Under Vesuvius s-11

by John Maddox Roberts

  "Why would the priest of Apollo go into partnership with a slaver?" Julia wanted to know.

  "For money, of course! Far higher than the usual percentage. And he wasn't a priest back then. His father was still the priest, and he had an older brother. But the brother died first, and then Diocles inherited the priesthood and he was too respectable, too noble for the likes of us. But he took the money. Year after year he demanded his cut, and year after year he snubbed us and treated us like offal beneath his feet!" The woman had great reserves of bitterness, that much was clear.

  "And your talk about Greek malcontents meeting at the temple to talk against Rome, that was just magician's smoke to confuse my investigation?"

  "Oh, such meetings were held, but nothing would ever have come of them. It was the drunken ramblings of resentful men. They all had too much at stake to risk revolutionary action. They were just disgruntled at having Rome lording it over them. But Diocles did help them out when they had financial troubles. He could afford to, with the money he raked in from the slave trade."

  "You said you had a spy in the temple," I said. "Was it Gorgo or Charmian who told you about these meetings?"

  "Charmian," she said sadly. "Poor Charmian. She was so lively and strong, so intelligent. No, Gorgo had little going on in her head and a great deal going on between her legs."

  Circe astonished me by saying; "Did you love her?"

  Jocasta jerked around, surprised. "No. She was a sweet, stupid girl and she was pleasant to be with, but I could not love such a creature."

  "But those passionate poems-" Julia began, then she stopped, her eyes going wide. "You wrote them to Charmian!"

  "We speculated such a thing at first," I said. "We found the poems in the girls' quarters. But we were fixated on Gorgo."

  "She loved you, though," Julia said, her voice hardening. "She put on her best jewelry, anointed herself with your favorite perfume, Zoroaster's Rapture-surely you gave her the jewelry and the perfume?"

  "Oh, yes, they were my gifts. But I wrote poems only for Charmian."

  "So was Charmian your go-between with Gorgo," Antonia asked, "or was it the other way around?"

  Jocasta regarded her with eyes worldly enough to give even an An-tonian pause. "Why do you think it had to be one or the other?"

  "You mean," Antonia said, "all three of you?" Her face filled with wonder. "You were getting up to some serious debauchery out in Apollo's grove!"

  "Very Greek in all respects," I said. "But she didn't wear her very best jewelry to that last meeting. She didn't wear this." I took the huge necklace from within my tunic and let it drop to its full length, the jewel-studded golden lozenges rattling faintly. Jocasta jerked slightly at the sight, glaring. "Gaeto gave her this, didn't he?"

  "Yes!" She packed a world of hatred into one short word.

  "Is it why you killed her?"

  "No, it's just a bauble. But it portended worse things. Charmian told me about it, that Gaeto was meeting Gorgo and bringing her fabulous gifts."

  "Poor little Leto said Gorgo returned to bed smelling differently after various assignations. Sometimes it was Jocasta's perfume, sometimes it was healthy male musk, Numidian variety."

  "You are being vulgar, dear," Julia chided.

  "And the girl was fickle," Jocasta went on. "She was beginning to fancy Gelon, who was closer to her own age."

  I stole a glance at Gelon. He seemed to have turned to stone. Maybe he wasn't going to be executed, but he was getting a double ration of suffering.

  "You mean," Hermes said, "you were bedding the father, the son, the woman they both loved, and her slave girl?"

  "Let's not forget Quadrilla," I said, "but we'll get to her later. You said the necklace portended worse things. What did you mean?"

  "I think I can answer that," said my wife, who had turned out to be unsettlingly handy with a dagger. "He was looking for a younger wife, wasn't he? One better placed than a Greek hetaera."

  Jocasta smiled bleakly. "Pray you don't learn what it feels like. Yes, he wanted Gorgo for a wife. Unlike Gelon, he could have forced Diocles to his will. Killed him if necessary. Under all the polish I gave him, he was a brute. And Diocles wasn't much of a partner any more. The great men of the town were borrowing from Gaeto as well as from the priest. Any of them would have agreed to be a partner, as long as discretion was observed."

  "So you got rid of her," I said. "Did Charmian help you?"

  "No, both girls were asleep when I strangled her. With a scarf, it can be done so gently that the victim passes into death without ever wakening. Wives sometimes hire hetaerae to do away with their husbands in such a fashion. They seem to have passed away from overindulgence."

  "But the scream-¦" Julia began. Then, "Oh, that was Charmian, wasn't it?"

  "Yes, when I awakened her and told her her mistress was dead. She was distraught for a while, tried frantically to revive her. But she recovered quickly."

  "So that accounts for the disordered state of the body, despite your humane method of assassination," I noted. "Now tell me how you killed your husband."

  She thought for a while, and we did not prod her. One doesn't hear so elaborate a confession often.

  "I prepared for this long ago," she said. "Gaeto depended on me for many of his business dealings. I write well in Latin and Greek, languages in which he was illiterate, though he spoke them well enough. He dictated his will, in which he left most of his property to Gelon, with provisions he thought would satisfy me. I wrote it the way I knew it should read. When I knew he would soon be making a new will, it was time to act. At such times you have to act swiftly and decisively. You can't hesitate.

  "With Gorgo dead, I knew that he would deduce what had happened within a few days. He was not a stupid man. I hadn't realized that Diocles would suspect Charmian so swiftly. He'd suspected her of spying for a long time, it turns out. When she escaped, she came straight to me, of course. She'd been hideously beaten, but she insisted on coming with me when I went to kill my husband. I didn't want her to-she was too badly hurt-but she was like iron. Besides, there was a problem with my plan."

  "You needed to stand on your horse to get atop the wall," I said. "But somebody had to hold it while you were inside, so that you could make your escape." This accounted for the smell of horse I'd detected on the girl's body.

  "I told myself that it was all right. It wasn't a long ride, after all. I washed and dressed her and we rode out after dark. There was no problem getting into the compound. I was very familiar with the place and its routines. Gaeto was surprised to see me, but he thought I'd just come in through the front gate. I disrobed and let him know that I was overcome with passion. He was a man. He was flattered. I put the dagger in him and dressed and left."

  So much for her inconvenient husband.

  "But as we neared the city before dawn, Charmian doubled over in terrible pain. It was the beating. I never should have let her ride with me. That vicious priest killed her!" For the first time she wept. This was the only death that touched her. She dried her tears and went on. "I took her as far as the laundry park and she could ride no farther. I laid her down on the grass and she died before sunrise. I did the best I could by her, and it was such a beautiful place." She was weary, now, all but drained.

  "But you had to strip her and leave her naked," I said, "because you'd dressed her in your household livery."

  "Aren't you the clever one," she said tonelessly.

  "Actually," I told her, "Hermes figured that one out. He has his moments. That leaves only Quadrilla. Why did you kill her?"

  "The dagger."

  "What?" I said.

  "She'd taught me that trick with the little dagger, hiding it in your hair. Greek hetaerae don't use it, you see. They don't stoop to common, brutal clients. They're too expensive. But Italian whores know the trick, and Quadrilla had been forced into prostitution when she was a young girl, after her father was ruined. Like so many of the wives around here, she came to me to learn refinem
ents. In return, she taught me some of the baser realities of a whore's life. Just in case I should ever be cast aside, you see."

  "But she smuggled you into her house," Julia said. "You were sleeping with her, too."

  "With quite a few of the local ladies, actually. As I said, they came to me for lessons. What better way to teach? But Quadrilla began to tease, to let me know she knew I'd done away with Gaeto. Maybe she would have kept silent. But I couldn't risk it."

  "And the bandits?" I said. "How did you contact them?"

  She livened a bit. "By pure luck. They found me arranging Charmian's body. They'd been driven from Vesuvius by the smoke and ash and were foraging in the countryside. They wanted the horses. I told them go ahead and take them. Then I told them that I could pay them handsomely of they'd get rid of a Roman praetor and his prisoner for me. You're such a troublesome snoop. I told them when Gaeto's funeral would be and which road you would be on."

  "How did you know I'd let Gelon go and that I would attend?"

  "Because I'd already seen what a dutiful man you were, what an examplar of Roman pietas, when you were so generous about Gorgo's funeral. You were so punctilious about matters of religion and ritual. I never thought you'd be so handy with a sword. I was very impressed."

  "But why," Julia asked, "did you take Quadrilla's sapphire?"

  She looked at my wife, and for the first time her eyes revealed the madness within. "As a keepsake. I truly liked Quadrilla."

  "Why didn't you kill Diocles?" Antonia asked.

  "He was next," Jocasta told us. "But Diocles presented difficulties. He would never let me get close. The others allowed me to get close."

  There was silence for a while, then I rose from my chair. "It is almost sundown and I told the town that I would render judgment by then. Let's go to the forum and set this matter at rest."

  "Actually," Jocasta said, "I don't wish to provide a spectacle for all these Campanian snobs. But I don't mind letting a Caesar and a Metellus see this." Her right hand went to her hair.

  "Stop her!" Julia shouted.

  But Jocasta was too swift for our stunned senses and she hadn't run out of daggers. This was not one of her needlelike weapons. It was no larger, but its blade was flat and double-edged, with a keen point. It flashed across and went in beneath her left ear. She jerked it across, all the way to the other ear. The she stood there, with her blood flowing like a waterfall. Throughout, she glared at us with defiance, standing erect, letting us know who was the true aristocrat here. Then the light went out of her eyes.

  I sat again, ignoring the wails and sobs of the women, the strangled noises made by the men.

  "I should have had her stripped and her hair searched," I said. "I must be getting old." But I was truly not unhappy that I would not be condemning her to death. In spite of all she had done, I did not want her blood on my hands.

  "I lost the case but my client was exonerated," Tiro mused. "I am not sure how I feel about that."

  "Feel happy," Cicero advised. "The law is a chancy business. I was exiled for the finest legal judgment I ever delivered." He shook his head. "This district is so pleasant it's hard to believe it's such a sink of corruption."

  "I like it anyway," I assured them. "They know how to have a good time, and you can't get fish stew like this just anyplace."

  We were lounging in a dining room of the Villa Hortensia while my household packed up for the trip to Bruttium. We were dipping crusts of bread into the last of the stew, having put away a prodigious amount of it.

  "Did you hear?" Hermes inquired. "Diocles opened his veins last night."

  "With all his guilt," I said, "what he couldn't stand was for people to know he'd been the slaver's partner. This is one funeral I'll pass up."

  "So ends the line of priests of Campanian Apollo," Julia said sadly.

  "They'll find another one," I assured her. "Bloodlines aren't everything."

  "But such an ancient lineage!" she said. "It seems a shame."

  "This was just a little change in a little town," Cicero said. "I fear that far greater things are about to change very soon." And so they did.

  These things happened in Southern Campania in the year 704 of the City of Rome, the consulship of Lucius Aemilius Lepidus Paullus and Caius Claudius Marcellus.

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