the sitting room that adjoined our bedroom. Doubtless she was joking, but with Julia I could never be sure. I summoned Hermes and he came in, walking like a man of eighty. His bruises were in full flower now, and he winced with every step.

  “Tomorrow afternoon after court is over,” I told him, “we’ll go to the town palaestra. I want you to teach me that move with the longsword.”

  7

  TWO DAYS LATER WE WERE BACK AT MY temple headquarters. This time the crowd seemed no larger, but it didn’t seem any smaller, either. I also learned something else. They weren’t all here for the f
estive atmosphere. The times were unsettled, with everyone on edge over the possible outbreak of civil war, and all the oracles, both traditional and impromptu, were doing a booming business, with nervous people asking them about what was to come and would they survive it. Or else, how to make a profit from everyone else’s upcoming misery, always a popular concern.

  I was just getting comfortable in my curule chair, about to start the day’s proceedings, when something utterly unexpected happened. The crowd fell silent. This unprecedented quiet piqued my interest. Some sort of commotion was coming down the road to the north. It looked like a lot of men, some walking, some riding. I didn’t see any glitter of polished armor or standards, but it had a definite military look to it.

  “What is all that?” I asked no one in particular. “Am I never to have a peaceful court day?”

  Just moments later, the procession began marching into what had become my little town. First to arrive, to my unutterable dismay, were twelve lictors in a double file. Only a consul is entitled to twelve lictors. Or a proconsul. The consuls were in Rome and wouldn’t leave in times as uncertain as these. And there was only one serving proconsul in Italy.

  Sure enough, a bit later there rode in none other than Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus himself. My lictors lowered their fasces in salute to a higher magistrate. I had, perforce, to stand and descend the steps of my dais to greet him.

  “Hail, Proconsul,” I said, as the throng gaped. “What brings the distinguished Pompey to my court? Surely the demands of office should require you in the north.”

  He looked down at me from his lofty horseback perch. Looking down at people was something he did well, having had so much practice. “Indeed they should, but it seems a matter here puts greater demands upon my attention. Why has this business of the murdered priests not been cleared up?”

  I held on to my temper. He was, after all, the great Pompey. “Perhaps you could dismount and we can discuss this in a more quiet environment.”

  “Very well.” He heaved himself from his saddle—and “heaved” was the word for it. The once hard, soldierly Pompey had gone soft and corpulent in his long years of peace. Even this effort left him winded and his aides had to catch him to steady him lest he fall. It removed the last vestige of uncertainty I nursed for the outcome of a showdown between Pompey and Caesar. It would be no contest.

  We climbed the temple steps and sat in the shade of the portico while slaves quickly brought a table, pitchers of wine and water, and platters of food, all with great and silent efficiency.

  Pompey took a great gulp of watered wine and I did the same, only with less water. “Now, Metellus, why is this business not resolved?”

  “By what authority do you ask?”

  “By the authority of a proconsul, by Hercules!” he all but shouted.

  I remained admirably calm. “You are proconsul in Spain. Here in Italy you are overseer of the grain supply. It is an important and responsible position, but its duties are administrative, not military and not judicial. I, on the other hand, am praetor peregrinus, with imperium and the authority to judge cases involving foreigners all over Italy.”

  He dropped the bluster and grinned slyly. “Then why are you embroiled in this case that, as far as I can tell, involves no foreigners? Why not leave it to the local authorities?”

  He had me there. “Because I want to, just as you do whatever you want, no matter what rules the Senate and law tables have laid down.”

  He barked out a short laugh. “Spoken like a true Metellus. You’re an arrogant lot, no doubt of that.” He leaned close. “Look here, Decius Caecilius. I need this matter settled quickly. I’ll be knee-deep in a war with Caesar soon and I can’t have any distractions plaguing me here in the south.”

  “Why do you think whatever happens here can amount to a distraction for the likes of Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus? This is a piddling, local affair. It’s nothing on the big game board of world power. There are only two players on that board now, you and Caesar.” The game board image was one Clodia had thrown at me years before, along with her withering contempt for my not being one of the big players. Clodia was the sister of my old enemy Clodius, and the most notorious woman of that time.

  “Never mind that,” he said, suddenly cagey. “I have my reasons for wanting this matter over and forgotten, and they’re none of your business.”

  “None of my business?” I said, feeling my face begin to flame. “You come in here with no authority and tell me to hurry up and solve this mess and you say your reasons are none of my business?”

  He jumped up and his chair went over backwards. “My authority is the authority of a man who can whistle up twenty legions, all loyal to him alone. Nothing else counts these days. Remember that, Metellus.”

  I stood too, wanting to tell him how useless his twenty legions would be against Caesar’s veteran killers. But I didn’t and I felt it was incumbent on me to keep the peace. “Oh, sit down. We can discuss this in a civilized fashion. No sense drawing swords before the war has even started.”

  He sat without looking back to see if a slave had put his chair under him. Of course, the chair was right where he wanted it. That was always the way with Pompey. “Actually,” he said, “it’s about those legions that I’m here, not your case. I want my men to be prepared to mobilize at a minute’s notice. If Caesar dares to cross the Rubicon, which I doubt he will, he won’t leave me much time.”

  He wasn’t a total dunce. He just didn’t understand how little time he would really have. “Will you be here long?”

  “Longer than you’d like, but that’s just too bad. Before I leave, I want the crime solved and the killers executed.”

  “This is a criminal investigation, not a military campaign. You can’t rush it along with a few floggings and summary executions.”

  “I don’t see why not. Who are the most likely suspects?”

  “At the moment, the devotees of Hecate.”

  He spread his hands. “Well, then, there you are. Try them and execute them. Problem solved.”

  “Somehow I knew you would suggest the simplest possible solution. I take it then that you are more interested in having things done with than finding the actual killer or killers.”

  “As you’ve said, I have far more important matters to concern me. Personally, I don’t care who killed the priests, and what matter if some half-crazed priests of a foreign goddess are done away with? As long as the countryside is quiet, I will be satisfied.”

  “The countryside will not be quiet if I execute the priestesses—most of Hecate’s clergy here are women, by the way—without glaring proof of their guilt. The cult is very ancient and deeply rooted in these parts. It has many more adherents than the Temple of Apollo. Plus, the local merchants have come to depend on the business that the Oracle brings to the district.”

  He fumed for a while. “Just find someone to execute and do it soon.” He stood. “I’ll be off. I’ll be raising at least one legion from this district. I will need to requisition supplies from all the local towns. The men have their own arms and equipment, but I’ll want animals, tents, wagons, and a hundred other things.”

  “See the city officials of the towns about that,” I advised him. “I’m just visiting.”

  When Pompey rode out, amid much pomp and fanfare, the crowd cheered him lustily. As I’ve said, Pompey was a popular man in the south. Of course, they would have cheered Caesar just as happily. They were both popular men, but few of the men present planned to enlist in their legions. Whoever won, they would be content.

  I heard my cases and there were few of them. In fact, I could have left at any time. I was only prolonging my stay because of the murders. That, and because I just liked the place. I had a pile of cases to hear in the north and in Sicily. That was a thought. Go to Sicily and dawdle there, wait out my year, and when I returned to Rome perhaps everything would be settled and I could keep out of it. At lunch that day I broached the subject to Julia and wished I hadn’t.


  “What?” She looked at me as at some vile reptile. “You want to be clear out of Italy when great events are happening here?”

  “It’s not so far,” I protested. “You can see across the Strait of Misenum to the Italian mainland.”

  “It ill becomes you to behave in such a cowardly fashion. I think you should write to Caesar right now and offer him your services.”

  “I still have the rest of the year of my praetorship to conclude,” I said.

  “You have imperium,” she said pitilessly. “You do know what that means, don’t you? In case you’ve forgotten, I’ll tell you. It means you have the power to raise and command armies. What are you going to do when the Senate orders you to raise an army and march against Caesar? Have you thought of that?”

  “Believe me, Julia, I’ve thought of very little else for months.”

  “Then it’s time to make up your mind and decide which way you are going to go.”

  “I have decided,” I told her. “I’ve decided that Sicily is a very fine place to be. I will go there as soon as this murder business is settled.”

  She was furious but, for once, she held her tongue. This may have been for any of a number of reasons. She might have decided to comport herself as a good, patrician Roman wife and bow to her husband’s will. What a laugh. Or she may have decided to hammer at me late at night when I should be tired, a favorite tactic of hers and, I suspect, of all wives. She may have actually given the matter some sober thought and realized what a terribly dangerous predicament this put me in. Moreover and most likely, I suspected she was already writing her uncle and plotting with him, wangling a high position for me on his staff. Between Julia and the Senate and Pompey and Caesar it was like having my limbs tied to four elephants, each of them with orders to seek the home of one of the principal winds.

  That afternoon, there being no nearby public baths, I walked into the virtual tent city that had sprung up near the Temple of Apollo. The place had become nearly self-sufficient, as food vendors and farmers and shepherds from the countryside had established a little forum where the transient population could purchase necessities. No more than a hundred paces from the encampment a stream furnished abundant water of excellent quality. As for what they were using for sanitary facilities, I did not inquire.