Where, I wondered, had Hermes got to? He shouldn't have trouble finding one of the district's most prominent, if somewhat notorious, inhabitants.
In time, the jury returned and the bailiff recited a few of the hallowed judicial formulae concerning justice and truthfulness before the gods, then the eldest juror handed him the ballot jar. The bailiff dumped the marked tesserae on his table, and he and his assistants counted them out, ballots for innocent to go in one pile, guilty in another. At the end of it, all the ballots were in a single pile.
"The jury finds unanimously for the defendant," he announced. "Diogenes of Crete is innocent." The audience cheered or made rude noises as their sympathies lay.
"So much for that, then," I said. "This court is adjourned. Let's get some lunch."
Manius Silva came up to me, fury in his face. "The verdict was just, but it came no thanks to you, Praetor!"
"What of it? Is it my task to guarantee a favorable verdict here?"
"It is when you've accepted-" I gave him a stern look and he paused. The men of my party gave him stern looks. My lictors gave him stern looks, fingering the edges of their axe heads.
"You were saying, Manius Silva?" I asked.
"Nothing, Praetor. Thank you for conducting so fair a court." He whirled and stalked off.
In truth, I was happy that Diogenes had been found innocent. I didn't care about his business practices, and the man had been good company. As far as I was concerned, a fine judge of fighting men was far preferable to some disgruntled scent merchant.
There came a clatter of hoofs and I saw Hermes and a couple of the young bloods of my party ride into the forum. Indignant looks went their way, for mounted and wheeled traffic were forbidden during the daylight hours, but as special assistants to the praetor they had a dispensation. Hermes slid off his mount and strode to the judicial platform.
"Have you found him?" I demanded.
"I did. He's dead, Praetor. Murdered."
7
My litter carried me to the edge of the town, where my horse was waiting, saddled. I got out of the litter, tossed my toga into it, and ordered the bearers to return to the villa. Mounted and free of the cumbersome garment, I felt invigorated, even younger. Boredom and the trappings of power can be a deadly combination. I was eager for some excitement and I was getting it.
"How?" I demanded as we rode.
"You'll have to see for yourself," Hermes shouted above the clatter of our horses. The splendid road was smoothly paved, lined with imposing tombs and stately shade trees. It led along the shore and featured frequent rest areas where travelers could picnic. Each of these featured a fine view of the picturesque bay and had its own bubbling fountain and marble latrine. They left nothing to chance in Baiae.
Hermes led us onto a side road that descended a gentle bluff to the shore. At the end of it was an extensive villa that included many large out-
buildings, almost a small village in itself. From the house stretched a stone jetty. It extended into water deep enough to anchor a sizable ship. There were some small boats tied up to it, and nets hung drying from racks along its sides.
We'd picked up an escort of town guardsmen. These were men in whom I reposed no confidence. They wore gilded armor that looked like something an actor would wear onstage, they were in poor physical condition, and their officer was a wellborn young lout who avoided service in the legions by performing this "essential" civic duty.
I dismounted at the entrance to the compound and began to bark orders. "You lot," I shouted to the guards, "secure all the approaches to this place. Let no one enter or leave!" They saluted and bustled to obey me. That disposed of them. I was perfectly confident that they would accomplish nothing.
For a moment I stood surveying the place. It entirely lacked the stench that so often hangs over a slave compound like a noxious fog. This place was well run, at least. "Marcus," I said, "get me the steward. He should be here to meet us. If he's fled, I'll have him hunted down and killed."
"He's here," Hermes said, nodding toward the barred gate. A man with a pale, worried face was hustling from the main house with a ring of massive keys in one hand. He was accompanied by a pair of guards who wore leather harness and were armed with whips and bronze-studded clubs of olive wood. Not Numidians this time. These looked like Sicilians.
The man unlocked the gate with shaky, sweating hands. The guards tugged it open, and we passed inside.
"What kept you?" I said.
"Your pardon, Praetor. We have been making an inventory of the staff and the sale slaves to make sure that all were accounted for. Your man ordered this."
"I did," Hermes affirmed. "Is the count complete?"
"Yes. All are here save the young master and his tribal guards. We have not seen them since the-the arrest."
"What about the lady of the house?" I asked.
"The master's junior wife and her girls have been resident in the town house for several days, sir."
"And who might you be?" I demanded.
"Oh. Sorry, Praetor. I am Archias, steward to Gaeto. I trust you will pardon my distress. First the young master arrested for murder, now the master-"
"Perhaps it is time that I see your late employer. You are to stay close. I will wish to have a tour of the establishment when I have viewed the body."
"Of course, Praetor. Please come with me." We followed him to the main house. It looked much like any fine country house in this district except for the activities. In the distance I could hear a Greek palaestra master calling out exercise commands. Occasionally the crack of a whip sounded above the mutter of the several hundred inhabitants.
"How did you discover him?" I asked as we passed inside the house. The atrium was spacious and blessedly without the pretentious portrait busts with which so many social climbers seek to ape the ancestry of the nobility. The impluvium was splendid and decorated in fine taste, but once again without pretension.
"I must confess it, sir," said Archias, "I went to seek him when your man came this morning to demand an audience."
"He was summoning your master to me," I told the man. "Kings have audiences, not slave merchants."
"Of course, sir," he said stiffly. I was being deliberately rude. You often get a better degree of truth from people who are upset and off guard. "In any case," he went on, "it was far later than he usually rises, and I got no answer to my knock. He was in here."
He had stopped before a door that opened off the impluvium, the most common location for bedrooms in Roman houses-and Gaeto seemed to have gone entirely Roman in his domestic habits, save his supernumerary spouse. Beside the door were two Egyptian slaves dressed in stiff, white linen kilts and formal wigs. They didn't look like guards.
The steward swung the door open. I saw that it was fitted with a heavy bolt that could be fastened from the inside. One rarely sees lock-able doors within a house, except on storerooms and wine cellars. But this was a sensible precaution for a man who dealt in human livestock and dwelled in the midst of his merchandise.
Gaeto lay on the floor beside his bed, fully clothed. His eyes were open, his head drawn back as if he had been observing the heavens for omens when he died. There was no blood staining his clothing nor on the floor.
"How did he die?" I asked. I scanned the room. There were no displaced or broken furnishings, no sign of a struggle.
The steward summoned the two Egyptians and they entered. At his direction they lifted the body gently and turned it over. "These men are undertakers, Praetor," said Archias. "Skilled Egyptians are much in demand in Italian funeral establishments."
No wonder these two had no qualms about handling the dead. Unlike Roman libitinarii they did not wear masks or gloves, but men raised in an Egyptian House of the Dead are not likely to be squeamish. Their craft involves handling the internal organs as well.
"Ah, now I understand," I said.
Protruding from the back of Gaeto's neck, driven upward into the base of the skull, was a small dagger
, buried hilt deep. It was an extremely clever method of assassination. Paralysis would have been instant, death following in mere seconds. The man would have been unable to cry out and no blood escaped.
"His hands show no sign that he tried to defend himself," Hermes noted. "He must have been taken completely unawares."
"So it would seem," I agreed. "Archias, who was in here with your master last night?"
"Sir, last night, just after dinner, I was dismissed with the rest of the staff. We live in other houses within the compound. Only the immediate family and their personal body servants live in the great house."
"Then who was with him last night?" I asked him.
"Nobody. The gate was secured and there were no callers until your man arrived this morning."
"Then he was killed by someone already here," I said, "and that could prove very bad for all of you."
He went even paler. "Praetor, that could not have happened!"
"Then what did happen?" I demanded, indicating the corpse. "Does this look like suicide to you?"
He stammered, then said, "Someone must have come in over the wall."
"I'll want to talk to whoever guarded the gate last night," I told him. I looked around the room and saw that there was nothing to be learned from it or from the body. I had rarely seen a murder site so devoid of usable evidence. Only inference was of any use. "Now give me a tour of the establishment."
We followed the steward outside, and I drew young Marcus near me. "Marcus, ride back to the villa and find Regilius, the horse master. Tell him to ride here immediately and scout the ground around this estate, paying particular attention to the part of the outer wall nearest the main house. He'll know what I want." The boy was clearly mystified, but he did not waste my time with questions; he merely said, "At once, Praetor," and ran for his horse. That boy had a promising future.
"From the wharf"-Archias indicated the jetty visible through the main gate-"the merchandise is brought within the walls and taken to the great compound. Please come this way." He was talking like a tour guide, probably to help get over his jitters. I could sympathize. I had the feeling that he gave this tour often, probably to prospective investors and big-scale buyers. We went into a large courtyard faced by a quadrangle of two-story barracks. The severity of the design was relieved by bright paint, a shady portico, and many fine trees and shrubs planted in huge jars around the perimeter. Lest anyone be too allayed by the pleasant prospect, in the center was a frame to which a number of slaves could be triced for whipping.
Next to the main entrance was a huge signboard of white-painted wood. On it in large, black letters were written the rules of the establishment and a list of punishments for infractions. On the left it was written in Latin, then repeated in Greek, Punic, Aramaic, Syrian, and demotic Egyptian.
"Here," Archias went on, "the new stock are separated by categories. Those destined for domestic service are assigned quarters in the north building, skilled craftsmen to the west building. Entertainers, masseurs, bath attendants, and so forth are housed in the south building; and the most highly skilled-architects, physicians, teachers, and such-live in the east building."
"Where do you keep the dangerous ones?" I wanted to know.
"Oh, sir, the house of Gaeto does not handle dangerous stock. No gladiators, new-caught barbarians, or incorrigibles sold off cheap. Only quality slaves are sold here."
"Your men have clubs and whips," Hermes said.
"That is traditional. It is what all slaves understand. Why, the whipping frame here practically rots from disuse. The rare times it is employed, it is usually because of petty jealousies and fights among the slaves themselves."
"I see. I want to inspect the quarters. And the slaves."
"As the praetor wishes."
"Do they know yet?" I asked.
"No, Praetor. Even the staff have not yet been informed of the master's death."
"Good," I said. "I'll be able to learn a good deal more without a great uproar of false mourning and lamentation. Don't parade them. I want to see them in their natural state."
"Then, please come this way."
The tour was fairly lengthy and educational. The domestic servants had that demure, eyes-lowered appearance that all such slaves cultivate. Doubtless they thought I was some rich buyer come to look them over and they might well end up in my household. My own family rarely bought slaves, preferring to employ only those born within the household, although we sometimes traded them around among ourselves. That was how I acquired Hermes, after he'd worn out his welcome in my uncle's house.
The craftsmen's quarters featured small shops where carpenters, smiths, potters, weavers, and such could keep gainfully employed while awaiting sale, as well as having an opportunity to demonstrate their skills to prospective buyers. I wasn't sure what the Egyptian undertakers did in their leisure time. They didn't seem to be provided with corpses to practice on.
The professionals had more spacious quarters, as befitted their superior rank in slave society. The scribes, bookkeepers, and secretaries were held in least esteem, physicians and architects at the top. At that time, great men were expected to exercise euergesia by donating great building projects to their client towns and to the capital. Some simply bought a permanent staff of architects for this very purpose. Even when you weren't having anything built, it enhanced your social status to let everyone know you could afford to own your personal architects, then support them in idleness.
The entertainers' quarters were the most enjoyable part of the tour. Gaeto had bought Spanish and African dancers, Egyptian magicians, and Greek singers and reciters of poetry-men who could recite the entirety of Homer from memory and women who could play every conceivable musical instrument. It is possible that I lingered in this wing longer than was strictly necessary for the purposes of the investigation, but you never know what sort of information might turn out to be of use.
Reluctantly, we went back outside and took a tour of the outer wall. It was about ten feet high, without battlements or a sentry walk. It was no more formidable than the sort of wall that often surrounds a great house in the country, and had probably been built during the Social War or the rebellion of Spartacus or some other time of unrest. Such walls were often demolished in peaceful times to clear the view, but Gaeto had cause to maintain this one.
We went to the main gate and found a pair of nervous-looking guards within and a mob of officials milling about outside.
"You two were on guard here last night?" I said.
"Yes, Praetor," one said. "Nobody came in through this gate and nobody went out. We-"
"Answer the Praetor's questions and say nothing else!" Hermes barked.
"Yes, sir!" The man's accent was pure Sicilian.
"What hours did you stand watch?" I asked.
"Sunset to sunrise, Praetor."
"No reliefs?"
"None, Praetor." He had learned brevity.
"You saw and heard no one approach this wall?"
They looked at each other uneasily. "Actually, Praetor," said the spokesman, "our duties are mainly to keep the slaves from going out and to open the gate for anyone arriving after dark with a legitimate reason to come in."
"You don't patrol the perimeter?"
"No, sir. The master never-"
"Just answer what you're asked," I reminded him. "Now, tell me this: Were either or both of you asleep at any time last night?"
"Never!" they shouted as one. This meant nothing, of course. Guards never admit dereliction of duty, even if you catch them snoring.
"Dismiss these men," I told the steward. "Now, I'll talk to that mob outside. When Gaeto is prepared for burial, I want that dagger."
"I shall have it sent to you," he assured me.
Outside the gate was convoked a crowd of Baiae's officials and magistrates and other important people, including wives and all the rabble that usually assembles at the site of scandalous doings.
"Is it true, Praetor?" demanded Manius Si
lva. "Has Gaeto been done away with?" He still looked peeved at the way I had conducted the morning's trial.
"Dead as Achilles," I confirmed. I watched their faces closely. Some affected philosophic impassivity; others looked relieved, Silva and Nor-banus among them. Rutilia looked delighted, but then some people just love murders. She turned to her friend Quadrilla and said something behind a masking hand. Quadrilla's face was grim and her expression did not change at whatever Rutilia said. I thought this odd, but then she might have stuck an even larger sapphire in her navel and it was causing her discomfort.
"Listen to me, all of you," I said. "Things are getting out of hand here. Just because murders happen all the time in Rome is no reason to think you people have some sort of license to imitate us."
"The slaver was probably killed by his own livestock," said Publil-ius the jewel merchant.
"Let's have no loose talk," I commanded. "I will investigate and the killer will be brought to justice."
"At least we know it wasn't parricide," Rutilia remarked. "That would have brought the wrath of the gods." This brought an appreciative chuckle. Ordinarily I admire sophisticated wit, but at this moment I was in no mood for it.
"Here comes the grieving widow," Quadrilla said.
A litter carried by hard-pressed bearers was descending the bluff. Minutes later it was set before me and flame-haired Jocasta emerged, her clothes in disarray, her bright hair unbound and streaming. She looked around wildly, then at me.
"I see it must be true." Her eyes were dry but furious. "My husband is dead. Murdered."
"I am afraid so," I told her.
"You know it was that priest!" she said through clenched teeth. "He couldn't reach the son, so he killed the father. Have him arrested!"
"I know no such thing. You have my condolences, Jocasta, but your husband had many enemies. Several hundred of them reside in that compound." I jerked a thumb over my shoulder at the wall of the estate. "I will find out who killed Gaeto-slave, freed, or freeborn-and I will render justice."
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