Under Vesuvius

by John Maddox Roberts

  “Praetor!” Gaeto cried. “This is not just. You have no cause to do—”

  I took him aside and said quietly, “I have plenty of cause, and justice has nothing to do with it. I’m arresting the boy for his own protection. Those people back at Norbanus’s house have spread word of this already. Everyone in the district will think Gelon is the murderer because he’s a slaver’s son and a foreigner, and he lives and acts like a visiting prince. There may be a mob assembling at your house right now. If my men can get there in time, I’ll keep him safe here, at the villa. You must not resist me in this.”

  He nodded. “Of course, you are right. I will find the best lawyer in Campania.”

  “With luck he may not need one, but if I were you, I’d look for one now.”

  Something occurred to me. “Annius!” I shouted.

  The steward scurried over. “Praetor?”

  “Send me the villa’s horse master. Not the stable master but the riding master.”

  “At once, Praetor.” He did not bother to express astonishment at this request. Things were happening too fast for poor Annius.

  “As for you, Gaeto,” I went on, “I think you should lie low. At the very least, people are going to be hissing and throwing things at you. Keep your boy’s Numidian escort reined in. If one of them so much as points a javelin at a citizen, I’ll have the lot of them on the cross. Do you understand?”

  He bowed. “It shall be as you say, Praetor. And, sir, whatever you can do—”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll do what I can for the boy. For what it’s worth, I doubt that he did this, but my opinion isn’t what counts.”

  I went back to the gathering by the grove. “Listen to me, everyone! General opinion seems to be that Gelon, son of Gaeto the Numidian, is the culprit here. That being the case, I am taking control of this matter as praetor peregrinus. I will hold the suspect under arrest while a trial is scheduled and his defense is prepared.”

  “No need for that,” Norbanus said. “We have a perfectly good municipal lockup for felons.”

  “I don’t want to throw him into some flea-ridden pit with runaway slaves and bandits. He’ll stay here. As for the rest of you—” I gazed around at the assembled notables “—I want you to return to your homes and duties. I am holding you responsible for the behavior of your fellow citizens. I want no mobs, no rioting, no rabble-rousers talking up wars two generations past. If there is disorder, I will not hesitate to call in soldiers to reestablish order. Am I understood?”

  “Praetor,” Silva protested, “this is not Gaul or Sicily. We have a peaceful, well-ordered society. All shall be according to Roman law.”

  “See to it,” I said. I knew it is always best to assert one’s authority at once, especially since my only authority here was that a foreigner was suspect. Still, I had expected more protest from these men. Clearly, none of them wanted any part of this case. That would bear thinking about.

  4

  In the gray dawn I trudged back toward the villa. Halfway there I was met by the horse master. He was a tall man, a Spaniard by the look of him, who walked with a pronounced limp. I read the marks of the cavalry on him.

  “The praetor sent for me?”

  “Yes. You’ve ridden with the alae, haven’t you?”

  He looked pleased. “Fifth cohors equitata, attached to the Fourth Legion in the Sertorian War, first under General Metellus, then under General Pompey. I am Regilius.”

  “Well, Regilius, General Metellus was my uncle. General Pompey, I am happy to say, is no relation at all.”

  He grinned. “Wasn’t much of a general, either, at least not in that war. At least your uncle fought Sertorius. Pompey bribed the traitor’s friends to kill him.”

  “Very true. Regilius, I have a task for you. It is almost light. I want you to go all around the sacred olive grove and look for hoofprints. If anyone rode there last night, I want to know how many there were and what they were riding.”

  He grinned again. “Haven’t done any scouting or tracking in a good many years, but I haven’t forgot how. If there’s horse sign out there, you’ll know about it within the hour.” He threw me a sloppy salute and whirled on his heel, shouting for his grooms. It was good to have someone around who knew his business.

  Back at the villa I sat on a terrace and called for some breakfast. Trays of hot bread, sliced fruit, and pots of herbed oil and honey all appeared with magical swiftness, accompanied by heated, heavily watered, and slightly sour wine. This last was a wake-up drink much favored by Hortalus and others of his generation. Ordinarily I did not care for it, but just now it was what I needed. As I ate and pondered, I saw a line of litters coming down the road toward the villa: Julia and the other women, finally making it back from Norbanus’s house.

  The bearers brought the lead litter onto the terrace and set it down. Moments later Julia emerged. From within came a faint sound of snoring.

  “Silly cows,” she said, seating herself at the little table while I poured her a cup. “They slept the whole way back. Not even a murder can keep them awake.” She took a sip and made a face. “This stuff is awful. Well, tell me.”

  So I filled her in on the night’s doings. She followed me with great concentration. Julia’s mind was as fine as any lawyer’s, despite her overindulgence in Greek philosophy.

  “All this evidence and you still don’t think it’s Gelon?” she said when I finished.

  “Why do you think it was?” I asked her.

  She bit into a sliver of melon. “A wellborn lady takes at least one slave girl with her when she goes to bathe. Gorgo dismissed her girls to their beds. Then she put on her best jewelry. A woman doesn’t go out to bathe alone, in her best jewels, unless she is meeting a lover. We saw how infatuated she was with the boy, and he was clearly besotted with her.”

  “Lovers don’t kill each other,” I said.

  “Yes, they do. More often than you’d think.”

  “But why?”

  She shrugged. “You’ll have to question him. But don’t expect it to be a good reason, or one that would make sense to us. People in love are not sane.”

  “Profoundly true.”

  At this moment the horse master walked up to us and saluted again. “One rider, Praetor, on a small mare, Roman shod. It was hitched to a tree for no more than an hour.”

  “Would a Numidian ride a shod horse?” I asked him.

  “We’re talking about the slaver’s boy, right? If I had beauties like his, I’d never ride anything else. No, Numidians don’t ride shod animals and they don’t ride mares, even unshod. Unless—”

  “Unless what?” Julia demanded.

  “Unless they don’t want to be recognized as what they are. If I was a Numidian and I didn’t want to be noticed around here, I’d put on some Roman clothes and ride a mare. A shod one.”

  “Thank you, Regilius.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open, Praetor,” he said. “I’m pretty good at this. If I run across that mare’s prints anywhere, I’ll know them.”

  “That would be very helpful.”

  He grinned again. “This is like being in the cohors equitata again, chasing after the Lusitani in the hills.”

  “See that Norbanus’s horses are returned to him.”

  “Already done, Praetor.”

  When he was gone I said to Julia, “I don’t think it makes any sense. She might have angered the boy by obeying her father, telling him not to see her again, but if you are right, she was far from wanting to break it off.”

  “He may have come to confront her over another lover. It needn’t have been anything serious. A jealous lover can see betrayal where there is none. Pass me the honey.”

  I picked up the pot. “It seems a little extreme—” She grabbed my wrist.

  “What have you been up to? Have you been in my perfume box?”

  It was as if she were speaking another language entirely. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “I can smell it on you. Have you bee
n fondling another woman? It’s on your hands.”

  “Just a dead one.” I sniffed my fingers. Sure enough, they smelled faintly of perfume. Then I remembered. “Oh, it was Gorgo’s bath kit. I took out a flask and unstoppered it. It was just scented oil.”

  She looked at me in exasperation, a familiar thing. “Did you think that it was just common oil steeped with rose petals? This is the scent called Zoroaster’s Rapture. It is an incredibly costly perfume. It comes out of Persia in tiny amounts and nobody knows how it is made.”

  “Well, this is educational. How would a priest’s daughter have come by such a scent?”

  “At a guess, it was a gift, probably from Gelon.”

  “Is this one of the perfumes I was bribed with?”

  “It was one of them. So we know the local source for it.”

  “Yes, I’ll have to have a talk with Silva and his partner, Diogenes. See if they sold any to Gelon.”

  “And if they didn’t?”

  “Then we have a problem. Of course, they may lie about it. People often lie to investigators. It’s almost reflexive.”

  “People are usually guilty of something, even if it’s not what you are asking about. It makes them shifty and evasive.”

  “Too true. Well, I’ve gotten pretty good at ferreting out the truth. I’ll take them one at a time and—”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Julia said firmly. “You are a praetor now, not an investigator for one of your high-placed relatives. Send Hermes. You’ve trained him and he’s very expert. Besides, he’s younger.”

  “I’m not exactly doddering,” I protested, but I knew she was right. Not that I was too old for it, but it would look bad for me to go personally to question suspects and witnesses. It would lower my dignity in the community, and I couldn’t afford that.

  “You haven’t slept,” she said unnecessarily. “What you need is a nap.”

  “Oh, a night or two without sleep shouldn’t trouble a Roman magistrate. Why, in Gaul—”

  “Go to bed!” she commanded.

  “All right.”

  * * *

  A few hours rest did me a world of good. I awoke in midafternoon, strode out into the courtyard, and splashed water on my face. A slave was there instantly with a towel.

  “Has Hermes brought in the Numidian yet?” I asked the girl.

  “They arrived not an hour ago, Praetor,” she said chirpily. Like most of the slaves in this house, she seemed happy and content. I suppose if all you have to do is carry a towel around waiting for someone to splash water on his face, you certainly can’t complain of overwork.

  “Where?”

  “The orchard-viewing wing, Praetor.”

  Old Hortalus was as dotty about his prize trees as he was about his fish. He watered some of his prize olive and apple trees with undiluted wine with his own hands, not trusting a slave to do it. It should come as no surprise that he built a special wing onto his villa to look at them.

  There was a terrace outside the large dining room. Here Hortalus and his friends could eat and drink at their ease while they admired his trees. On the terrace my lictors lounged, keeping a wary eye on a sullen little group of Numidian bodyguards.

  “Any trouble out of them?” I asked the chief lictor.

  “No, Praetor. They wanted to resist, but the young man ordered them to lay down their arms.”

  I went inside. Gelon sat, dejected to the point of distraction, watched over by Hermes and several others of my following, all of them armed. The boy sprang to his feet and was about to say something, but Hermes shoved him back down.

  “I shall speak to you presently,” I told him. “Hermes, come outside with me.”

  We went out onto the terrace. “Where was he?”

  “Not at his father’s estate. He was in the family’s town house in Baiae. Seemed to be still in bed when we arrived.”

  “What was the mood in the town?” I asked.

  “Word was just beginning to spread when we got there, about two hours after daybreak. Things were getting ugly among the forum idlers and amateur orators. Someone was haranguing the crowd to go burn Gaeto’s house down and lynch the boy, but it was still too early to whip up any real mob rage.”

  “Afternoon and evening are the times for mob violence,” I said, having long experience with the phenomenon.

  “Anyway, most of the indignation was from the Greek community. The Romans and others didn’t seem all that enraged. If it had been a priest of Jupiter involved, it might be different.”

  “That’s a relief. The best thing about a town like Baiae is there is no huge crowd of idlers with nothing to do except cause trouble. There’s not much poverty or popular discontent. Perhaps we can handle this without too much unpleasantness. Now, we are going in there to talk to Gelon. After that, I have some tasks for you.”

  “Snooping?” he asked with a smile.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. If the boy comes right out and confesses, there will be nothing to investigate. But first, what is your impression? When you told him he was under arrest for killing Gorgo, how did he act?”

  “At first he seemed numb, as if he were half-asleep when we called on him. Then he was like a bull hit between the eyes by the flamen’s hammer. Too shocked at learning the girl was dead to put up much resistance when the lictors laid hands on him. At least, that was the impression he gave. Whether it was false—” he shrugged “—I’d have a better idea if he was a Roman. With foreigners it’s different.”

  I knew what he meant. People of different nations express the same thing in different ways. Gauls are happy in battle and hilarious at funerals. Egyptians shake their heads to say yes and nod to say no. Persians are solemn when making love, and Greeks weep at the death of their enemy. How could we know if a Numidian was really grief stricken or enraged?

  We went back inside. “Gelon,” I began, “I don’t suppose I need to tell you in what an incredible heap of trouble you’ve landed?”

  Again he jumped to his feet and this time Hermes didn’t restrain him. “Praetor! You cannot believe that I would kill a woman I loved!”

  “Actually, I can believe it quite easily, and that is giving you all the benefit of doubt. Others less favorably inclined than I are deeply convinced of your guilt. If you are truly innocent, you had better be able to prove it. I can promise you a fair, impartial trial, a Roman trial. Even now, your father is combing the district for the best lawyer to be found. There are some good ones living here.”

  “What advocate of repute would defend a slaver’s son?” he asked bitterly.

  “That would depend on how much money the slaver has. It is my impression that your father is not yet ready to apply for the dole. He’ll get you a good one and you’ll be well defended. It would help if you could provide evidence in your favor.” Actually, it was forbidden for Roman lawyers to accept fees. It was quite all right, however, for them to accept presents. Hortalus had acquired his opulent villas and other properties through a long and successful career at the bar. He never accepted a fee, but few people had friends as grateful and generous as Quintus Hortensius Hortalus.

  “I swear I am innocent! By Tanit and Apollo, by Jupiter—”

  I held up a hand for silence. “You’ll do plenty of swearing and invoking at your trial, for whatever good it will do you. What I need to know, right now, is where you were last night.”

  “Why, I was at home.”

  I sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that. You’re quite sure you were not out carousing with your cronies? Sacrificing at the Temple of Pluto, perhaps? At least whoring in one of the more reputable lupanars?”

  “I was at home,” he said stubbornly.

  “You will need witnesses to that effect. And they had better be free. I don’t know about Numidia, but under Roman law, slaves can testify in court only under torture, and then nobody believes them anyway.”

  “My guards are free men, but they were off duty for the evening, in a tavern somewhere.�
�� He thought about it. “Jocasta was there.”

  “Jocasta? Your— Would the term be stepmother?” Now that I thought of it, she hadn’t been at Norbanus’s banquet.

  “There is a Numidian word for the relationship between a son and a junior wife. I don’t think it translates.”

  “Probably not. Can she testify that you were at home all night?”

  “I—I think so.”

  The boy’s ordinarily handsome face was contorted with his conflicting emotions: grief, rage, bewilderment, fear. I tried to discern guilt among them but I could not. This, as Hermes had indicated, meant little.

  “I will speak to her. Anyone else?”

  He shook his head. “No. Father was away, as you know. The rest of our family are in Numidia. The guards are men of our tribe. The rest of the household are slaves.”

  “And you had no assignation with Gorgo last night?”

  “Assignation? What do you mean?”

  I described the circumstances under which we had found the unfortunate girl. Now a new anguish came over his face: on top of everything else, betrayal.

  “If she didn’t go out to meet you,” I said, “then who?”

  “It—it can’t be! She would not have—”

  “For your sake,” I told him, “you had better hope she would. Whoever was waiting for her in the olive grove, she went to meet him more than willingly.” I let that sink in for a minute, softening him, then, “Young men courting women send them gifts. What did you send her?”

  He stammered for a moment. “Gifts? Just small things: a silk scarf, a book of poetry by Catullus, a ring set with a carnelian.”

  “Small things,” I said, “small but costly. The sort of things she could hide from her father. How did you get them to her?”

  “We met in public places on festival days—there was never a secret meeting. Other times, I would meet one of her girls in the market and send things that way.”

  “Which girl was the go-between?” I asked, making a bet with myself.

  “The Greek girl.”