Under Vesuvius

by John Maddox Roberts

  I set down my cup. “These are no longer the days of Sulla. It is not sufficient to bring charges against a prominent citizen to see him executed and claim a part of his wealth.”

  “You wrong me, Praetor!” she said, smiling. “I am merely zealous in my devotion to the Senate and People of Rome.”

  “I daresay. And what is your husband’s part in all this?”

  “None at all. He is Numidian, not Greek.”

  “But you are Greek,” I pointed out.

  She shrugged. “I am a woman. I can’t vote in anyone’s elections or hold office or even express myself publicly on any matter of importance. Greek, Roman, Numidian—what’s the difference to me?”

  “I can’t bring charges against anyone on a basis of what you’ve told me.”

  “Who said anything about bringing charges?” she said, popping another honeyed cherry into her mouth. “I believe it simply bears thinking about. Don’t you agree?”

  6

  Hermes and Marcus were waiting for me when I left Jocasta’s town house.

  “Julia’s furious,” Marcus informed me cheerfully. “She says you’ve already demeaned yourself by, first, doing your own interviewing instead of sending one of us; second, going to that woman’s house alone; third—”

  “Enough,” I told them. “I’ll hear all about it when I get back to the villa, never fear.”

  “You’ll never guess who’s in town,” Marcus said.

  “Come along to the baths,” Hermes advised.

  Intrigued, I walked along with them, my lictors clearing the way before us. The town baths were, predictably, lavish, located just off the forum. There was a small crowd gathered on its steps, surrounding three men, two of them wearing purple-bordered togas like mine. These two weren’t serving magistrates that year, though. There was no mistaking who they were. I had my lictors push through the crowd and threw my arms wide.

  “Marcus Tullius!” I cried. “Quintus! Tiro!”

  The oldest of them grinned. “Decius Caecilius! Praetor Metellus, I should say. Congratulations!”

  It was, indeed, Marcus Tullius Cicero; his brother, Quintus; and his former slave, now freedman, Tiro.

  “I thought you would never get back from Syria,” I told Cicero, taking all their hands in turn. “And I never expected to see you here! I would have thought you’d be in Rome, where all the political action is going on.”

  “I’ve petitioned the Senate to celebrate a triumph, so I can’t go into the City until I get permission. I’d rather spend the hot months down here than hang about outside the walls, missing everything.” Cicero had been one of the first prominent Romans to build a vacation villa near Baiae. The whole district adored him as if he’d been a native, instead of from Arpinum. That was probably one reason why he loved the place. In Rome, the aristocrats never let him forget that he was a New Man from a small town, not one of their own.

  I grasped Tiro’s hands warmly. “Tiro, my heartiest congratulations. I hear you are a country squire now.”

  Quintus Cicero grinned. “He’s a landowner and a gentleman now, and increasing his holdings all the time. He’ll be looking down on us all soon.”

  Tiro smiled modestly. “I hope not. Praetor, I see that your Hermes has also donned the toga.” He took Hermes’ hands.

  “Now that I’m free,” Hermes said, “he feels entitled to work me harder.”

  “I understand you’ve had some work to occupy you here,” Cicero said. “Do tell me all about it, Decius.” He turned to the surrounding people. “My good friends, please give me leave. I have dealings with the praetor. We shall have a fine banquet in a few days. My brother and I will be here all summer.”

  Amid effusive greetings and farewells, we retired to one of the baths’ small meeting rooms. These were chambers of modest size furnished with chairs and long tables, usually employed by local business associations, fraternal organizations, funeral clubs, and so forth. It had a permanent staff of slaves to serve wine and light refreshments. We arranged ourselves around the central table and accepted the proffered cups of watered wine. A slave set a tray of salted, dried, and smoked snacks on the table and withdrew discreetly. We each took a ceremonial sip and bite and got down to business.

  “I hear tales of a rather bizarre murder case in your jurisdiction, Decius,” Cicero began.

  “It is a—strange case,” I said.

  “For you to admit that,” Quintus Cicero said, “proclaims volumes.”

  “Let me enlighten you,” I said. I told them of the progress of the case thus far, leaving out only my recent interview with Jocasta. I was not yet satisfied that this was not merely a tissue of lies to distract my investigation. Experienced investigators and judges that they all were, they followed my words closely and I knew that they would render no judgment that was not cogent and to the point.

  “What a strange matter,” Cicero said when I was finished. “The low status of the suspect of course works in his disfavor, but the great amount of wealth to be found in all directions confuses things. Quintus?”

  His brother thought for a moment. “Much seems obvious and is all too obvious. The passion of young love, jealousy—these things provide sufficient motive for the act but not for the subsequent pressure brought to bear by the moneyed class of Baiae. There is something far more compelling at work in this.”

  “I agree,” Cicero said. “Tiro?”

  The freedman had his answer ready. “I think Hermes is right. The slave girl Charmian has the answer. She must have been present when the most important events of this business took place. The only difficulty is getting access to the girl. Apparently, she is willing to speak to the praetor.”

  “Exactly,” Cicero said. “And herein lies the difficulty: How are we to compel a citizen to surrender one of his slaves and make her talk?”

  This may seem strange to many who are not conversant with Roman law and practice as they were in those days. Here we were, a little group of some of Rome’s more powerful men, unable to figure out how we could get a Greek priest to allow us access to one of his slaves to ask her some questions.

  But one of the most important observances in Roman life was the acknowledgment of the absolute power of a citizen over his own property, and that property included his slaves. In the past, people of our class had been destroyed when their own slaves had denounced them to tyrants like Marius and Sulla. And then there had been the rebellion of Spartacus.

  The result had been some draconian laws concerning the rights of citizens to control their own slaves. Even the highest magistrates had no power to compel the testimony of slaves without the cooperation of their masters. At this time, it was political death to accept slave testimony save under the most stringent conditions.

  “Marcus Tullius,” I said, “the boy’s father, the Numidian Gaeto, is looking for an advocate. Might you be interested in taking the case?”

  Quintus nudged him. “Why not? It’s been a while since you’ve argued in court, big brother. This would be an exercise of some long-disused muscles.”

  But Cicero shook his head. “No, it is unthinkable. Oppressed provincials are one thing, but for Cicero to defend a slaver’s son? I am sorry, Decius, but it would be unseemly. The boy may be innocent, as you believe, but I could not take a hand in this.”

  I was disappointed, and I could see that Quintus and Tiro felt the same. This was another example of the self-importance that Cicero suffered from in his later days. The Cicero I had known in his younger days would have taken the case on just for fun.

  He correctly interpreted our expressions. “Of course, I shall be more than happy to consult with his defense attorney. I am certain that a properly eloquent defense will persuade the jury to acquit.”

  “Even if he’s guilty,” Quintus muttered.

  “I’m afraid,” I said, “that a jury here is likely to be heavily weighted with Greeks, and the priest has great prestige in the Greek community. Also, I think many of the local men had a more than mod
erate fondness for the girl.”

  “Nothing a rousing speech can’t fix,” Cicero assured me. “Any idea who this man Gaeto has hired?”

  “Is old Aulus Galba still around?” Quintus asked. “He’s said to have the best legal mind south of Rome.”

  “As I understand it,” I said, “he was one of last year’s duumviri, so he’s probably tight with that lot. There are about ten families in these parts who take the duumvirate in rotation.”

  “I suppose he’s out, then,” said Cicero. “Well, there must be somebody suitable.”

  “I’m sure there must be,” I told him. “So you’ve petitioned for a triumph?” Behind Cicero, Quintus rolled his eyes while Tiro made a careful study of his fingers, folded on the table before him. Clearly, this was another of Cicero’s late-life eccentricities. He had been sent out to Syria as governor with the task of repelling a Parthian incursion. Cicero was a lawyer and pure politician, the unlikeliest soldier Rome could have sent. He detested military life as much as I did, yet here he was, trying to vie with the likes of Caesar in celebrating a triumph. This for some doubtful successes after young Cassius had already taken care of the serious fighting.

  “Exactly,” Cicero said with his customary certitude. “All the prerequisites have been accomplished, all the legalities observed; the Senate has no just cause to deny me a triumph.”

  “I am sure,” I told him. I revered Cicero, and was willing to overlook his sometimes startling character flaws. I, for one, was certain that the man who could decisively whip the Parthians had not yet been born in Rome. If the Senate granted him a triumph, it would be an indication that their standards had fallen considerably.

  With promises of future visits, reciprocal dinner parties, and legal consultations in the forum, our meeting broke up. With my little following I set out for the villa.

  “You could have hoped for more help from Cicero,” Marcus said as he walked along beside my litter.

  “I could have, but times have changed.”

  “You’ve done him plenty of favors in the past,” Hermes grumped. “I could see that Quintus and Tiro wanted to help out.”

  “I’m not sure they or anyone else could have,” I mused, my mind wandering.

  “What’s that?” Marcus asked.

  “He’s going into one of his moods again,” Hermes informed him. “No use talking to him now.”

  I had a great deal on my mind, and my ruminations weren’t improved when we reached the villa and Julia got her claws into me.

  “You just had to get together with that slaver’s slut, didn’t you?” she began while I was still halfway in my litter.

  “Slut? She may be a perfectly virtuous wife, for all we know.”

  “Spare me. We’ll have this out later. For now, we’re about to have dinner with the dictator of Stabiae and his wife and some other dignitaries of that town. Do gather up your gravitas and try to be both presentable and coherent.” She did me an injustice. Since donning the purple-bordered toga I had made a special effort to moderate my drinking and avoid loose speech. It was no use pointing this out to Julia.

  In the event, the dinner was a success. For the record, in towns like Stabiae, Lanuvium, and some others the dictator was simply the senior magistrate. He had nothing like the powers of a true Roman dictator. Despite all the problems occupying my thoughts, I made sure to be witty and charming, things that have usually come easily to me.

  When the last healths had been drunk and the guests helped into their litters and sent on their way with presents and good wishes, Julia resumed her interrogation, but she was somewhat mollified by my excellent behavior.

  “All right,” she said as we relaxed in one of the villa’s imposing impluvia, “what did you learn from her?”

  “I’m not sure I learned anything, but I heard a lot. Let me tell you and see what you think.” I gave her the story Jocasta had told me and Julia’s expression was more than skeptical.

  “This makes no sense,” she said when my recitation was done. “These are people with everything to lose. Why would they participate in some crackbrained conspiracy against Rome?”

  “My own thought,” I told her. “And while the Greeks are well-known political morons, I doubt that even Greeks could seriously entertain the idea that some old colonies might gain permanent independence from Rome and that this could be a desirable thing. So what is really going on?”

  “I have no idea, but I am cheered to learn that you weren’t utterly besotted by the woman’s immodest dress and more than abundant flesh. I’ve known you to be distracted by these things before.”

  “I won’t deny it. But I’m a serious man these days. I am a Roman praetor and such men as I do not succumb to the temptations of loose women.”

  “Hah! If that’s true, you are unique among Roman magistrates of our generation.” She rolled close and wrapped an arm around my waist. “And if you are suddenly so dignified, why are you going around questioning suspects? That’s a freedman’s job.”

  “Do you think Jocasta would have spoken to Hermes as she spoke to me?”

  “Probably not. But only because you are the one she wants to deceive. The questions are: Why the deception and what is the real story? What is she covering?”

  “And for whom?” I said.

  “The obvious answer is her husband,” Julia speculated. “It is probably he who is up to something, not the others.”

  “How does this help Gelon?” I demanded.

  “Perhaps she doesn’t want to help Gelon,” Julia said.

  This brought me up short. “She doesn’t want to help him?”

  “Why should she? She isn’t his mother. She may have children of her own she wants Gaeto to favor. She may be pregnant. It’s not unknown for a subsequent wife to edge other wive’s children out in favor of her own.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” I admitted. “I’ve been going on the assumption that she wants to protect her husband and his son.”

  Julia gave my waist a little squeeze. “This is why you married me,” she said, “to think of these things that tend to escape you.”

  I pondered for a while. “That necklace.”

  “What about it?” Julia asked.

  “It bothers me. The girl went out in her best jewelry. Why didn’t she wear that necklace?”

  “You see? My subtlety has rubbed off on you. My guess is that the necklace was the gift of a different lover. She wouldn’t have worn it to meet the one who hadn’t given it.”

  “So which lover was the poet?”

  “Need it have been one of them? Why not a third?”

  “Why must things be so complicated? And just how many affairs could that girl have concealed from her father?”

  “Men can be selectively blind,” she pointed out. “Women rarely are. I’ve been studying the poems. I am all but convinced that the writer is Greek, not a Roman writing in Greek. There are giveaways in the use of the two languages.”

  “I’ll defer to you in this. Your command of Greek is far better than mine.”

  “And there’s something else about it—I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I think it will reveal itself with further study.”

  For Julia to express herself with less than full certitude was unusual, so I did not press her over this tantalizing hint.

  * * *

  The next morning I made it my business to locate Gaeto. As I sat through another morning of desultory cases in court, Hermes was away, in search of the Numidian slaver.

  The last case of the morning involved my companion of the Pompeiian amphitheater, Diogenes. Standing as his citizen patron was Manius Silva. I had a feeling that I was soon to learn what I had been bribed for.

  The bailiff announced, “Suit is brought against Diogenes the Cretan by the perfumer Lucius Celsius. The charge is fraud and unfair business practices.”

  A dispute between scent peddlers was not quite on a level with struggles for world dominion in the Senate, but I seemed to have a personal
stake in this matter, so I bade them continue. The men involved took the usual oaths.

  “Celsius,” I said when the formalities were done, “what is the nature of the charge you bring against Diogenes?”

  “This Greekling,” Celsius said, pointing a skinny finger at the man, “this perfidious Cretan, has been counterfeiting some of the costliest scents in the world, concocting them from cheap ingredients and selling them at the highest price!” The man shook with indignation, probably for the benefit of the jury. He was a painfully thin, balding man of about forty years, and from the smell of him he dipped his toga in his own wares.

  “Diogenes, what have you to say?” I asked.

  Manius Silva stepped forward. “As the citizen patron of Diogenes, I will answer these charges, noble Praetor. The splendid Diogenes is honest and blameless, as all citizens of Baiae are quite aware, and he speaks only the truth.”

  Here there was muffled laughter from the many bystanders. To hear a Cretan described as honest, blameless, and truthful was a rare joke.

  “Order, there,” shouted my chief lictor. The mirth subsided and Roman justice resumed its progress.

  “Each of you will have his say,” I proclaimed. “But I don’t intend to waste the rest of the day hearing a wrangle over perfume. This trade, I remind you, is strictly regulated by the sumptuary laws, which are being rigorously enforced this year. Each of you has until the fall of a single ball to state his case.”

  I nodded to the court timekeeper, and the old slave pulled the plug on his water clock. This clever device released water at a measured rate and, by a subtle mechanism, dropped steel balls at regular intervals. These fell into a brazen dish, making a loud clatter.

  “Celsius,” I said, “you may begin.”

  The man cleared his throat ostentatiously and withdrew a roll of papyrus from the folds of his toga and opened it. “The lying, counterfeiting Cretan rogue Diogenes, in violation of the most sacred rules of the Brotherhood of Narcissus, the ancient guild of perfumers, has brazenly concocted a number of the costliest scents, using cheap and inferior ingredients, and passing off these noisome substances as genuine, sells them at the full price, as regulated by the—” he made a half turn and bowed in my direction “—sumptuary laws.” This raised a laugh.