SPQR XII: Oracle of the Dead Read online

“Come here, child.” The girl was about sixteen, and quite beautiful. This was to be expected. Apollo is associated with all that is beautiful, so his temples never employ ugly slaves. Any physical imperfection bars one not only from Apollo’s service but from his priesthood as well. This girl had hair as yellow as that of a German princess and huge blue eyes. Her simple white shift was modest enough, but it left no doubt as to the perfection of her body. She stepped near me and lowered her beautiful eyes.

  “Hypatia, how did you come to be spying on your master?”

  “I did not spy, Praetor,” she said softly. “I was new here, and did not know the rules. One of my duties is to extinguish the lamps just before we slaves retire to our quarters for the night. I did not know that upon certain nights, no one was to enter the temple except for the priests. That night I came in and went to the first lamp niche.” She pointed to one of a pair that flanked the doorway. “But I heard a noise. I looked up here toward the god’s statue and I saw all the priests gathered before it with lamps and torches. The high priest, Eugaeon, stooped and twisted the stone loop that I revealed to your assistant. I saw him raise the doorway and I was amazed. I thought he must be very strong to lift such a weight. They went down and never even glanced in my direction. I left the lamps alight and hurried to my quarters.”

  “I see. Did they close the doorway behind them?”

  She thought for a moment. “No, they lowered it but it seemed to me that they left it slightly ajar. I didn’t go close to look. I was afraid.”

  “And why did you not come forward when the priests disappeared?”

  “Again, I was afraid. I feared that just speaking of it might violate some ritual law. This place has many such rules. And I feared being called to testify.” That I could understand. A slave can testify in court only after being tortured. It’s nothing severe, but certainly not an experience to be anticipated with pleasure.

  The irrepressible Porcia stepped over to young Sextus Lucretius Vespillo and tickled him under the chin. “And this lad had just the thing to get you talking, eh? Praetor, may I borrow him when you’re done with him?” Everyone laughed, but a little nervously. Vespillo’s face flushed scarlet.

  “How long have you been here at the temple?” I asked the girl.

  “About two months.”

  “And who was your former master?”

  “Aulus Plantius, sir.”

  Duronius spoke up. “Plantius is an itinerant slave trader who comes through here two or three times a year. I remember he was here about two months ago. He deals in high-quality stock. I bought a cook from him.”

  “I see. Girl, I may want to question you further, so don’t go anywhere.”

  “Where would I go, Praetor? I belong to the temple.”

  “So you do. Just don’t let yourself get sold anywhere else. Now,” I said, turning to my audience, “let’s have a look at this new tunnel.”

  I stepped cautiously to the lip of the opening. The light from the lamps revealed a steep stairway descending into obscurity. “Bring a torch. I want only Hermes with me for now.” There were sounds of disappointment behind me. I was used to such sounds. Luckily I was not wearing my ponderous official toga. The synthesis had recently come into fashion for dinner party wear and the lightweight garment is much easier for negotiating steep stairways. I thought of simply removing it, but dignity of office forbade going about in only a tunic.

  Hermes preceded me down the stairs. In the smoky, uncertain light of the torch I examined the walls and ceiling. I was no expert on the subject of stonework, but the workmanship appeared identical to that of the tunnel leading to the chamber of the Oracle. I did notice one difference: there were no niches for lamps. This was never intended for regular ritual use, I thought. So what was its purpose?

  Without the ceremony, the chanting, the smoke, and all the other appurtenances of my earlier journey underground, this one was not as frightening. It was, however, uncomfortable, cramping and confining. Though there was no real reason for it, I found it hard to breathe. The weight of the stone above seemed to bear down upon me. Clearly, I was never meant to be a miner.

  I became aware of a faint breeze in the tunnel. It made the torch flicker and it was coming from below. Above the smell of the torch it carried a disagreeable but all too familiar scent: blood and death. But below these there was yet another scent: water. I had expected something like this and the philosopher’s remarks that very evening had suggested it.

  As we descended, I tried to keep the layout of the whole double temple compound in my head: how far and to what extent this tunnel paralleled the Oracle’s. It seemed to be far steeper and thus required a stairway. As near as I could judge, its direction was almost parallel to the lower one, but I had no idea of its depth.

  After what seemed an interminable descent, we came to a large chamber, and now I could hear the sound of water. There was a thin fog, not as dense as that in the chamber of the Oracle. The blackness all but swallowed the light of Hermes’ torch. “They’re over here,” he said.

  He stood beside a round hole in the floor about five feet in diameter. It was a fine piece of masonry, with a slightly raised lip all around. It was from this hole that the fog and the sound of water issued. Lined up just before the hole, in a neat row, were five white-clad bodies.

  “Did anyone touch them?” I asked.

  “We found them exactly like this. Laid out for a funeral. Has a ritual look, don’t you think?”

  “This place is about nothing but ritual,” I groused. “Oracles, temples, ancient, forgotten gods, and Aborigines . . .”

  “Aborigines?” Hermes asked.

  “Oh, yes, you weren’t at the dinner party.”

  “No, I was out doing your work, and very productive, if I may say so.”

  “Yes, well done. I want to examine them in better light, but first I want a look around this chamber before anyone else comes down here. Let’s start by walking the periphery.”

  Hermes leading with the torch, we went to the wall and began to pace it. The chamber proved to be circular, with the hole in its exact middle. The wall sloped gently inward, so that it was shaped like the rustic beehives farmers weave from wicker. Like the tunnel and chamber of the Oracle, it had been hewn from solid rock, resembling certain tombs I had seen in Egypt. The hole in the center reminded me horribly of the trap in the Tullianum prison, where the bodies of strangled enemy kings are thrown after taking part in the victor’s triumph. Some have been thrown in while still alive. Nobody has ever come out, living or dead.

  We began to pace back and forth across the floor, searching it for any sort of evidence. Long before, I had learned that people are careless and often leave behind evidence of their deeds. I had tried to teach my methods to other investigators, but they could never quite understand what I was getting at. Only my old friend the physician Asklepiodes understood, because he used a similar technique in his medical diagnostics and prognostics..

  We went over the floor, but found nothing. Except for the bodies the place was incredibly neat, as if it had been thoroughly swept, perhaps even scrubbed. Why go to such trouble to tidy a place but leave dead bodies behind? I told Hermes to leave the torch and go summon the rest.

  “It looks like this floor has been swept recently. There’s some dust in the angle where the wall meets the floor, but the rest is clean.”

  “You’re right. Even a place like this should collect a little dust over the ages.”

  Hermes went back up the stairway and left me brooding in the chamber. Several things about the place disturbed me. Here we had a second tunnel driven down through solid stone to water, yet there were numerous differences between them. For one thing, there was the shape of the chamber. The chamber of the Oracle was an elongated, irregular rectangle. This one was circular. It reminded me of a very ancient tomb I had been shown in Greece, one rumored to date to the time of Agamemnon. That one had the same beehive shape, though it had been built of massive stone blocks. The ch
amber of the Oracle had been cut down to the surface of the river. This one ended above it, with a well in its center. It was approached by a stair, not a ramped tunnel. And somehow—I cannot quite describe this—it did not have precisely the feel of antiquity that the other oozed like dampness from its walls. It was certainly not recent, but it did not feel so ancient.

  Minutes later, the rest of the party arrived. I had decided to let a number of people see this rather than allow rumors to run rampant through the district.

  “Well, this settles it,” Duronius said. “It wasn’t accident or suicide. It was murder.”

  “But why kill a whole temple staff?” said Pedianus, still wearing his purple mantle and ivy wreath.

  “More to the point,” Julia said, “why kill five and lay them out like this but throw Eugaeon down this well into the river?” She walked around the corpses, stepped to the lip of the hole, and peered down. Roman ladies of those days weren’t upset by dead bodies, what with all the disorder and combat in the City. These days they are more delicate. With all the peace and quiet enforced by the First Citizen, everyone has gotten disgracefully soft. I’ve seen patrician ladies turn pale at the sight of a gladiator being killed.

  “Perhaps he wasn’t thrown down there,” said Gitiadas. “Perhaps he jumped in, hoping to escape the fate meted out to these five.”

  “A valid speculation,” I approved.

  “I’m not so sure,” Julia said. “Sextus Vespillo, bring that torch.” At her direction, the boy knelt at the lip of the well and lowered his torch inside. “The river is only a few feet down,” she reported. “The current seems fairly swift. I don’t think the chamber of the Oracle can be more than a few paces from here. Yet he was thoroughly dead when he arrived in our midst.”

  “Another valid point,” I mused, “but Gitiadas was right about one thing: he said there had to be another access to the river near the chamber to account for all those bubbles. Now, has anybody here ever heard of a second tunnel? Even an old tale or rumor? I find it hard to believe that the Oracle’s tunnel to the Styx is so famous while this one is unknown.” The locals looked at one another and shrugged. No help there. Our host had thoughtfully brought along some burly slaves who carried sizable jugs of wine and others with cups; girls passed around cups to us all, and soon we were standing around the bodies sipping at the excellent vintage like guests at an embassy reception.

  “Praetor,” Hermes said, “do you want to examine the bodies here or shall I have them carried above so you can see them when the sun is up?”

  “Take them up,” I told him. “Torchlight is never adequate for a thorough examination.” That, and my aging eyes, I thought glumly. I was nearing my fortieth year.

  Hermes went up to fetch some slaves. A while later he returned with them and the chamber grew very crowded. Already, the torches and lamps were making the air very close and we were all glad to vacate the premises. Once outside, everyone breathed deeply and with relief.

  “Hermes,” I said, “first thing tomorrow, I want you to find the master of the local stoneworkers’ guild and summon him here.”

  “Why?” Hermes asked.

  “To answer some questions, of course. I also want to speak with Iola as well.” Then I addressed the others. “This is likely to get very ugly. As long as it seemed likely the other priests did Eugaeon in, things were under control. It might have been some personal vendetta. But now we know they were all murdered. The different factions will be accusing each other and we may have the countryside up in arms.”

  “There is still a possibility that they were not murdered, Praetor,” said Gitiadas.

  “Eh? If you can tell me how that may be, I will be grateful.”

  “We all saw how close and confined that room is, how quickly the torches and our own exhalations staled the air. Perhaps they were engaged in some ceremony that involved burning some noxious substance. In fact, an ordinary charcoal brazier has been known to suffocate people in a confined space. Eugaeon may have fallen down the well when he was overcome, ending up in the Oracle’s chamber.”

  “But there was no sign of such a thing,” I said. “And how would it account for the bodies being laid out as they were?”

  “It does not, but it may be the best story to put about, to keep things quiet until you can fathom what really happened.”

  “Sly as well as philosophical, I see. Not a bad idea. It would account for the lack of any marks on the bodies, not that I’ve examined these others thoroughly as yet. All right, everybody. For official purposes, we shall maintain the pose that these men met their fate through misadventure. I don’t believe it for a minute, but it’s in all our interests to maintain the fiction. I want no wild speculations or rumormongering. As far as the public is concerned, the staff of the Temple of Apollo died through some frightful accident. Maybe we can keep things from getting riotous for a few days while I sort all of this out.” They all nodded and promised to heed my warning. Fat chance of that happening. Futhermore, I knew the slaves would talk to other slaves. The district would hum with rumors before the sun was up. No help for that.

  I just hoped I would not have to call any soldiers in.

  AT FIRST LIGHT WE EXAMINED THE bodies. As with Eugaeon, there were no wounds to account for the fatalities, but the hands of two of them were somewhat battered. Hermes pointed this out. “Looks like there was some fighting down there.”

  “So they resisted,” I noted. “But how did the killers overcome and kill them without leaving more marks on the bodies? They haven’t been strangled. Their necks aren’t bruised. Even smothering with pillows should have left their faces darkened and their eyes red.”

  “Poisoned?” Hermes hazarded.

  “Possibly, though how it was administered remains perplexing.”

  “We had to drink that stuff before we were allowed to go down the tunnel. Maybe they had a similar rite and someone poisoned the drink.”

  “Not impossible, though most poisons have rather violent effects. You would expect them to have thrashed about a bit, perhaps foam at the mouth. There also was their neat, side-by-side arrangement.”

  Hermes shrugged. “Whoever did it had plenty of time to clean up before we found the bodies.”

  “Exactly.” I sighed. “There are just too many explanations for everything. We need to narrow them down somewhat.”

  “That’s what you are supposed to be good at,” he pointed out.

  The master stoneworker was named Ansidius Perna. He was a big man with scarred hands and eyes permanently reddened by rockdust. Hermes had needed to do some searching to find the right man. It turned out that there were all sorts of stoneworkers: quarrymen, drillers, cutters, smoothers, polishers, fine carvers, and decorators, men who did nothing except cut the precise holes for placing the drumlike stones of pillars, and, of course, the masons who stacked the prepared stones into buildings and temples. Perna was head of the guild that represented quarrymen, drillers, and cutters. He stood before me as I lounged in my curule chair, draped in my purple-bordered toga, attended by my lictors.

  We were in the temporary headquarters I had set up next to the double temple. The minor festival of a few days before had turned into a veritable regional bazaar and more people were arriving every day. The place buzzed with word of the new killings, but so far no riot had broken out. The news was too fresh. Everyone was agog to hear more about the matter that had them all enthralled. Probably, I thought, they are hoping for even more killings.

  “Perna,” I said, “have you been in the tunnel that leads down to the chamber of the Oracle and the St—that river?”

  “I have, Praetor.” He was well dressed, barbered and bathed, as befitted the master of an important guild, but the dust was embedded in the creases of his skin as permanently as any tattoo. Plainly, he had been a common hammer-and-chisel man in his younger days.

  “And what is your impression of the stonework?”

  “Well, it was cut by men who knew their business. Every st
roke is straight and true, the marks are still there to see. Strange how they did it, one or maybe two men working at the rockface. Must have taken them twenty years to drive that tunnel in such a fashion. With a good team of a dozen cutters I could drive a tunnel that long in a year. It would have to be wider, of course. But then, how can we judge the way ancient people did things? They must’ve thought the gods wanted it done that way, and who’s going to argue with the gods?”

  “Quite so,” I mused. I had been inside one of the great pyramids outside Thebes, and none of it made any sense at all, with shafts leading nowhere and chambers containing nothing and slots no wider than your hand that led a hundred feet or more through solid stone to the outside, and nothing to be seen through them but a star or two. They were different people with different gods and how are we to understand them?

  “Perna,” I said, “I heard a rumor that the tunnel was cut upward, from below. Any way that could have happened?”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I didn’t say it was possible,” I said testily. “I just wondered if it could be true.”

  He chuckled. “No, sir. I know how to read chisel cuts, and that tunnel was driven downward like any other, and it was done with normal mallet-and-chisel work. Hard to even swing a sledge in such a narrow space.”

  “Have you any idea how it was driven straight to the river?”

  He shrugged. “That I couldn’t tell you. I suspect the gods were involved.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.” I rose from my seat. “Come with me. I want you to tell me what you think of this new tunnel we’ve found beneath the temple.” My lictors followed us.

  “I’ve never heard of this tunnel,” Perna said, “and I’ve lived in this district all my life.”

  “That’s what everyone says. Somebody has been very good at keeping a secret.”

  Inside the temple, I had one of my lictors raise the trap. Perna grunted and examined the door, then peered into the hinging arrangements. “The counterweight is hidden in the foundation,” he pronounced. “This is Greek work, but not local. I’ve heard of this sort of device being used in Alexandrian temples. They’re fond of spectacular effects like raising the god up through the floor during ceremonies.”