Under Vesuvius s-11 Read online

  When I arrived at his quarters, I found Antonia already there. Wanting to console the boy in his grief, no doubt. From the look of things, she was succeeding.

  "Gelon," I said, pretending not to notice his guilty expression, "today you may ride to your father's house to see to his obsequies."

  "That is very good of you, Praetor," he said.

  "Before leaving, you will be required to swear oaths before the gods and witnesses that you will not try to flee custody."

  "Certainly."

  "You will also be escorted by my men. This is more for your protection than from any concern I might have that you will try to escape. There is probably a good deal of hostility toward you among the local populace, especially the Greeks."

  "I have no objection," he said.

  "May I come along?" Antonia asked.

  "You may not," I said.

  Thus it was that, a little past noon, we rode from the villa down the Baiae road. As we passed the temple I saw the last smoke rising from the embers of the morning sacrifice. This caused me to wonder how Diocles was coping with his personnel shortage. As we went on to the main road I chanced to look back and I saw the old man standing before the altar, looking at us. The distance was too great to read his expression.

  By the time we approached Gaeto's residence and slave compound, the bright day had turned gloomy, with lowering clouds promising rain. It seemed fitting. Not because of the solemn occasion but because the days had been all too bright and pure since my arrival. When things go too well for too long, the gods have something nasty in store for you, and weather is no exception. A break in the fine weather might be a good thing.

  We arrived at Gaeto's compound to find preparations well advanced. Jocasta and the steward had arranged what I was informed was a traditional Numidian chieftain's funeral, with certain Greek and Roman embellishments.

  On the beach had been erected an imposing funeral pyre, made of seasoned wood with abundant frankincense stuffed into every available cranny. Gaeto lay atop it on splendid cushions, clothed in equally magnificent raiment. He looked startlingly lifelike, almost as if he would rise from the bier and join the obsequies. This was the advantage of having your own Egyptian undertakers.

  The musicians from the compound played harps and sistra, and black Nubians using sticks or their palms beat a hypnotic rhythm on drums made of hollowed logs with skins stretched over the open ends. The drum is an instrument favored by no civilized people, but it creates a stirring rhythm when played by skilled Africans and certain Asians.

  The rest of the slaves sent up histrionic lamentations, the Greeks among them being especially skillful in this. Ritual mourning is an ancient tradition, and they wailed lustily, though they could hardly have been deeply moved by Gaeto's death.

  Some of the slave women, possibly concubines, stripped naked, smeared themselves with ashes, and flogged one another bloody with bundles of thin rods. Jocasta, who was Greek, took a more decorous course, merely unbinding her hair and letting it fall loose on her shoulders, ripping her gown down the middle and, now bare from the hips upward, drawing a single, symbolic stripe of ash across her brow.

  Gelon recited a prayer or eulogy in his native tongue, an eerie, high-pitched chant full of gutturals and vocal clicks, with each sentence or verse seeming to end on a rising inflection. At the end of it he took a torch and set fire to the pyre, and as the flames rose the tribal bodyguard rode around it in an endless circle, whooping and pounding their hide shields with their spears.

  All in all, it was a fine send-off. The only thing missing was a delegation of mourners and attendees from the town and surrounding countryside. But there was not a single representative of the local population. Whatever deference Gaeto had received in life, he got none at all in death. Something seemed obscurely wrong about this, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

  When the fire had burned to embers, the undertakers went in with rakes and took out the blackened bones and wrapped them in many yards of white linen. This bundle they carefully placed in an elaborate urn and over the bundle poured an aromatic mixture of myrrh and perfume. Then they placed the cover on the urn and sealed it with pitch. This urn, I was informed, would travel by ship to Numidia and be placed in the family tomb.

  When all was accomplished, a funeral banquet was held in the courtyard of the villa. It was served in Numidian fashion, with all the feasters seated in a circle on the ground, upon cushions. The centerpiece was the urn containing Gaeto's remains-an interesting variation on the Roman practice of having a skeleton or skull among the decorations of the dining room, to remind diners of the transitory nature of life; that the tomb is never far away; and that food, wine, and good company should be enjoyed while we have the chance.

  "What will you do now, Gelon?" I asked.

  "You mean, assuming that I'm not found guilty and executed?"

  "Naturally. If acquitted, will you continue your father's business?" I picked up a leg of roast pheasant. I had learned that the foods traditional for a Numidian chieftain's funeral-whole roast camel, elephant's feet, baked ostrich, and so forth-had not been available. I was quite satisfied with the fare they had been able to provide.

  "I don't think so. Trade has never been to my taste. If I am spared, I will sell out and return to Numidia." Jocasta made a grimace of distaste. I wondered if she were part of his inheritance. Clearly, she had no liking for the idea of forsaking ultracivilized Baiae for barbarous Numidia.

  "And what will you do there?"

  "Resume the traditional family business," he informed me.

  "Which is?"

  "Raiding."

  "Ah. A gentleman's profession." As indeed it was, among Numidi-ans as among Homer's Achaeans.

  "And have you discovered my husband's murderer?" Jocasta asked in an abrupt change of subject. She had changed into an untorn gown but had left her hair unbound and her forehead was still smeared with ash. Her eyes were red but dry, as if from the effects of sleeplessness rather than weeping.

  "I expect to have the culprit in custody momentarily," I assured her.

  "We've been hearing that a lot from you lately," she said, unmollified.

  "Madame," I said, "it is not my business to apprehend felons at all. That is the task of the municipal authorities. I take a hand only in the interests of justice, which I feel are not being served in this district."

  She bowed her head. "I stand chastened. My apologies, Praetor."

  It was raining the next morning when we mounted and made a bedraggled little procession as we rode up the bluff and onto the road that led toward Baiae. The stretch of road leading to Baiae was lined with fine tombs and shaded by large trees. The heavy mist that accompanied the drizzly rain lent the beautiful road a dreamlike aspect, but there was nothing dreamlike about the ambush.

  They came from behind the tombs and trees: men on horseback, others on foot. They attacked with quiet ferocity, but the quiet didn't last long. The Numidian guard raised a wild war cry and began to pelt the attackers with javelins while forming a barrier around Gelon.

  Hermes already had his sword out, as did my other young men. All except Marcus had fought in Gaul or Macedonia or Syria. Being a serving magistrate I couldn't go about wearing a sword, but I was no fool, either. My sword hung sheathed from the near-front horn of my saddle and I had it out just in time. My attacker took a swipe at my head, but I ducked low and extended my arm, thrusting beneath his jaw. He went off his horse backward with a spray of blood and a gargling cry. My horse collided with his, and its shod feet went out from under it, scrabbling on the wet pavement.

  As it fell I managed to jump clear and keep hold of my sword, a circumstance of which I was absurdly proud. I looked around to see the battle well joined, the quarters so close that I could smell the stench of the attackers' bodies and the garlic on their breath. I saw a Nubian go down with a spear through his chest, and then Hermes lopped the sword arm off a mounted man. The arm chanced to fall at my feet and I took the opportuni
ty to appropriate its weapon-a good legionary gladius.

  I was unarmored and had no shield, so I felt the need of a spare weapon. Besides, I wanted to try out some moves I'd seen that two-sword gladiator use in the Pompeii amphitheater. In Rome, I'd usually waded into street brawls with a caestus on one hand and a dagger in the other. In the legions, I'd fought with the customary sword and shield. I was intrigued by the possibilities of two swords, and I had my opportunity to try them out almost immediately.

  A burly fellow wearing a rag of tunic and wool leggings charged me on foot, thrusting a sword at my chest. With my left-hand sword I banged it aside as I stepped in and slashed him across the belly with the other from left to right. He doubled over and I brought the left-hand blade down on the back of his neck, almost beheading him.

  Two more closed in on me. The nearer held a club in both hands, presenting an interesting problem even if he'd been alone. As he raised the club for a blow, I sidestepped and brought my left-hand blade across in a backhand cut against his left wrist, severing it even as I brought the right-hand sword down on his skull, splitting it. The other man was on me even as the first fell, but Hermes rode up behind him and spitted him from back to front.

  I spun around, looking for more men to fight. The only action was from a half-dozen horsemen who were pounding away into the mist, having had enough. The dead and wounded lay all over, bleeding, gurgling, cursing. The surviving Numidians were ruthlessly impaling anything that twitched.

  "Stop them!" I shouted. "I need some who can talk!" But it was no use. The tribesmen were beyond control, furious to avenge their slain comrades.

  "Casualties?" I demanded in disgust.

  "Four of our party wounded," Hermes said, wiping blood from his sword. "Two Numidians killed."

  Marcus walked up, having lost his horse somewhere. He was wrapping a cloth around his bloodied upper arm, but he was grinning. "For such a dignified magistrate," he said, "you seemed to be enjoying yourself, Praetor. Wait until I tell Julia."

  "Wait until tonight, when that wound begins to hurt," I told him. "I want to see your face then."

  "But the ladies will be fussing over me," he said. "I'm a hero, bloodied in defense of my patron. I'll-"

  "Hermes!" I said, cutting him off. "Take the lictors and go into Baiae. Get all those officials out here and tell them the last to arrive gets a flogging." Of course I had no authority to do this to Roman citizens, but anger was getting the best of me. Besides, one of my uncles had once had a Roman senator flogged in public, and everybody knew it.

  While we waited I examined the dead attackers. The rain stopped and the mist began to clear, making the task easier. They looked like army deserters, runaway slaves, ruined peasants-the sort of bandits who are never quite eradicated from Italy. Their filth and rags proclaimed that they had been living in the hills for a long time.

  Two of the Numidians rode out to round up our scattered horses. By the time they returned with the wandering beasts, the good burghers of Baiae had begun to show up, looking none too pleased with my peremptory summons. Well, I was none too pleased with them. Uninvited gawkers also appeared. Violence and bloodshed attract them like flies.

  To my surprise, Cicero was with them. "What's going on here, Decius?" he asked. "This district hasn't seen such a pile of bodies since the funeral games for Pompeius Strabo."

  "Listen to me!" I said to the assembled officials. "The situation here is getting entirely out of hand. At first it was just a murder here, a murder there-nothing to get upset about. But today I was attacked by a whole crowd of bandits. They tried to assassinate me, possibly to kill this man in my custody." I pointed at Gelon with a sword and realized that I still held a weapon in each hand. Also, I was liberally bespattered with blood from head to foot. No wonder they were looking at me with such strange expressions. Quite a change from my snowy, purple-bordered toga.

  "You people have let the situation here deteriorate into a shocking state," I said. "I am minded to call in the troops to restore order. Pom-peius has a training camp at Capua and I'm sure he'll be happy to lend me a cohort or two to establish martial law here."

  "Praetor, Praetor, you are making too much of this," said Norbanus. "This is simple banditry. What sort of people usually travel on this road? Wealthy citizens, the caravans of merchants-all ripe pickings for bandits. The day was dark and rainy; there was ground fog. These wretches did not see that this was a well-armed band of military men and warriors until it was too late."

  "Yes, Praetor," said Manius Silva. "We always have increased bandit activity whenever the volcano gets frisky."

  "The volcano?" I said, not certain I had heard him correctly.

  "Oh, yes," Norbanus chimed in. "You see, bandits fort up in the crater of Vesuvius. They've done it for centuries. The local farmers bring them food and wine rather than endure their raids. Most of the time they are content with this. There are only a couple of very narrow passes into the crater, so they are relatively safe there. But when there is a venting, the smoke and ash drive them out and they raid in the lowlands until it clears up." Everyone nodded and agreed that this was so.

  "You lot," I said, "have to be the most useless pack of soft-assed degenerates on the whole Italian peninsula! You mean to tell me that you allow a whole colony of bandits to camp on your doorstep! Why don't you go up there and exterminate them?"

  "This is Campania, Praetor," Norbanus said stiffly. "It's always been the practice here."

  His wife, Rutilia, spoke up. "When some malcontent decides to be an enemy of society, Vesuvius gives him a place to go. We'd rather they do that than hang around here and murder us in our sleep."

  I turned to Cicero. "Do you think Cato could be right? Is this what too much good food and soft living does to people?"

  "Your troubles this day are not yet over, Decius," said the ex-consul.

  I closed my eyes and sighed. "What now?"

  "Ah," Silva began hesitantly, "Praetor, you see-well, there's been another killing in town. Discovered just this morning, in fact."

  "No one important," Norbanus added hastily. "Just a slave."

  "What sort of slave?" I asked bleakly.

  "A runaway," he answered. "Someone identified her as a girl from the Temple of Apollo."

  I didn't say anything for a while and they, quite wisely, didn't intrude upon my ruminations. Finally, I came to a decision.

  "I am coming into town. Make a house available for my use. No craft are to leave the harbor, no one is to pass through the gates without my permission. I am sending for troops to enforce my authority and you may consider yourselves under siege until I find out what is going on here and have taken steps to correct it."

  "You can't do that!" Silva cried. "You need a decree of the Senate for such a thing. Besides, it will ruin business."

  "He can do it," Cicero informed him. "He has the authority to declare martial law under his own imperium until the Senate has reached a decision. General Pompey will back him up. Pompey wants no disturbances in Campania right now."

  Everybody knew what he meant. The Senate was disturbed by Caesar's defiance and was turning to Pompey as a savior. Pompey's greatest strength was in southern Campania and points south on the peninsula, all the way to Messina. Here he would raise his legions if need be. He wanted things orderly here.

  The white-robed chief priest of the city came forward. "Praetor, before you can enter the walls, you must be purified of this blood and so must your men."

  "Delicate lot, aren't you?" I sneered. "In Rome, we bathe in the stuff."

  "Decius," Cicero said in a low, warning voice.

  "Very well," I said. "I will not offend your guardian gods."

  "I will see to the arrangements," the priest said.

  "Then go, all of you," I ordered. The crowd, stunned by the turn of events, began to straggle back to Baiae.

  Rutilia, again in her golden wig, did not get back into her litter. Instead, she approached me. "Decius Caecilius," she said when she sto
od before me, "allow me to tell you that you look very good dressed in blood." Then she turned and went back to her litter.

  "Cicero," I said, "do you think Roman women will ever be like that?"

  "Decius," he said, "haven't you noticed? They already are."

  10

  By the time we reached the city gate the priest had made his preparations and we went through the ceremony of being washed in purified water, fumigated with incense, passed between two flames, and dressed in new clothing. Thus cleansed of blood, we entered the city. A spacious town house owned by a friend of Cicero's was being prepared for us, and while we waited I demanded to be taken to view the body.

  The duumviri conducted us to a long, low building behind the Temple of Venus Libitina. As at Rome, the goddess in this aspect was the patroness of the funeral trade and a conductor of the shades of the dead to the underworld. Chambers for receiving the dead opened off a portico that ran the length of the building. We were taken to the last chamber. Inside were three or four bodies.

  "This is where we take the bodies of slaves, paupers, and foreigners who have no patrons or hospites," explained the chief undertaker. "Those usually are sailors who happen to die while in port. If no one claims the body by the second day, they are taken to the burial pits outside town."

  Rome had such a facility, though of course much larger. It was something of a scandal that elderly slaves were often cast out of the house to die in the streets and go unclaimed, so their masters could be spared the trouble and expense of decent burial. At least Baiae had few paupers and, it seemed, few skinflint slave owners.

  The body lay on a tablelike stone bier, about waist height to me, covered by a sheet to keep away the flies. At my nod a slave drew back the sheet. Charmian lay stiff and pale, bold-eyed no more. She looked thinner than when I had last seen her, as if she had been drained. There were bruises and weals and whip stripes all over her naked body. Her neck was bruised, but whether from the beating or strangulation I could not tell.