Under Vesuvius

by John Maddox Roberts

  “There is always some new decadence to be found in Campania,” I said. “I may never recover from this stay.”

  Rutilia smiled. “Let us hope not. Rome could stand a little sophistication. Especially when this year is over.” She meant that this was a censorship year, the one year in five when a pair of beady-eyed old senators whipped the public morals into shape. This year, one of them, Appius Claudius, made it his special mission to purge the Senate of unworthy members, taking special aim at men who had squandered their patrimonies and gone deeply into debt. He considered the chronic indebtedness of the governing class to be the greatest evil of the age. He cracked down on violators of the sumptuary laws; those who wore silk in public or more rings per finger than the law allowed, or who spent too much on weddings or funerals, and other threats to the Republic.

  There has always been a faction among us who attribute the virtue and success of our ancestors to the great simplicity in which they lived. They think that we’ve been corrupted by things like soft beds and hot baths and Greek plays and decent food. If we’d just go back to living in huts, they say, sleeping on the ground, eating coarse barley and hard cheese, we could regain our ancestral virtue. These men are deeply insane. Our ancestors lived simply because they were poor. I, personally, do not want to be poor.

  “Come meet our other guests,” Rutilia said. “I believe you already know some of them.”

  And indeed we did. There were Publilius the jewel merchant and Mopsus the silk importer and a dyestuff tycoon and several others we’d met, plus an Alexandrian banker and a Greek shipbuilder who were new to us. Then I spotted Gaeto across the triclinium, conversing with Manius Silva. Rutilia followed my gaze.

  “My apologies for having him here. He has—business dealings with a number of the more important people here. It doesn’t do to snub him, much as one might wish to. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not a bit,” I assured her. “I’ve found him to be good company. But then, I’ve gotten on well with Gauls and pirates and senators, so I’ve no reason to fear the company of a slaver.”

  She smiled. “A broad-minded Roman. We meet so few of those.”

  “Just one of my husband’s singular traits,” Julia told her.

  As guests of honor, we were placed at the main couch in the triclinium, one wall of which was open to a large, fountain-centered courtyard. Everyone had brought friends, so couches and tables had been set for them in this courtyard so that we were all, in effect, at the same banquet.

  Above the courtyard wall to the southeast the graceful cone of Vesuvius rose in green-clad majesty. As we took our couches a great cloud of dark-gray smoke shot from its crest. From the cloud a rain of something fell, trailing smoke in long streamers. I presumed these to be red-hot rocks.

  “It it erupting?” Antonia asked, her face pale.

  “Not at all,” Norbanus assured her. “It does this every few months, done it for years. Hasn’t erupted in living memory.”

  “That’s what my husband said when we arrived,” Julia said. “Is it what you people keep telling yourselves?”

  “Perhaps it is better to live near a well-behaved volcano,” Gaeto said, “than in the lethal political atmosphere of Rome.” It was a valid point, but the guests laughed harder than the witticism deserved.

  “Point well taken,” I admitted. “But in Rome, all the lava and ash fall on the senatorial class. Under a volcano, everyone suffers. I’ve seen Aetna in eruption. The destruction was truly comprehensive.”

  “When was that, Praetor?” Rutilia asked.

  “During the first consulship of Pompey and Crassus. I was sent to help the grain quaestor, a cousin of mine. We heard about the eruption and went to see.”

  “That was brave,” Circe said.

  “Not at all. We watched from the sea, in a fast trireme. Even then, some big rocks landed near us. They were glowing red and smoking, and when they hit the water they exploded in a huge cloud of steam. The noise was quite indescribable.”

  This led to a discussion of whether volcanoes were really the fires from Vulcan’s forge or some sort of natural phenomenon, like storms and floods. I was of the latter opinion, because Vulcan is reputed to be the greatest of smiths and I doubt he would let his fires get out of control.

  The food was, as might be expected, superb, but I will not waste words on a description of every extravagant dish, even if I could remember them all. Because the most memorable thing about that dinner was what happened just as it was ending.

  It was several hours past sunset. The slaves were bringing out silver trays of fruits and nuts, the usual final course of every dinner, whether a modest meal at home or a splendid public banquet. In keeping with the place and company, these were not simple items, fresh from the tree and vine, but elaborately preserved, honeyed, salted, or otherwise enhanced. Even though more food was the last thing I needed, I gave them a try.

  We were complimenting our hosts on their splendid layout when we were distracted by the sound of pounding hoofs.

  “That beast is being ridden hard,” Silva commented.

  “Someone with an urgent message,” I said with a sense of dread, knowing that this sojourn in southern Campania had been entirely too pleasant. Knowing that this message had to be for me and that it wouldn’t be good, I hoped that it wasn’t word from Rome that civil war had broken out.

  But when the man came into the courtyard I recognized him as one of the messengers belonging to Hortalus’s villa.

  “Oh, I hope there hasn’t been a fire,” Julia said.

  “Praetor,” the messenger said, “you must come at once to the Villa Hortensia. There has been a murder.”

  This set up a babble all over the courtyard. Murder was a common thing in Rome, but in these easy environs it was a great rarity.

  “Murder? Who?” I demanded.

  “Gorgo, daughter of Diocles the priest.”

  At this there was uproar and shouts of outrage. The murder of a slave would have caused comment. That of any freed or freeborn person would have been cause for excitement. The murder of the beautiful young daughter of a prominent man was sure to cause a sensation. I sensed that things could get quickly out of hand, so I took immediate action.

  “I must return to the villa at once,” I said. “This thing has occurred at my residence. Norbanus, Silva, as duumviri, you should come with me.”

  “Certainly,” said Norbanus. “Litters will be too slow. Everyone take horses from my stable.” He began to bark orders to his stable master.

  “Excellent,” I said. “All here who are magistrates come with us.”

  Silva turned to the messenger. “How did this happen?”

  I held up a hand. “Let’s have no secondhand information. It just leads to rumor and confusion. We will go view the body and question any witnesses there may be. Until we have done so and prepared a report for the municipal authorities, I abjure all here to refrain from idle speculation and from spreading tales that at this moment must be baseless.”

  “Very wise, Praetor,” Norbanus said. “I, for one, fully support your actions.”

  “That poor girl!” Julia said. “What could have happened?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I told her. “But I intend to find out.”

  As was my usual practice in such situations, I was watching those present. Everywhere I saw shock, outrage, at least a thrilled titillation. No help there. Gaeto’s swarthy face had gone ashen. The slaver came to me and spoke in a low, urgent voice.

  “Praetor, I wish to come with you.”

  “Gaeto, you are not a magistrate. You are not even a citizen.”

  “Nonetheless, I would esteem it a great favor if you would allow me to accompany you. I would be in your debt. In this district, that is not a small thing.”

  I was pretty sure what he was thinking, and I could not help but sympathize. “Very well, but do keep to the side and do not interrupt while we transact official business.”

  He bowed. “I am most
grateful.”

  There were some odd looks when he rode out with us, but nobody said anything. The night was fine, but the cloud still rose from Vesuvius, and now its underside was stained a lurid orange. If this was not a true eruption, I hoped never to see one.

  It was nearing dawn by the time we returned to the villa. Julia and the other women were following by litter. I had sent Hermes and some of the younger men of my party ahead on the fastest horses, to secure the murder scene and separate witnesses. These were precautionary measures I had devised in my career of investigating crimes. Much can be learned at a crime site, as long as it remains in the condition it enjoyed while the crime was being committed. I had little hope of this being the case when I arrived on the scene, but it was worth a try.

  How futile had been my wish became clear as we entered the villa grounds. We rode straight to the precincts of Apollo’s temple, and there I found a great crowd gathered. Most were slaves and freedmen of the villa, many of them bearing torches. The cluster was densest a little to one side of the temple, by the olive grove.

  We dismounted outside the grove and I called for the steward. The man appeared, looking harried and drawn. “Praetor Metellus! This is a terrible thing! Nothing like this has ever—”

  “Annius,” I said, “I want you to clear this rabble out of here and back to their quarters. They are not helping and they could be doing a great deal of harm. Is there anything resembling a witness around here?”

  “Sir, I have found nobody who—”

  “Then get these people away from here.”

  “At once, Praetor!” He clapped his hands, waved his staff, and began to herd everyone back up to the main house. Everyone, that is, except the temple staff. I saw the girls who had been assisting Gorgo the day we arrived, along with some men who had the look of sweepers and haulers, groundsmen and such. I approached the girls, who were weeping copiously.

  “What has happened here?” I demanded.

  “Sir,” began one, “the god must be angry with us! We were awakened by—”

  “What is your name, child?”

  She snuffled loudly. “Leto, sir.” She was a honey-haired beauty, locally born from the sound of her voice, a bit older than the other two.

  “Then calm yourself, Leto. I am not angry with you and I doubt Apollo is, either. Are you slave or free?”

  Either my voice or my assurances seemed to calm her. “I am a slave, sir. We all are. Slaves of the temple.” She indicated the other two girls. “These are Charmian and Gaia.” The girls bowed. Charmian had a look more bold than demure. She had dark hair and classically Greek features. Gaia, despite her name, was clearly a German, strong and big boned.

  “Praetor,” said Charmian, “you and Apollo may not be displeased with us, but the master is sure to be. We are—were—his daughter’s attendants, and she was murdered while we slept. He may flog us or sell us or put us to death.”

  “Then I will speak to the priest. He will do nothing to you, so long as you tell me exactly what happened. Withold nothing and add nothing to your account, do you understand?”

  They nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Then tell me what you know.” By this time the duumviri and other dignitaries had gathered around. Gaeto, true to his word, stood to one side.

  “We were awakened—” Leto began.

  “No, start with when you last saw your mistress alive.”

  She took a deep breath. “We had just finished the sundown service. We put away the sacred implements and extinguished the fire. Our mistress told us to go to bed, that she was going to the spring to bathe and would join us later.”

  “Did she usually bathe in the evenings?” I asked her.

  She frowned, thinking. “Not often but sometimes. Especially when the weather has been hot.”

  “Where was Diocles, the priest?”

  “Yesterday he went to Cumae for a yearly ceremony at the sibyl’s enclosure. We did not expect him until tomorrow or the day after. He has been sent for.”

  “So you went to bed. What then?”

  “A scream awakened us. It was horrible! At first, I didn’t even think it was a human sound. It woke the whole household. It was then we realized that the mistress wasn’t there. We searched the house and temple, and the groundsmen searched the fields and orchards. Astyanax found her.”

  “Which of you is Astyanax?” I demanded.

  A young man in a dark tunic came forward. “I am, sir. I tend the olive grove. That is where I searched.” He was visibly shaken, almost trembling, his voice weak. Slaves are always uneasy when there has been a murder in the house, and with good reason. If the victim is discovered to have been killed by one of them, every slave in the household is crucified.

  “Let’s go view the body,” I said. With the slave named Astyanax in the lead, we entered Apollo’s sacred grove. There we found Hermes. Marcus and a couple of my other young men stood by with torches. Hermes was crouched by a still, white form and he straightened at our approach.

  “We got here too late,” he reported. “The whole household of the temple and most of the villa’s were down here gawking. We ran them out of the grove, but it looks as if people have been racing chariots here.”

  Indeed, the ground was heavily trampled and fouled with sooty oil dripped from torches. Whatever evidence I might have found there was assuredly lost.

  “Well,” I said, “let’s have a look at her.”

  The body was covered with a white cloak and Hermes drew it back. Gorgo was still beautiful, but she had the pathetic look the dead always seem to have. She wore only jewelry: a fine Egyptian necklace, golden bracelets on her wrists, fine serpent armlets around her upper arms. She was stretched out with her legs together, her hands folded just below her breasts.

  “Surely she wasn’t found this way?” I said.

  “The girls straightened her out and covered her,” Hermes said. “They were about to carry her inside the temple when I stopped them.”

  I beckoned and the girls came forward. “Was she found on this spot?”

  “Yes,” Leto said. “We couldn’t bear to leave her like—”

  “It speaks well of your devotion that you were willing to touch her before the rites of purification were performed. But I need to know what she looked like when she was found.”

  “She was sort of twisted up on the ground,” Leto said.

  “I will show you,” said Charmian. She dropped to the ground and twisted her body, limbs scattered in a haphazard posture as if death came in mid-struggle. “Like this.” She stood and brushed herself off.

  “Marcus,” I said, “lower your torch beside her head. Be careful not to singe her hair.” I bent close and examined her neck. There was a ligature mark, not as deep and livid as many I’d seen, but clear indication that she’d been throttled. Her eyes were not swollen and red as so often in strangulations, but her lips were bluish.

  “Did you arrange her face as well as her body?” I asked the girls.

  “We closed her eyes and shut her mouth,” Leto said in a tiny voice. “It was just too ghastly.”

  From somewhere I heard the sound of running water. I straightened and followed the sound. About twenty paces away a spring bubbled from an abrupt outcropping of rock. Here an artificial pool had been excavated and lined with marble, watched over by a pair of protective herms. Light steam rose from the water, along with the faintest whiff of sulfur. I stooped and dipped my fingers into the water, which was warm. It was an offshoot of the hot springs that had made Baiae such a popular resort. Next to the pool was a small, white heap: a woman’s dress, neatly folded.

  “Is this where she came to bathe?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Leto answered.

  “Did you touch these clothes?”

  “No, Praetor. Well, her cloak lay beside the dress. We used it to cover her.”

  “Was it folded?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I could see the local dignitaries and even some of my own party
were mystified by my questions. They probably would have hauled all the slaves down to the local lockup and questioned them under torture. Well, I had my own methods.

  Then I saw a small cedar box on the marble flags at the edge of the pool. It was open, its contents a bronze scraper, a sponge, and a small flask. I picked up the flask and unstoppered it. It was scented bathing oil. I had just replaced the flask when a tormented wail came from the edge of the grove.

  “Uh-oh,” Hermes said. “Sounds like Papa’s back.”

  “Gorgo!” the old man screeched. “Where is my daughter?” Then he broke into deep sobs.

  “Well,” I said, straightening beside the pool, “we might as well go talk to him.” We found the old priest weeping beside his daughter’s body. “Diocles, please accept my condolences. We are conducting an investigation and I am certain that we shall soon—”

  Diocles wasn’t having any of it. He looked up, his expression of grief replaced by one of fury. “Investigation? Why in the name of all the gods is an investigation necessary?”

  “Diocles, I—”

  He shut me off again, pointing a trembling finger at Gaeto. “We all know what happened here! That slaver’s boy has been trying to force himself on my daughter for months! He tried again this night, and she fought him off and he killed her! I want him on the cross for this!”

  “Diocles,” said Manius Silva, “let’s not jump to conclusions. Let us and the praetor do our duty. Gorgo may have surprised a runaway slave hiding in the grove and he slew her to prevent her raising a cry. There are still bandits in the hills; there are robbers.”

  “Would robbers and bandits have left her jewels?” Diocles demanded scornfully. “It was Gelon! This is what happens when we allow slavers—”

  “Enough, Diocles!” Norbanus said. “We share your grief, but this is an official matter now.”

  “We’ll know soon enough,” I said. “Hermes?”

  “Praetor?”

  “Go rouse my lictors. Get them mounted, with their full regalia. Then you and Marcus take fresh horses and ride with the lictors and arrest Gelon, under my authority. Bring him back here.”