"Speaking of which, that trial is coming up soon. At our last interview you speculated that your husband might forbid you to testify. That is no longer a factor. I shall summon you to speak."
She inclined her head. "As the praetor wishes, of course."
"And will your testimony serve to clear Gelon of the charge?"
"As I told you before, I saw him that evening and again the next morning. I shall testify to that."
"Most conscientious," I told her. "Expect my lictors to call upon you soon."
With a few more formal, meaningless politenesses, I left her and returned to the town house.
"You mean she is not even going to lie in court to save her stepson?" Antonia said, aghast. We were dawdling over lunch and I had given a somewhat abbreviated account of my interview with Jocasta.
"She will be under oath," Marcus said archly. "Perhaps she fears the anger of the gods."
Circe snorted. "She's a Greek. The Greeks think the gods admire a good liar. No, there must be a coolness between stepmother and stepson. Either she doesn't care if he's executed, or she actually wants him to die."
"If Gelon is executed," Julia said, "where does that leave his father's estate? If it passes to his local widow, that might be reason enough for her to want him to be executed."
"I've been considering that," I said. "My legal advisers tell me that the executor of a resident foreigner's will must be his citizen partner. I will have to summon this Gratius Glabrio all the way from Verona. By the time he reaches here, I will be in Bruttium or Tarentum. Then I will have to come back here to hear the case."
"If this Glabrio exists at all," Julia said. "And by then Gelon will be either executed or let go. I don't think much of his chances at the moment."
"What is her motive to lie about the partner?" Hermes wanted to know.
"One," Antonia said, "to cover her ignorance. She says she's been managing Gaeto's affairs in his absence. If he kept the identity of his partner secret, she may not want anybody to know it, so she makes up a fake one who is safely distant. As you say, by the time she's caught in the lie, this matter will be settled one way or the other." She popped a honeyed cherry onto her mouth, chewed, and spat out the pit. "Two, she knows, but she and the partner have an agreement to keep the arrangement secret for the time being."
"Why?" I asked, intrigued at this line of reasoning.
"You'll know that when you learn the contents of the will," she said, "but it will have to be something advantageous to both Jocasta and this partner, and it will require that Gelon be out of the way."
"I'm beginning to be glad that we brought you along on this trip," I said to her. She had a natural grasp of the ins and outs of devious, deceitful behavior. A typical Antonian, really. Her brother, the soon-to-be triumvir Marcus Antonius, was as close to a decent human being as that family ever produced, and even he was a criminal on a world scale.
"By the way," Julia said, "just where is the will and why hasn't it been read already?"
"It's deposited in the Temple of Juno the Protector in Cumae," Hermes reported. "That's the local custom. It won't be released while the dead man's son is under arrest, but the praetor can subpoena it for the trial."
"See that it's done," I said. "I want a look at it."
"Time is pressing," Julia said. "We have fewer than ten days before we must be in Bruttium for the scheduled assizes. When will Gelon be tried? You really can't stall much longer."
"The city council has already notified us," Hermes said. "Tomorrow is the day of a local festival and all official business is forbidden. The next day is a court day, and after that you have to hold court in Stabiae, so the day after tomorrow is the only day Gelon can be tried."
"At least the docket is otherwise clear," I said. "We can devote the whole day to the trial. Who will prosecute on Diocles' behalf?"
"A citizen named Vibianus," Hermes informed us. "He studied law with Sulpicius Galba and has won a number of important cases."
"And who will speak for Gelon?" Julia asked. "It seems that his father didn't live long enough to engage a lawyer."
"I may have to select one myself," I said. "Marcus, you could use some practice before the bar. Would you like to defend Gelon?"
"Impossible!" Julia protested. "For a member of the praetor peregrinus's own party to take part would seriously compromise the trial."
"Why?" Circe asked. "It happens all the time in Rome. Just last year I saw a Claudius prosecute a Claudius with a third Claudius defending and a fourth sitting as praetor."
"Rome is hopeless," Julia said, "but we must set a better example for the municipalities and the provinces."
"I suppose so," I concurred. "Pity Cicero wouldn't consider it."
"What about his brother?" Marcus asked.
"He does what Cicero tells him to," Hermes said. "But what about Tiro? He's a freedman now and a full citizen, so he can plead in court, and as a freedman it would not be a disgrace for him to defend a slaver's son. He's been Cicero's secretary since the beginning of his career, so he must know the law just as thoroughly. Plus, Cicero could coach him during the trial."
"Brilliant!" I approved. "I'll talk to Cicero this afternoon."
I wondered why I had not thought of it already. With Cicero defending through a proxy, Gelon would have a decent chance. Just as important, the trial was sure to be entertaining. A good legal spectacle might be just what was needed to restore the district to its customary mood of slothful good humor.
That afternoon I called on Cicero. He was socializing at the baths with a number of cronies and no few sycophants. In the Baiaean game of social one-upmanship, having the famous ex-consul among your intimates was a coup. And Cicero, for all his superiority of intellect, was not immune to such sycophancy.
The very fact that he was petitioning the Senate for a triumph was a sign of his declining powers of self-criticism. If ever Rome had produced a man of high political capacity who was utterly lacking in soldierly qualities, it was Cicero. His inflation of some trifling successes in Syria to a victory worthy of a triumph was a matter for considerable amusement in high political circles. The man who had saved the Roman situation there was young Cassius Longinus, and he had received no recognition at all.
My arrival was greeted with enthusiasm, for while my highhandedness had rankled the duumviri and a few others, my bloody brawl with the bandits had raised me in the esteem of most. After a long soak I got Cicero aside and made my proposal. He was at first astonished, but quickly came around to my point of view. He summoned his brother and Tiro and we discussed the matter.
"So you really think the boy is innocent?" Cicero said.
"Something is just not right. He is too convenient and there are too many other contenders."
"Decius always has good instincts in these matters, Brother," said Lucius, "and Tiro could certainly use the exposure. Trying a capital case in Rome might be too ambitious a start, but Baiae is just right-plenty of wealth without the distraction of great political power."
"I agree," Cicero said. "How about it, Tiro? Would you like to launch your career as a barrister here?"
"Well," Tiro said, "as a former slave myself, I might be reluctant to defend a slaver's son. However, since he plans to renounce his father's business and become a respectable thief and raider, how can I refuse?"
We were just leaving the baths when a clatter of hooves announced the arrival of my reinforcements. The forum crowd gawked as a full turma of thirty cavalrymen rode in, their scarlet cloaks streaming gaily. They wore glittering mail coats split at the sides to facilitate riding and scarlet-crested helmets of shiny bronze. Instead of the long, oval shields carried by Caesar's cavalry, these had the old-fashioned pompanum shield, so-called for its resemblance to the round, bossed cake used in sacrifices. Their long, slender spears waved gracefully. They were fine-looking young men and had all the earmarks of the sons of wealthy equites of southern Italy, too well-bred to slog around behind a shield in the legions. Still,
they were full of spirit and verve.
Their leader was an even handsomer youth who wore a bronze cuirass sculpted to resemble the torso of Hercules. It was an immensely uncomfortable thing to ride in, as I knew from sore experience, but a splendid thing to see. His helmet was skinned with silver artfully embossed to resemble a head of curly hair. He reined in and spoke to Cicero.
"I am Marcus Sublicius Pansa, optio of the Ninth Turma, attached to the eleventh Legion, now being raised at Capua by the proconsul Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus. Have I the honor of addressing the praetor peregrinus Metellus?"
"No, you address the proconsul Marcus Tullius Cicero," I told him. "I'm Metellus." Technically, Cicero was still proconsul while he awaited his triumph, and would not lay down his office until he reentered Rome. The boy had made a natural mistake but he looked mortified.
"My apologies, sir! I thought-"
"Quite understandable," I told him. "It's only natural to think the most distinguished-looking man with a purple stripe is the one in charge. As it occurs, I am the one who sent for you. Who is your commander?"
"Sextus Pompeius, sir, the proconsul's son." The young man's diction reeked of the Greek rhetoric schools that were considered essential for a public career.
"Marcus Sublicius," I said, "we've had an outbreak of banditry in the region. I was personally assaulted and I take that as an insult to the dignity of Rome. I want them scoured out, and a few brought back alive for questioning. They are most likely on their way to the crater of Vesuvius, although they probably won't venture inside until the current venting dies down. Do you think you can handle that?"
He grinned. "It will be good training for the boys." The boys. He had to be all of nineteen years old.
"Good. Go first to the Villa Hortensia and get the horse master there. His name is Regilius and he's an old cavalryman and scout. He knows this countryside intimately and will guide you where you need to go. You have my authority to requisition supplies, grain, and remounts if need be anywhere in this district. With or without those men, be back here on the morning after tomorrow, in case I need you to keep civic order here."
"It shall be as you command, Praetor." He saluted, whirled, and rode out with his turma clattering at his heels.
"They seem to be a likely band of young men," Cicero said. "What do you think, Decius? You served with Caesar's cavalry. How would these match up to Caesar's?"
I didn't have to think about it long. "They're smartly turned out. Lots of glitter and panache, but they look like the horsemen of Scipio Africanus two hundred years ago. Caesar's cavalry look like bandits who plundered their gear off a battlefield. If it came to a fight, they'd eat those boys alive."
Cicero sighed. "That was what I was afraid you'd say."
12
The local festival was an annual celebration in honor of Baios, the helmsman of Ulysses, whose tomb I had been shown outside the gates. It commenced with a sacrifice at the tomb, accompanied by much pomp and ceremony. This I attended as a visiting dignitary. All the priests of the region turned out, many of them dressed in regalia peculiar to the district. Diocles was there, representing the Temple of Apollo, looking no more solemn than usual.
Young girls robed in white danced before the tomb and draped it with wreaths and garlands of flowers, and libations of wine and oil were poured over the altar. Then the girls led the procession back into the town amid loud singing from the civic chorus, scattering flower petals lavishly.
In the forum, stages had been erected upon which dancers and actors performed stories connected to the epic voyage of Ulysses, many of these extremely salacious. Calypso was portrayed by a Spanish dancer from Gades whose joints seemed to bend in all directions. We also learned
that Circe and her attendants still had uses for Ulysses' men even after they were transformed into beasts.
The performances were followed by another of the lavish public banquets we had grown accustomed to. It occurred to me that, had it not been for all this chasing about after murderers and the occasional fight with bandits, this stay in southern Campania would be making me very fat.
The duumviri went out of their way to be conciliatory. There was, after all, no profit to be had from resisting Rome, and much to be gained by cooperation. The bandit attack had embarrassed them and my act of calling in the troops had sobered them. As for Gelon, the trial would be on the morrow and all would be settled then. Besides, nothing should stand in the way of a good party.
In that spirit, we ate and imbibed and enjoyed the proceedings as if no dark cloud hung over us. Of course, a very palpable cloud did just that. Vesuvius was belching out a particularly profuse and noxious plume of smoke that day. Luckily, the prevailing wind kept the soot and ashes away from Baiae. Most of it seemed to be falling into the Bay of Neapolis, but an occasional shift of wind brought us a hot-iron odor laced with the stench of burning sulfur. It was rather like those aforementioned skeletons people use as decoration in banquet rooms, reminding all and sundry that death is always near and we might as well enjoy life while we can.
As if Baiaeans needed encouragement to enjoy life. During dinner famous Greek rhapsodes sang us the Odyssey, their Attic Greek so flawless, their renditions so filled with spirit and emotion that you could hear the oars creaking in the tholes and the splash of the great stones cast by Polyphemus at the fleeing ship of Odysseus (old Baios at the helm, no doubt.) Cognoscenti compared these performances with those of past years and, naturally, some claimed to have heard it done better. I never had.
When the festivities were over, Julia and I were entertained at the home of Publilius the jewel merchant. The last thing we needed was more food and wine, and by local standards this gathering was all but austere. Instead of another bout of gluttony, we were treated to an evening of that rarest and most delightful of diversions; sparkling conversation. Publilius had invited the wittiest and most eloquent men and women of the district, people noted for their skill at repartee. There were only two rules to observe: It was forbidden to talk about politics, and nobody was to talk too long about anything. Each of us was provided with a basket of buns, which we were to throw at anyone who waxed too loquacious.
It seemed that even a jewel merchant could be a person of taste. I have rarely enjoyed myself more, and would scarcely have believed that an evening could be so satisfying in the absence of a great deal of food and wine, tumblers and acrobats and dancers or at least a good fight. Topics ranged from the nature of the volcano in the distance to the true identity of Homer to whether dancing or oratory was the greater art. Discussion continued long into the night, illumination being provided by yet another Baiaean innovation: candelabra magnified by polished silver reflectors, supposedly an invention of Archimedes but adapted by the Ba-iaeans for purposes of luxury.
As we were making our farewells and calling for our litters, Hermes arrived with the latest load of bad news.
"There's been another," he said.
"Not another murder!" I cried. "No! I absolutely forbid it!"
"I fear some things are beyond even the power of a Roman praetor," said our host. "Who is it this time?"
"Quadrilla, wife of the duumvir Silva," Hermes reported. "You'd better come quick."
"Where?" I said. "Their villa?"
"No. The town house. It's only a few streets from here."
"Julia," I said, "return to our lodgings. Try to keep Circe and Antonia from meddling in this. You'll get a full report upon my return."
She nodded wordlessly, tight-lipped. Earlier in our marriage she would have insisted on accompanying me, and longed to do so now, but she was trapped by her own vision of how a praetor's wife should behave, and an unseemly fascination with bloody doings was not among the qualities she thought she should display.
We made our way to Silva's house without delay. The city's street lighting made torches unnecessary so our walk took no more time than it would have in daylight, a thing unthinkable in Rome. We found a crowd of citizens outside the door with a han
dful of the city guard keeping out the rabble. They stood aside for me. Inside, we found the duumviri in the atrium. Norbanus spoke in soothing tones to his distraught colleague. Manius Silva was pale and agitated. His Cretan colleague, Diogenes, stood nearby.
"Well," I said, "we should be getting used to this. Manius Silva, please accept my condolences for your loss, but matters are getting out of hand. We must dispense with the sad conventions for the moment. We will observe them later, I promise. Now, tell me what has happened."
They were too stunned to object. Once again, my authority here was on shaky ground, but by bulling in forcefully and taking charge as if I were born to command, I got my way. This is a useful tactic that should be practiced diligently by all governors and magistrates sent to the hinterlands. People will usually cede authority to one who demands it with sufficient brazenness.
"I–I found her when I returned-" Silva was stammering, either sorely distressed or faking it very well.
"Returned from where?" I asked.
"We were-" Diogenes began, but I cut him off.
"I wish to hear this from Manius Silva. Please continue."
"I was at the annual banquet of the perfumer's guild, of which I am head. It is held every year on this date." He had gone from the lavish public banquet earlier in the day to another banquet. How typical of Baiae. "When I reached home, all seemed as usual-"
"Quadrilla did not attend this banquet with you?" I asked. I had seen her with him at the earlier event.
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