Under Vesuvius

by John Maddox Roberts

  “As for the motives of the bandits,” he went on, “what motive do bandits ever need save robbery? How were they to know that this was a well-armed band on that foggy day? The Numidians quite rightly placed themselves between their master and the attackers, some of whom most certainly assaulted the slaver’s son. And why? Was it because they were hired to do away with him?” He paused and waited, looking around and timing his next line. “No! They went for him because he was riding the finest horse! The beast itself was a desirable prize and who would be riding such an animal save a man with a fat purse, one who would fetch a rich ransom!”

  There were loud cries of agreement at this, and that it only stood to reason and why hadn’t someone thought of this before?

  “This man knows his business,” Hermes muttered.

  “Studied under a master, so they say,” I commented.

  “Why,” Vibianus said when the hubbub died down, “would anyone go to such lengths to kill Gelon, a man destined for the cross already? If someone put those bandits up to their attack, might the intended victim not more likely be our esteemed praetor peregrinus?” He did not point at me in vulgar fashion but merely indicated me with a wave of his hand.

  “Explain yourself,” I said.

  “Noble Praetor, you seem to us the most just and blameless of men, and who can deny your valor, when you took a personal part in the fighting despite your praetorian dignity? Yet yours is a very great family, one important in the public life of Rome for many generations. What family of such eminence lacks enemies? We all know very well that yours does not. Some years ago you personally investigated the death of the illustrious Metellus Celer, your kinsman, and did you find any lack of suspects with motive to slay him?”

  He did not wait for an answer but whirled to face the crowd. “Citizens, these are perilous times in Rome, when lines are being drawn and sides taken. In such times great men always walk in danger, often only because of their family affiliation. A Caecilius Metellus like our praetor, scion of one of the most powerful senatorial families, has many such enemies. Thus I feel confident in dismissing that unfortunate attack from serious consideration as indication of some sort of criminal conspiracy toward the defendant. Let us look rather into the circumstances of the murder itself.”

  He made a gesture indicating an invitation to calm and rational discourse. “All know that Gelon was infatuated by the beauty of Gorgo. No one has claimed that she in any way encouraged or acknowledged this attention. Her father disapproved in the strongest terms. As a good and dutiful daughter, she agreed that these unwelcome advances must not be allowed. Therefore, she went out on that fateful night to tell him that he must cease his futile courtship.” He paused and surveyed his audience solemnly. “Citizens, it seems that the boy did not take this rejection calmly.”

  He straightened and readjusted his toga. “Now, in similar circumstances, you or I might take such news ill. In fact, I daresay many of us have been the recipients of just such unwelcome tidings, when we were young men courting ladies who perhaps did not share our youthful passion. How did we react? Certainly with chagrin. Perhaps with anger and harsh words. But with violence? Never! We behaved as gentlemen and as Romans. At least, I hope we did.

  “But over there”—he leveled a beringed finger at Gelon—“you do not see a Roman or a gentleman. Look past those pretty features and you see a foreigner, a barbarian! Ignore his princely airs. For all his wealth and fine horses he is still just a primitive tribesman with no more concept of civilized behavior than a caged beast! He could ape the manners of his betters, but he is nothing but the son of a barbarian slaver! He could imitate the graces of a wellborn youth courting a lady of his own class, but when she rejected him, he behaved like the savage he truly is: with rage and the lust to punish and kill one who had insulted him!”

  The crowd growled and shouted. My lictors pounded the butts of their fasces on the dais for order, but the crowd was in no mood to pay them any attention. I snapped my fingers and one of Julia’s pages came forward with a lituus: a long, straight, bronze trumpet sharply curved at its sounding end, so called for its resemblance to the hooked augur’s staff of the same name. It is the horn used for signaling in the cavalry. He placed its mouthpiece to his lips and winded a long blast. At the eerie, high-pitched note the crowd stilled. Then amid a clatter of hoofs, the glittering turma rode into the forum with the even more glittering Sublicius Pansa in the lead. They ranged themselves before the dais, facing outward.

  “Praetor!” Vibianus cried. “This is not necessary! There is no danger.”

  For the first time I stood. “I intend to see that there will be no danger. I will have order in this court and I will enforce it. All spectators will keep their voices down.” It was quite futile to demand that Italians of any sort keep entirely silent. “At the first call for violence or mob action, I will set these men on you. If you think that I speak idly, recall that I have carried through on everything that I have said during my stay among you and that I do not shrink from taking the strongest action.” I gazed around and saw discontent but no open defiance. “Now, Vibianus, please continue, but I abjure you to refrain from inflammatory rhetoric.”

  He inclined his head. “As the praetor commands,” he said coldly. He adjusted his toga again. “Now, where was I before the troops were called in? Oh, yes, the plain and evident guilt of young Gelon here. I have already demonstrated that he had the motive to murder Gorgo. I will now demonstrate that he had ample opportunity.

  “On the night that Gorgo was murdered, many of the most distinguished men of this district, including the praetor, were attending a banquet held at the house of the duumvir Norbanus. Even the late Gaeto, the defendant’s father, was there. Diocles, father of the victim, was in Cumae. The coast was clear, so to speak, for a meeting between the two; Gelon hoping to consummate his lust for the girl, Gorgo to forbid him her presence. Praetor, I wish to question the woman Jocasta, widow of the slaver Gaeto.”

  “Proceed,” I said.

  Jocasta came forward, dressed in a modest Greek gown and discreet jewelry. Today only her streaming hair was flamboyant. She took the usual oath and waited calmly. Her face was unreadable.

  “Jocasta,” Vibianus said, “on the night in question, where were you?”

  “In my town house in Baiae.”

  “And was your stepson there as well?”

  “He was.”

  “He was there the whole night?”

  “He was there early in the evening. We had dinner together. After that I retired to my bedroom.”

  “And did Gelon remain in the house after that?”

  “I—I cannot say. I assumed so.”

  “Assumptions are of very little weight in a court of law,” Vibianus said. “Can you testify that Gelon was there the entire night?”

  “No. No, I cannot.” This raised a murmur.

  “In fact, my fellow citizens,” Vibianus said, “you will find that nobody can testify to seeing Gelon that night. This woman says that she saw him early in the evening. He was not seen again until the praetor’s men came to arrest him the next morning. Does no one besides me find it odd that this—this ‘princely’ young man was not out with friends that night? He had many, you know. Surely it is the rule that socially active men dine at the houses of friends, perhaps even carouse a bit among the manifold delights of Baiae. Does it seem likely that such a one would waste a fine evening having dinner with his stepmother, then retiring early? It certainly wasn’t my practice at that age!”

  He shook his head ruefully, as if baffled by the deceitfulness of mankind. “No, my friends, this barbarian youth had plans for that evening. Plans that required stealth, and darkness, and privacy. He intended to steal away to the grove of Apollo and meet Gorgo there. I do not say that he intended to commit murder there. But I can say with perfect confidence that murder was exactly what he did there.”

  With a flourish he dismissed Jocasta and summoned Diocles. The old priest stood there with a
tragic face and spoke of the death of his blameless daughter, of how he had forbidden her to see Gelon, how she had agreed and promised to forbid the boy ever to see her again, how he returned home to find her murdered. The crowd showed great sympathy for the old man. Vibianus dismissed him with thanks and turned to me.

  “Now, honored praetor, I wish to demonstrate the actions of poor Gorgo on that fatal night. Her personal handmaiden, Charmian, is dead and therefore unable to testify. However, there were two other slave girls with her that night, named Gaia and Leto. I understand that these are in your custody. I wish to summon them to testify.”

  I stiffened. “You wish to put them to torture?”

  He seemed puzzled. “Is that not the custom? Surely I do not need to lecture a Roman praetor on Roman legal practice. The ordeal is quite mild, as such things go.”

  “I have confiscated these slaves as evidence in this case,” I said. “The girl called Charmian was beaten almost to death before she escaped from the temple. The other two are in poor condition and I will not have them put to the ordeal.”

  “You refuse to surrender them?” he said, eyebrows going up.

  “I do.”

  “Praetor, I protest!” Vibianus cried. “From the very first day of this case, you have shown the most inexplicable bias in favor of the slaver’s boy, the deepest hostility toward our priest Diocles. You have ignored the strongest evidence for Gelon’s guilt. Instead of letting the city lock him up in the civic ergastulum, you have kept him in comfort, nay, in luxury, in your own house, as if he were your honored guest instead of your prisoner! You interfered in Diocles’ disciplining of his own household and confiscated his property in the form of two slave girls, Leto and Gaia, in defiance of Roman legal practice and custom. You have gone personally to question witnesses, seeking only exculpatory evidence, never the proof of Gelon’s guilt. And now you refuse to surrender these two slave girls so that they may testify in a trial over which you preside! Praetor, we have grounds here for bringing charges of corruption against you in Rome!”

  There was a collective gasp from the crowd. They didn’t get entertainment like this every day. I heaved up from my curule chair, so enraged that I swayed from dizziness. “Have a care, lawyer! I’m of a mind to have you flogged from this court!”

  “Roman citizens may not be scourged,” he said haughtily.

  “That Metellus Celer you mentioned had a reputation for doing just that,” I replied.

  Tiro stepped in smoothly. “Praetor, please resume your chair. Your color is very bad. We’d hate to have you taken from us by apoplexy.”

  “Listen to him!” Julia hissed.

  Slowly, glaring at Vibianus, I sat back down. “You’ve talked long enough, Vibianus. Tiro, proceed with your defense.”

  Vibianus retired to his corner with a triumphant smirk. Not only had he conducted a very competent prosecution argument but also had made me lose my temper and probably convinced most of those present that I was a corrupt, bribe-taking magistrate. Since these were a large majority of Roman judges, nobody needed much convincing. This was looking bad. Not just bad for Gelon, bad for me.

  Tiro launched into another oration, giving me time to calm down. Wisely, he did not call Jocasta or any of the other witnesses. They had nothing to say that might help to clear Gelon. Instead, he attacked Vibianus’s arguments as specious, denouncing each point with Ciceronian sarcasm. These arguments held little real weight, but Italians and Greeks have always prized eloquence above logic. He wound up with another round of vituperation.

  Then it was Vibianus’s turn to do the same. He used stock phrases but with excellent composition and timing, and with a great deal of spirit. In spite of myself, I almost enjoyed the performance. When the lawyers retired, I rose to address the jury.

  “Citizens,” I said, “I now invoke my authority to give special instruction to the jury. This is not commonly done, but I feel that this is a very special case, one in which there is a great deal of ambiguity and in which too much guilt is being loaded upon the head of a single unfortunate man, Gelon son of Gaeto.

  “To begin with, he is accused of a murder in what is actually a chain of related murders. The slaying of Gorgo was only the first. No sooner was the son in custody than the father was murdered. Gaeto could not have committed that crime. Next came the death of Charmian, the only possible witness of her mistress’s murder. Gaeto could not have killed her. Quadrilla, wife of the duumvir Silva was murdered as well. Her connection to the other killings is unknown, but she was murdered in the very same, highly unusual fashion as Gaeto. Gelon could not have killed her.

  “I almost hesitate to bring up the bandit attack, since, as the learned, distinguished, and eloquent Vibianus has pointed out the ambiguities of that incident. I can testify, however, that one of the bandits was mounted on the same horse ridden by the murderer of Gorgo and the slayer of Gaeto.” I gazed around and saw Julia wince. She didn’t think much of this argument. Well, you use what you have.

  “The horse was a Roman-shod mare, such as Numidians never ride. This steed was a part of the bandit’s hire!” The crowd muttered, impressed. They lacked skepticism. Not so the jury, who looked skeptical beyond measure.

  “There is a final piece of evidence I believe should be made public before the jury retires to its deliberations.” I gestured to Hermes and he took the scroll from inside his tunic and handed it to me. I held it high.

  “This is the will of Gaeto of Numidia. It was deposited for safekeeping in the Temple of Juno the Protector at Cumae, after the custom of this district. I subpoenaed it for this trial and did not see it until it was delivered by messenger this morning. As all can see, the seal is unbroken.” I passed it to the little group of local magistrates and they examined the seal. Quite carefully, in fact. They were not unfamiliar with documents that had been tampered with. At last they passed it back, affirming that the seal was authentic and intact.

  “I will now have the document read. I feel certain that it contains evidence that bears on this case.” It certainly couldn’t make things much worse, I thought. I passed it to Marcus and he broke the seal and unrolled the scroll with the verve of a man about to read news of a victory to the Senate. He scanned the contents briefly.

  “This is written in Greek,” he said.

  “You can read Greek,” I told him, “and most people here understand Greek. For the benefit of those who don’t, I will provide a translation into Latin. Begin.”

  And so, pausing every few lines for me to translate, Marcus read the will.

  “‘I am Gaeto,’” it began, “‘a native of Numidia, of the line of Juba, a prince of the Tarraelian Berbers.’” There followed a number of oaths to Gods Greek, Roman, Numidian, and, I believe, Carthaginian. There attested that he was sound of mind and body and not under the baleful influence of witchcraft, curse, or divine displeasure.

  The actual will began with the manumission of certain faithful slaves of long service. In Roman wills these testamentary manumissions are usually at the end, but perhaps things are done differently in Numidia. Then he got to the meat of the matter.

  “‘To my beloved son, Gelon, I bequeath all my lands, estates, tribal titles, and hereditary clientships and loyalties in the land of Numidia, and commend to him the care of his mother and all my concubines.’” The crowd seemed to find this last clause a rare jest.

  “‘To my second wife, Jocasta,’” he went on, “‘I bequeath my lands, houses, properties, and business interests in Italy.’” This was a cause for some astonishment. Under Roman law widows and daughters can of course inherit property, but one does not expect such a thing of a barbarian, certainly not one with a surviving son. Gelon looked astounded. Jocasta was quite impassive. Well, I thought, the boy hadn’t wanted to trade slaves in Italy, and now it looked like he would get his wish. He’d probably expected to be able to sell up, though.

  “‘My beloved second wife,’” the document continued, “‘has been my helpmate in all my business de
alings, for which my son shows no aptitude nor desire. She is Greek, and a life in Numidia would be a cruel imposition. I assure her comfort and position thus.’”

  Now here was a puzzle. A man does not often justify himself in his will. There is no need, unless he wants to cut out some obnoxious heir and wishes to append an insulting comment to make it worse.

  Marcus read off a few final oaths, then displayed the seal of Gaeto to all and sundry. Then he handed it to me. Crowd, lawyers, and jury all looked at me, mystified. Finally, Vibianus spoke.

  “Honored Praetor, does this odd document in your opinion supply some new and conclusive sort of evidence?”

  “I feel that it does,” I said, frustrated.

  “Will you impart it to us?” he asked so impassively that you could hear the sneer. When I did not answer he said, “Is there any reason to delay further the deliberations of the jury?”

  “There is none,” I said.

  The jury retired within the basilica while I sat and brooded over the will. Surely, I felt, the answer was here. It was my last hope. I began to wonder why I even bothered. What was a slaver’s son to me? And what true reason had I for believing him innocent other than that he made such an agreeable first impression and that I had so little liking for Diocles and the others involved in this sorry business? The red ink and Greek lettering had an odd familiarity, but I set the will down when the jury returned.

  “They weren’t gone long,” Hermes said. “That’s a bad sign.” He didn’t have to tell me that.

  I stood. “President of the jury,” I said, “how do you find?”

  The man stepped forward with the traditional vase and dumped its contents on the court secretary’s table. In Baiae they used a variation of the Greek ostracon. Here, instead of potsherds, they used little tile disks the size of scallop shell: white for innocent, black for guilty.

  Every tile was black. “We find the defendant, Gelon of Numidia, guilty of the murder of Gorgo, daughter of Diocles, priest of the Temple of Campanian Apollo.”