Oracle of the Dead s-12 Page 3

  “Let’s not refer to it as the Styx, shall we? It’s a powerful word and it makes me uneasy. Besides, except for being underground, it doesn’t agree with any of the descriptions of that river. I never heard of heat and foam and turbulence associated with the Styx.”

  “As you wish. Anyway, we may expect rioting between the factions before long.”

  “They’d better not riot here,” I said. “I have imperium, after all. I can call up troops to suppress insurrection.” It was true, but I dreaded taking such a step. I had a feeling that, in the very near future, any Roman official with troops under his command was likely to get thrown into the upcoming struggle between Caesar and the Senate. I hoped to be safely out of office before the break came, and I would use Pompey’s law imposing a five-year period between leaving consular or praetorian office and taking up a proconsular or propraetorian governorship in the provinces. Those governors and their armies would also be thrown into the fray.

  “So much for the Greeks and Samnites and such,” I said. “What about the Romans we’ve settled here? Are they taking sides, too?”

  “So it seems. Most of them have intermarried with the locals by now and they’ve taken up the local cults.”

  “Ridiculous,” I said. “Have you ever heard of Romans rioting and going at each other’s throats over rivalries between Jupiter and Mars, or Venus against Juno?”

  “No,” Hermes said. “But they certainly fight over everything else.”

  “That’s irrelevant,” I said. “There are plenty of worthwhile things to fight about. Fighting over religious differences is absurd.”

  Sure enough, the next delegation I received consisted of followers of Hecate, an odd mixed group of small merchants and prosperous farmers. They were very irate over the pollution of their sacred river and the damage that this murder might do to the prestige of their Oracle.

  “My friends,” I said to them, “I am not a pontifex to pronounce upon matters of religion. In any case, our pontifexes are in charge only of the state religion of Rome. Yours is a local cult and I have neither knowledge nor authority to deal with your problems. I am a magistrate, and I will discover who committed this murder. Matters of ritual contamination you must sort out for yourselves.” They, too, left looking quite unsatisfied.

  Next came a delegation of local merchants of the more prosperous sort, some of them heads of local guilds, like my friend Plotius. Their spokesman was one Petillius, a man who owned a great many properties in Cumae, Pompeii, and other towns in the vicinity.

  “Noble Praetor,” he began, “we are terribly concerned with the damage this scandal is likely to do to the prosperity of our region. People come here from all over Italy and even from overseas to consult with the Oracle. We fear that this matter may curtail the customary pilgrimage this year.”

  “I take it that you own a number of inns where these travelers are accustomed to stay?”

  “Why, yes, many of us own such properties.”

  “And taverns, eating establishments, and other businesses catering to the transient trade?” I inquired.

  “Yes, Praetor. This matter could be very bad for us.”

  “I dare say. Well, my friends, I have a feeling that, all too soon, this little matter of a murdered priest may be remembered fondly as a mere diversion in the good times.”

  “Ah, Praetor,” Petillius said, shaking his head ruefully, “there is nothing that such men as we can do about the rivalries of great men. We can only hope that our homes will be treated gently in the strife to come. That is for the future. This, however, is immediate. Something must be done.” He was, of course, a practical man, as were they all. The looming catastrophe that seemed so imminent to me, and so potentially fatal for myself and my family, was to these men a remote matter, and no more controllable than storms and earthquakes and other forces of nature, such as that volcano smoking so ominously nearby.

  “And something shall be done,” I assured him, as I had been assuring everybody lately. “Being done right now, in fact. My men are searching and questioning all over the district. The killer or killers will turn up soon. I expect cooperation from you as well. You locals are the most likely to spot these fleeing priests and I want them reported instantly should they be seen. I will deal very harshly with anyone who seeks to conceal them or hide any evidence from me.”

  “Of course you shall have our fullest cooperation, Praetor. Nobody wants these murderers found more sincerely than we.”

  “See that it is so.” This another group went off, not truly happy. I wasn’t pleasing anyone much that day.

  It is in times like this, when some shocking event shatters the customary calm of a district, that the true nature of men’s relations with one another come out. The peace between rival groups begins to crack like poor stucco, revealing the rotten timbers beneath. Old grudges, thought to be forgotten, come suddenly to mind. Trivial or even imaginary slights and insults loom large, and thoughts of revenge and retribution prey upon men’s minds. Add to that the general tension caused by impending war in Italy, and we had the makings of a full-scale civil brawl on our hands, and all of it set in motion by a death that, however bizarre, had not even been proven to be murder.

  I gestured for Hermes to come to me. “Hermes, are you sober enough to do a little more snooping?”

  “Are you implying that I am drunk?” he said, swaying slightly.

  “Nothing of the sort. Just curtail your intake for a while. We need to know something more. I know that Pompey is powerful here in Campania. He settled many of his veterans here. See what the locals feel about Caesar, and how the lines are drawn hereabouts.”

  He went off to snoop and doubtless drink some more. The settlement of the Campanian lands had been a thorny one, much disputed in the Senate and fought over for years. Pompey had wanted the land to settle his veterans, who had served for many years and needed farms to retire to. His enemies in the Senate fought this, both because they wanted the land for themselves and because they knew it would give Pompey a strong power base near to Rome. Back then Pompey and Caesar had been friends, Pompey was married to Caesar’s daughter, and Caesar had worked hard to get Pompey the land settlement. In time he had succeeded, and now the countryside was full of Pompey’s veterans, each man with his arms hung above the hearth, ready to flock to the eagles at Pompey’s summons.

  Technically, the struggle was between Caesar and the Senate, but here in Campania the Senate counted for little. Here the lines were drawn between the supporters of the great men of the day, and none were greater that year than Caesar and Pompey. In this territory, barely two generations under Roman control, all such loyalties were mutable. Eventually, Hermes returned.

  “There aren’t very many of Pompey’s men in the immediate vicinity. Most of them settled to the north of here. The few I found to talk to don’t seem to care much about Apollo or Hecate.”

  “That’s something of a relief. One more faction in this business would have been one too many.”

  The presence of all those Pompeians had been a disturbing factor in my otherwise pleasant stay in Campania. Pompey had assured that, should Caesar prove recalcitrant, he could stamp his foot and raise an army. There were those in the Senate, chiefly of the most extreme aristocratic faction, urging him to stamp that foot. The rest of the Senate was more wary, feeling that they could negotiate with Caesar, but the times were bad ones for moderates and fence-sitters. We were drifting into another age of warlords. Sad to say, the Roman soldiers of that day felt their strongest allegiance to their generals, not to Rome. For a general who consistently led them to victory and loot, they would do almost anything.

  Pompey’s veterans were such men, but I did not fancy their chances against Caesar’s troops, who had been fighting hard in Gaul for years. Pompey’s veterans were getting old and were long out of practice.

  “There are those two legions training up near Capua,” I mused.

  “What have they to do with this murdered priest and the
troubles here in the south?” Hermes wanted to know.

  “Eh? Oh, nothing. The thought of Pompey’s veterans set me thinking about the disposition of our soldiers and which way they might go if it comes to a break between Caesar and the Senate.”

  “They’re new troops training for a war in Syria,” Hermes said. “They have no set loyalties and I suspect they’ll follow whoever the Senate sends to take charge of them. I don’t think they’ll be much threat to Caesar.” We had both spent a lot of time with Caesar’s army in Gaul, and knew all too well what a savage lot they were. Caesar had been leading them for eight years and they were his, body and soul. He had become their patron and they were his clientela.

  As the day’s business was about to end, Julia came to report her findings. “I’ve spent all day with Iola and the rest of the Oracle’s staff.”

  “I don’t suppose they confessed to complicity?”

  “Not likely.”

  “Pity. It would make things so much easier.”

  “If only life were as simple as you wish it. No, but I have been learning a great deal about the Hecate cult, about its origins and history. It is quite fascinating.”

  “I am sure. Anything about murderous enmity between the cultists and the priests of Apollo overhead?”

  She sighed. “You are so single-minded when you are on an investigation, Decius. I wish you would give some time to culture and study.”

  “All in good time, my dear. When I retire, I plan to write many long, boring books, perhaps even look into this philosophy business. Brutus and Cicero and some others of my acquaintance seem to set great store by it.”

  “By the way, we are invited to dinner at the house of Marcus Duronius.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “I’ve heard that he sets a splendid table.”

  She poked my expanding waistline. Rather harder than necessary, in fact. “You should spend less time at the table and more in the gymnasium. This easy life is softening you.”

  “The demands of office do not permit me much time for the gymnasium,” I told her. The derisive snort she made was quite expressive.

  “I’m off to confer with some of the other priestesses nearby. I’ll meet you at the Villa of Duronius at dinnertime. Do try to show up sober.”

  Sometimes I didn’t think that Julia trusted me. And I knew why she was suddenly concerned with my physical fitness. She expected me to spring to arms at Caesar’s call and join his army. Well, I had already been in Caesar’s army and wanted nothing to do with it. She thought Pompey was a prize villain and that the Senate was doing Uncle Caius Julius insufficient honor. Personally, I couldn’t see a fig’s worth of difference between Caesar and Pompey, and the Senate had already voted Caesar more honors than he’d earned. If he’d been denied a few of his demands, that was just the rough-and-tumble of Roman politics as they were in those days.

  That evening, with just Hermes accompanying me, I arrived at the Villa of Duronius, quite sober. Well, mostly sober, anyway. Like most villas in that part of Italy, it was sprawling and spacious. Duronius was a wine importer and banker, a formula for riches if ever there was one. The company proved to be an entertainingly mixed lot, chosen to make for good conversation. For dignity, there was my distinguished self. For wealth, we had our host, Duronius. For beauty, there was an intriguing lady of Stabiae named Sabinilla. For wisdom, a philosopher of local repute named Gitiadas. For wit, there was the rising young playwright Pedianus, whose reputation for comedy was growing. For low good humor, we had Porcia, a corpulent freedman’s daughter and owner of many commercial properties all over Campania. In Rome it was rare for women to appear unescorted at a dinner party, but it was quite common in Campania. Women could own businesses and had property rights equal to those of men. It wasn’t necessary to be a widow to wield control over their own fortunes, and even married women could manage their own finances independently of their husbands. It was all very un-Roman.

  There were others, but I have forgotten their names. The banquet was arranged in the Roman fashion, but the Campanians of that time did not always observe the Roman custom of no more than nine diners at any one dinner. For one thing, they thought it unworthy of a rich man to entertain so few guests. In time, Julia arrived and we were conducted to the table. As ranking magistrate, I had the place of honor at the right end of the center couch. Our sandals were removed by servants and our feet sprinkled with perfume. Garlands were distributed and we were ready to get down to business. Before the first course was brought in, our host made an announcement.

  “My friends, today we shall observe the ancient custom of the district: before we begin, we must appoint a Master of Ceremonies, to set the order of the banquet, to mix the wine and water, and to determine the direction of dinner conversation. I nominate our most distinguished guest, the Praetor Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger.” There was much applause and cheering. This was another Campanian oddity. Ordinarily, a Master of Ceremonies was appointed for the Greek symposium, the after-dinner party when the women had withdrawn and the men got down to the serious business of drinking.

  “My host and friends, I thank you for the honor, but I confess I am unsuited for such an office,” I said firmly. “The Master of Ceremonies should not be chosen for official dignity, but for taste, elegance, and wit. I propose our renowned playwright, Pedianus.” All agreed that this was an excellent choice. Personally, I intended to be far too inebriated by the end of the banquet to direct much of anything. Let the boy try to keep his wits about him while the wine flowed as it does only in Campanian revelries.

  A servant placed a wreath of ivy on the young man’s head and another draped a purple mantle over his shoulders. A third placed an ivywreathed wand in his hand. He stood and declaimed, “My host, great Praetor, honored guests, you do me honor, and I shall in return strive to provide you with an agreeable evening. These rules I decree: One, while guests may be served in order of rank and distinction, there shall be no difference in the quality of the items presented.” Everyone agreed that this was an excellent rule. “Two, the wine shall be mixed at one measure of water to two of wine.” He caught my look. “Make that one measure of water to three of wine.” That was still too much water for my taste, but anything stronger would be considered scandalous. “Three, I forbid all discussion of serious matters. I will hear no debate about Caesar and Pompey. The measures of the Tribune Curio shall not be breathed.”

  “What about the murder of the priest Eugaeon?” somebody asked.

  He grinned. “That’s not serious. That is gossip. We must have gossip.” Amid much laughter he gestured grandly and the first course was brought in. It was the customary egg course, with the eggs dyed in astonishing colors and painted in fanciful patterns. Some were encased in gold leaf hammered to an incredible thinness. We were supposed to eat these, gold and all. Some were still in their shells, and when cracked open these proved to contain the sort of party favors esteemed by wealthy hosts: perfumes, pearls, gems, golden chains, and so forth. While the ladies made delighted sounds I tried to figure out how they had gotten those items inside the shells, but to no avail. I could see no hole or seam in the complete shells. Maybe, I thought, they just fed the things to the chickens and ducks and this was the result.

  More substantial courses followed, each accompanied by the appropriate wines, all of which were uniformly excellent. Between courses we had entertainment, their order directed by Pedianus. There were reciters of poems and dancers, jugglers and tightrope walkers, even an astonishing woman who balanced on her hands while using her feet to shoot a bow and arrow with great accuracy.

  In past generations, it had been a custom in Campania to have gladiators fight at banquets. In some houses, this was still done. But I have never felt that blood goes well with food. The munera form the proper venue for such carnage. Thankfully, our host seemed to agree.

  For a while we spoke of this and that, the upcoming races, events overseas, the latest omens, and so forth. Julia got the fashionably ragge
d local philosopher Gitiadas to expound upon a theory that the world is round like a ball, which would have been rather interesting had it not been so absurd. He said something about the circular shadow cast upon the moon during a lunar eclipse, which made no sense whatever.

  “Praetor,” said the abundantly endowed Porcia, “are you making any progress on the murder of the priest?” She popped a honeyed fig into her mouth, making her multiple chins jiggle.

  “I confess it is perplexing,” I told her. “The priest is dead, the other priests have disappeared, and the devotees of Hecate either cannot or will not help. My biggest headache is figuring out how he got into the river in the first place.”

  “Praetor,” said our host Duronius, “the neighborhood is full of the wildest rumors. Of those here, only you and your wife were actually there when the body appeared. Perhaps you could tell us exactly what happened.”

  “Of course, but I cannot tell you exactly what happened, only what I observed.” At this I saw the philosopher Gitiadas nod approvingly. So I gave them a perhaps overly lurid recitation of my experience, trying to make it as entertaining as possible. Julia then told the tale as she and the other women experienced it. Her account was much more respectful of the holiness of the site and stressed their awe at the surroundings and the uncanniness of the Oracle. Some of the company had visited the Oracle personally, and agreed that their experiences had been much the same, minus the corpse.

  “You had an uncommonly straightforward answer from the Oracle, contradictory though it seemed,” said the beautiful Sabinilla. She wore a white-blond wig that could only have been made from German hair. Her gown was of transparent Coan cloth and she had a cat’s appearance of bonelessness as she lounged on the couch. “I asked her if my husband would recover from his illness and she said, ‘Follow the sun to Vulcan’s pool.’ Later, a physician told me that if we had gone west to Sicily, there is a healing hot spring at the base of Aetna where my husband might have been cured, but by that time he was dead so it wasn’t much help.” Others agreed that they had been given similarly confusing answers that sometimes proved to make sense in retrospect.