“Here,” Archias went on, “the new stock are separated by categories. Those destined for domestic service are assigned quarters in the north building, skilled craftsmen to the west building. Entertainers, masseurs, bath attendants, and so forth are housed in the south building; and the most highly skilled—architects, physicians, teachers, and such—live in the east building.”
“Where do you keep the dangerous ones?” I wanted to know.
“Oh, sir, the house of Gaeto does not handle dangerous stock. No gladiators, new-caught barbarians, or incorrigibles sold off cheap. Only quality slaves are sold here.”
“Your men have clubs and whips,” Hermes said.
“That is traditional. It is what all slaves understand. Why, the whipping frame here practically rots from disuse. The rare times it is employed, it is usually because of petty jealousies and fights among the slaves themselves.”
“I see. I want to inspect the quarters. And the slaves.”
“As the praetor wishes.”
“Do they know yet?” I asked.
“No, Praetor. Even the staff have not yet been informed of the master’s death.”
“Good,” I said. “I’ll be able to learn a good deal more without a great uproar of false mourning and lamentation. Don’t parade them. I want to see them in their natural state.”
“Then, please come this way.”
The tour was fairly lengthy and educational. The domestic servants had that demure, eyes-lowered appearance that all such slaves cultivate. Doubtless they thought I was some rich buyer come to look them over and they might well end up in my household. My own family rarely bought slaves, preferring to employ only those born within the household, although we sometimes traded them around among ourselves. That was how I acquired Hermes, after he’d worn out his welcome in my uncle’s house.
The craftsmen’s quarters featured small shops where carpenters, smiths, potters, weavers, and such could keep gainfully employed while awaiting sale, as well as having an opportunity to demonstrate their skills to prospective buyers. I wasn’t sure what the Egyptian undertakers did in their leisure time. They didn’t seem to be provided with corpses to practice on.
The professionals had more spacious quarters, as befitted their superior rank in slave society. The scribes, bookkeepers, and secretaries were held in least esteem, physicians and architects at the top. At that time, great men were expected to exercise euergesia by donating great building projects to their client towns and to the capital. Some simply bought a permanent staff of architects for this very purpose. Even when you weren’t having anything built, it enhanced your social status to let everyone know you could afford to own your personal architects, then support them in idleness.
The entertainers’ quarters were the most enjoyable part of the tour. Gaeto had bought Spanish and African dancers, Egyptian magicians, and Greek singers and reciters of poetry—men who could recite the entirety of Homer from memory and women who could play every conceivable musical instrument. It is possible that I lingered in this wing longer than was strictly necessary for the purposes of the investigation, but you never know what sort of information might turn out to be of use.
Reluctantly, we went back outside and took a tour of the outer wall. It was about ten feet high, without battlements or a sentry walk. It was no more formidable than the sort of wall that often surrounds a great house in the country, and had probably been built during the Social War or the rebellion of Spartacus or some other time of unrest. Such walls were often demolished in peaceful times to clear the view, but Gaeto had cause to maintain this one.
We went to the main gate and found a pair of nervous-looking guards within and a mob of officials milling about outside.
“You two were on guard here last night?” I said.
“Yes, Praetor,” one said. “Nobody came in through this gate and nobody went out. We—”
“Answer the Praetor’s questions and say nothing else!” Hermes barked.
“Yes, sir!” The man’s accent was pure Sicilian.
“What hours did you stand watch?” I asked.
“Sunset to sunrise, Praetor.”
“No reliefs?”
“None, Praetor.” He had learned brevity.
“You saw and heard no one approach this wall?”
They looked at each other uneasily. “Actually, Praetor,” said the spokesman, “our duties are mainly to keep the slaves from going out and to open the gate for anyone arriving after dark with a legitimate reason to come in.”
“You don’t patrol the perimeter?”
“No, sir. The master never—”
“Just answer what you’re asked,” I reminded him. “Now, tell me this: Were either or both of you asleep at any time last night?”
“Never!” they shouted as one. This meant nothing, of course. Guards never admit dereliction of duty, even if you catch them snoring.
“Dismiss these men,” I told the steward. “Now, I’ll talk to that mob outside. When Gaeto is prepared for burial, I want that dagger.”
“I shall have it sent to you,” he assured me.
Outside the gate was convoked a crowd of Baiae’s officials and magistrates and other important people, including wives and all the rabble that usually assembles at the site of scandalous doings.
“Is it true, Praetor?” demanded Manius Silva. “Has Gaeto been done away with?” He still looked peeved at the way I had conducted the morning’s trial.
“Dead as Achilles,” I confirmed. I watched their faces closely. Some affected philosophic impassivity; others looked relieved, Silva and Norbanus among them. Rutilia looked delighted, but then some people just love murders. She turned to her friend Quadrilla and said something behind a masking hand. Quadrilla’s face was grim and her expression did not change at whatever Rutilia said. I thought this odd, but then she might have stuck an even larger sapphire in her navel and it was causing her discomfort.
“Listen to me, all of you,” I said. “Things are getting out of hand here. Just because murders happen all the time in Rome is no reason to think you people have some sort of license to imitate us.”
“The slaver was probably killed by his own livestock,” said Publilius the jewel merchant.
“Let’s have no loose talk,” I commanded. “I will investigate and the killer will be brought to justice.”
“At least we know it wasn’t parricide,” Rutilia remarked. “That would have brought the wrath of the gods.” This brought an appreciative chuckle. Ordinarily I admire sophisticated wit, but at this moment I was in no mood for it.
“Here comes the grieving widow,” Quadrilla said.
A litter carried by hard-pressed bearers was descending the bluff. Minutes later it was set before me and flame-haired Jocasta emerged, her clothes in disarray, her bright hair unbound and streaming. She looked around wildly, then at me.
“I see it must be true.” Her eyes were dry but furious. “My husband is dead. Murdered.”
“I am afraid so,” I told her.
“You know it was that priest!” she said through clenched teeth. “He couldn’t reach the son, so he killed the father. Have him arrested!”
“I know no such thing. You have my condolences, Jocasta, but your husband had many enemies. Several hundred of them reside in that compound.” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder at the wall of the estate. “I will find out who killed Gaeto—slave, freed, or freeborn—and I will render justice.”
She hissed, then took a deep breath and gathered her dignity. Greek women have extravagant ways of mourning, but she did not wish to put on such a display for Romans. “I want to see him.”
“You don’t need my permission,” I told her. She strode past me and disappeared within the gate.
“Everyone here,” I said, “disperse to your homes and your business. This is just another sensation and it needn’t be made worse by a lot of idle speculation.”
They did not look pleased with my high-handed methods, but they knew bette
r than to argue. I was the man with the lictors and the imperium. By this time the older men of my staff had caught up, and I beckoned them to me.
“Publius Severus,” I said, addressing an elderly freedman who for fifty years had been secretary to some of Rome’s greatest jurists, “I need you and your colleagues to search the law books. This man may have been killed by one of his slaves. I need to know if the old law that condemns all his slaves to crucifixion in such a case is valid only if the victim was a citizen. This man was a resident alien.”
“I can tell you right now, Praetor,” said Severus. “The matter was addressed during the consulship of Clodianus and Gellius, when slaves were murdering their masters right and left. The ultimate punishment was inflicted only in the case of a citizen murder. The status of foreigners is little higher than that of slaves, and the matter is to be treated as an ordinary homicide. Only the murderer and his direct accomplices are subject to crucifixion.”
“Excellent,” I said, greatly relieved. The last thing I wanted to do was order several hundred crucifixions of people who were in no way responsible for their master’s death. We have some truly monstrous, archaic punishments on our law books.
Regilius the horse master arrived and I dispatched him to scout for signs of an intruder. He began to ride slowly along the estate wall, his eyes on the ground.
I ordered everyone back to the villa and we mounted. Riding, this time at a leisurely pace, I discussed the latest murder with Hermes.
“It was someone he knew,” Hermes said.
“Clearly. Someone he had in his bedroom after dark, when the estate was closed up. That doesn’t let the slaves off. He might have sent up one of the girls. He certainly had some fine stock.”
Hermes shook his head. “He was a big, powerful man. No girl did that.”
“Why not?” I said. “A moment’s inattention, he turns his back, and in goes the knife.”
“That stroke was delivered with great power and accuracy,” Hermes protested, “right into the base of the skull where the spinal cord joins. It’s a job for a trained swordsman.”
I nodded, musing. “It’s hard to imagine how a woman could have done it. I’ve known some dangerous women in my time, though. I know better than to rule them out.”
Before we reached the villa, Regilius caught up with us.
“That was quick,” I said. “What did you find?”
“It was the same Roman-shod mare,” he said.
I thumped a fist on my saddle. “The same murderer! I knew it!” Actually, I had known nothing of the sort, but it is always good to appear wise before subordinates. “How did the killer tether the horse?” I asked. “There are no trees between the walls and the bluff. Did you find sign of a picket pin?”
“No, the mare was held.”
“Held? There was an accomplice?” This I had not expected.
“Two horses rode up to the wall, both mares, both Roman shod,” he reported. “From what I could make out, your killer went over the wall. Probably just stood in the saddle to do it. No problem with a wall that high. The other then rode off, leading the unridden horse, and waited about two hundred yards away. The first did the deed, then came back over the wall and the two of them rode away. Clever bit of planning, too.”
“How is that?”
“When I saw where the killer went over, I stood in my own saddle and pulled myself on top of the wall for a look. There’s a stable on the other side. You can just step onto the stable roof, then down to the fence, then to the ground and make no noise. If anyone heard those horses, they’d just think they were hearing noises from the stable.”
“You’re right,” I told him. “Now you have two horses to watch for.”
“If I see sign of them,” he said, “I’ll let you know.”
When we reached my villa, Julia had to know what had been going on and I gave her a quick rendition.
“We have to inform Gelon,” she said.
“I’ll tell him,” I said, “but not just yet.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked, alarmed at my tone or my appearance.
“What I should have done sooner,” I told her. “I’m going to the temple to get that poor girl. At least I have legal cause now.”
She nodded and Hermes grinned. “Lictors!” he bellowed. Julia draped me in my formidable toga and we trooped off to the beautiful temple of Apollo. A hundred yards from the temple we could hear a woman screaming.
Julia grabbed my arm. “Don’t run. It’s undignified. That woman is being beaten and she won’t die of it before we get there.” I was not so certain. After the thrashing Hermes had described, could Charmian survive another as savage? In the courtyard behind the temple we found them.
Diocles the priest looked on coldly while a big slave wielded a whip on a young woman tied to a post. Her back and buttocks were crisscrossed with ugly stripes, and blood ran to her heels and formed a spreading puddle beneath her feet. But the screaming victim wasn’t Charmian. It was the big German girl, Gaia.
“Stop this at once!” I yelled. One of my lictors knocked the whip wielder sprawling with his fasces.
Diocles turned to look at me, seeming almost dazed by this turn of events. “Praetor? By what authority do you interfere with my conduct of my own household?”
“By my authority as praetor peregrinus of Rome. Diocles, you are a suspect in the murder of Gaeto of Numidia. I demand that you surrender to me certain slaves of your household for questioning in this case and in the matter of your daughter’s death. You will turn over to me the girl Charmian and this girl Gaia, and while you’re at it, give me the other one, Leto, before you whip them all to death.”
The old man turned paler than he already was, and his head began to tremble. “Gaeto? Dead? Well, what is that to me? So the Numidian swine is dead. How dare you accuse me of murdering him, if the killing of such a man can be considered murder?”
“You had the greatest motive to kill him, since you believe his son murdered your daughter. As a resident alien he was under the protection of Roman law and I administer that law. Now fetch Charmian!” I was out of patience and the defiance went out of him.
“I can’t,” he admitted, seeming to shrink.
“Are you saying she’s dead?”
“No, she escaped from the ergastulum. And that German slut—” he jabbed a finger toward the suffering girl “—let her out! That is why she is being punished. And you have no right to interfere.” He seemed to regain a bit of his defiance.
“For the moment,” I told him, “my power here is absolute. You may bring suit against me after I leave office in the fall. Of course, I may already have had you beheaded by then, so don’t count on it.”
I walked to the post. Under Julia’s solicitous direction, Hermes and the lictors had unbound the girl and lowered her to the ground. Her screams had subsided to a continuous moan.
“She won’t be talking for a while,” Julia said. “I’ll have her carried to the villa and looked after.” She snapped her fingers and pointed. A lictor rushed back to the villa for help. They never stepped that lively for me.
“When did Charmian escape?” I asked the priest.
“The night before last, but I only learned of it this afternoon. Gaia had been taking her meals to her and concealed the fact that she had let the bitch out. When I sent for Charmian—”
“Why did you send for her?”
“I had some questions to put to her.”
And a whip ready, no doubt, I thought. “Where is the other one? Leto?”
He summoned a slave and sent him to fetch the girl. “Are you really serious about regarding me as a suspect?”
“Serious as Jupiter’s thunderbolt,” I assured him. “Something very unpleasant is going on here in southern Campania. I came here expecting a pleasant, unexciting stay and you people have disappointed me sorely. This puts me in a vengeful mood, and I am ready to inflict as many executions and exiles as it will take to set things back in order.�
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“You make much over the death of a nobody,” he almost whispered.
“He was somebody,” I assured him. “He was a resident alien under my protection. His death and your daughter’s were connected and I will have the truth. Should I decide that you are that connection, my lictors will be calling on you.”
“Surely you cannot think that I was involved in my own daughter’s murder?” His indignation sounded genuine, but some people are experts at faking such things.
“Should I decide so, you will be in need of an inordinately sympathetic jury.”
Leto appeared, trembling and almost faint with apprehension. She stared at poor, bloodied Gaia with huge eyes and would have collapsed had Hermes not caught her.
Julia took her hand. “Be calm, girl. You are coming to our house and no one will harm you.”
By this time I was beginning to wonder about my ability to protect anyone from harm.
8
It didn’t look like much of a weapon, lying on the table in the impluvium. A messenger had delivered it while we were occupied at the temple. Julia had taken the German girl and Leto to quarters where they could be cared for. I wasn’t going to be questioning Gaia for a while, but I hoped to get something coherent from Leto, if she could just overcome her terror.
Antonia picked up the sticker and examined it. The Egyptians had cleaned it before it was sent to me. It was made of a single piece of steel, the handle shaped like that of a miniature dagger. The blade part was triangular in cross section, tapering to a needle point and no more than five inches long. It resembled a writing stylus more than a weapon.
“He was killed with this little thing?” she said.
“It was sufficient,” I told her. “It’s all in the placement. As any legionary sword master will tell you, a puncture an inch deep in a man’s jugular will kill him just as dead as hacking him clean in two. Same thing with this. Put it in the right place, and death is all but instantaneous.”
She twirled it in her fingers, fascinated. “I could use something like this. Most often, I strap a dagger inside my thigh when I go out, but it chafes after a while.”
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