'So,' I said, 'we know that these people were in the house on the night of the murder: Dionysius the resident polymath, the Puteolian businessman Sergius Orata, and the retired actor Metrobius. Iaia the painter and her assistant Olympias are often here, but not on that night.'
'So far as I know. Of those who were here, each was alone and asleep in his or her own private bed, or so they say. None of them heard anything, which is perfectly possible, given the distance between rooms. None of the slaves claims to have heard anything either, which also seems plausible, since they sleep in their own quarters out by the stables.'
'Surely at least one slave has the duty to keep watch through the night,' I said.
'Yes, but on the grounds, not in the house. He's supposed to make a circuit, keeping one eye on the road in front of the house and another on the coast behind. Pirates have been known to attack private villas on the coast, though never in Baiae, so far as I know. When the slaves made their escape the watchman must have been at the back. He saw nothing.'
'Is there anyone you suspect? Any of the residents or guests in Gelina's house who seem more likely to have killed Lucius than the slaves?'
In answer he only shrugged and scowled.
'Which makes me wonder, Mummius, why you've expended so much of your own time and energy to help Gelina prove that the slaves are innocent.'
'I have my reasons,' he said curdy, thrusting out his jaw and staring straight ahead. He spurred his horse to a gallop and raced on to the villa alone.
Part Two
The Jaws of Hades
VII
Dinner began at the twelfth hour of the day, just after sundown, in a modestly appointed room in the southeast corner of the upper floor. Windows opened onto views of Puteoli to the east and Vesuvius farther south. A coterie of slaves unobtrusively hurried about the room and the adjoining hallways, lighting braziers against the slight chill in the air and illuminating the richly coloured walls with an array of hanging lamps. The air was windless, empty of bird song or the noise of any other living thing; the only sound from the World outside was the vague murmur of the sea, like a distant sighing. Looking out of the southern window, I saw a single star glimmering above Vesuvius in a sky of darkest blue. A sensation of hushed luxury descended upon the villa, that special feeling of comfort and sumptuous privilege peculiar to the homes of the rich at twilight.
Gelina, already reclining on her divan, welcomed her guests as they arrived separately or in pairs, all dressed in sombre dark blue or black. There were places for eleven people in all, an awkward number for a dinner, but Gelina managed it by placing the company in a square with three divans on each of three sides and two on the last, one for herself and another reserved for Crassus. The small tables before each divan were already set with cups of honeyed wine, white and black olives, and an appetizer of sea urchins in a cumin sauce.
The painter Iaia and her protegee Olympias, along with the polymath Dionysius, sat opposite Gelina; Marcus Mummius, Faustus Fabius, and Sergius Orata sat to her right; Eco and I were to her left, along with the actor Metrobius. Gelina introduced us simply as Gordianus of Rome and his son, with no further explanation. From their expressions, I gathered that Gelina's guests already had some idea of my purpose in being there. In their eyes I saw varying degrees of scepticism, suspicion, and disinterest.
Iaia, striking in her jet-black stola, silver jewellery, and voluminously coiffed magenta hair (surely dyed), had clearly been a great beauty in her day; now she exuded that mellow, self-confident appeal of women who have lost their youth but kept their charm. Her high cheekbones were generously rouged, her eyebrows shaved and pencilled.
While Iaia gave me cool glances, her young protegee, a dazzling blonde, stared.at me brazenly as if my presence were some sort of affront. Olympias could afford to be careless with her beauty; her undressed hair was like a mane of spun gold and silver in the lamplight, her eyes an almost purple shade of blue that would have made the least trace of makeup, had she bothered to use it, look pale and tawdry on her perfect flesh. Her sleeveless, dark blue stola was absolutely plain, even plainer than the tunics Eco and I wore, having no embroidery or border. She wore no jewellery. I noticed traces of pigment on her fingers, and a few dabs of paint near the bottom hem of her gown.
Dionysius, a gaunt greybeard with a supercilious expression, gave me shifty-eyed glances between dabbing at his olives with the fingers of his left hand. He was almost silent during the first part of the evening, as if holding his words in reserve for later use. He looked to me like a man with a secret, but perhaps that was only due to the appearance of smug sagacity which he affected, like so many other philosophers.
Dionysius's reserved, sour countenance offered a striking contrast to that of the local businessman and engineer, Orata, who shared the polymath's corner. Almost bald except for a fringe of orange hair like a victory wreath, Orata had the portly build of a man grown fat on his successes. His plump, bemused face seemed out of place amid the general gloom. When he happened to look my way, I could not tell whether he liked me at first sight or was craftily smiling to conceal some other reaction. For the most part he seemed to take little notice of me at all as he busily ordered the table slaves assigned to his divan to slice the pits from his olives and fetch more cumin sauce.
The elderly actor Metrobius, who reclined at my right, gave me a nod as I was introduced and then immediately turned his attention to Gelina. He reclined on his right side, she on her left, so that their heads were together. They spoke to each other in hushed voices, and occasionally Metrobius would reach out and clasp her hand reassuringly. His long, flowing robe covered him from head to foot; the finely spun linen appeared funereal black at first glance, but upon closer inspection I saw it was actually a very dark purple. He wore gold around his neck and wrists, and a great jewel-encrusted ring on his left hand, which flashed in the light whenever he lifted his cup. Metrobius had been Sulla's great love, it was said, the dictator's companion and friend throughout his life, outlasting all of Sulla's many marriages and liaisons. Whatever physical allure he had possessed in youth was long gone, but there was an assertive dignity in his great mane of white hair and a kind of robust beauty in the weathered wrinkles of his face. I recalled the night ten years ago when I had seen him perform for Sulla, and remembered the spell cast by his presence. Even with his attentions directed toward Gelina, I could feel the charismatic power he exuded, as palpable as the smell of myrrh and roses that spiced his clothing. His every movement was accomplished with an unstudied grace, and the low, calm murmur of his voice had a soothing quality like the drumming of rain on a summer night or the soughing of wind in treetops.
Except for Eco and myself, it seemed a typical dinnertime gathering for a Baian villa — a military man and a patrician, a painter and her protegee, a polymath and a builder, an actor, and their hostess. The host was missing — or more precisely, laid to rest on an ivory bier down in the atrium — but to take his place we would have the richest man in Rome. So far, however, Marcus Crassus had not deigned to appear.
Given such a sparkling gathering, the conversation was surprisingly desultory. Mummius and Faustus quiedy discussed the day's business and the provisions for Crassus's camp on Lake Lucrinus; Iaia and Olympias exchanged inaudible whispers; the philosopher brooded over his food while the businessman relished each bite; Gelina and Metrobius seemed oblivious of everything but each other. At length the slave boy Meto entered and whispered in Gelina's ear. She nodded and sent him off. 'I fear that Marcus Crassus will not be joining us tonight,' she announced. I had thought that the vague tension in the room was due to my presence, or to the air of death in the house, but in that instant the gathered household seemed to give a collective sigh of relief.
'Detained by his business in Puteoli, is he?' asked Mummius through a mouthful of sea urchin.
'Yes. He sends word that he will make provision for his own supper and ride back afterwards. So we need not wait any longer.' She signalled
to the slaves, who cleared away the appetizers and served the main dishes — a sweet citron ragout of ham and apples, seafood dumplings spiced with lovage and pepper, and fish fillets with leeks and coriander, all served on silver platters, along with a barley soup with cabbage and lentils that we sipped from tiny clay pots.
As the meal progressed the conversation grew more animated. The principal subject was food. Death and impending disaster, political ambition and the threat of Spartacus were ignored in favour of the relative merits of hare and pork. Beef was debated, and roundly declared inedible. Faustus Fabius declared that cattle were useless except for their hides, but the philosopher Dionysius, who spoke in a lecturing tone, claimed that the barbarians of the North actually preferred the milk of cows to that of goats.
Sergius Orata seemed to be something of an expert on trading spices and other delicacies with the East. Once he had travelled as far as Parthia investigating the potentials of the market, and on the Euphrates had been induced by good manners to drink a local beverage made of fermented barley, which the Parthians preferred to wine. 'It was the exact colour of urine,' he laughed, 'and tasted like it!'
'But how would you know? Are you in the habit of drinking urine?' asked Olympias, who demurely lowered her face so that a strand of blonde hair fell over one eye. Iaia looked at her sidelong, suppressing a smile. Orata's bald pate blushed pink. Mummius laughed raucously.
'Better urine than beans!' exclaimed Dionysius. 'You know the advice of Plato: one must set forth for the realm of dreams each night with a pure spirit.'
'And what does that have to do with beans?' asked Fabius.
'Surely you know the opinion of the Pythagoreans? Beans produce great flatulence, which induces a condition at war with a soul in search of truth.'
'Really, as if it were the soul and not the belly that gets filled with wind!' exclaimed Metrobius, who leaned towards me and lowered his voice. 'These philosophers — no idea is too absurd for them. This one is certainly a windbag, but I think it all comes out his mouth and not the other end!'
Gelina seemed immune to both wit and crudity and ate in silence, picking restlessly at her food and calling for fresh wine in her cup more often than any of her guests.
Metrobius began to enlighten me about the differences between Roman and Baian cuisine. 'There is a greater variety of fresh seafood in the markets here, of course, and many maritime specialities unknown in Rome, but the distinctions are more subtle than that. For instance, any cook will tell you that the best cooking pots are made from a special clay found only in the vicinity of Cumae. In Rome such pots are precious and hard to replace, but here even the lowliest fisherman owns one, and so we have all sorts of peasant dishes that are as sublime as they are simple — this barley soup, for instance. Then there are the famous Baian green beans, more tender and sweet than those grown anywhere else. Gelina's cook makes a dish with green beans, coriander, and chopped chives, fit for a Bacchanalia. Ah, but the slaves have begun to clear away the main dishes, which means the second course must be on its way.'
Slaves entered bearing silver trays that flashed in the lamplight, bringing baked pears stuffed with cinnamon, roasted chestnuts, and cheese seasoned in fermented berry juice. Outside, the sky darkened from deep blue to black spangled with bright stars. Gelina shivered and ordered the braziers to be brought nearer.
The leaping flames were reflected in the silver platters, so that the delicacies on each table seemed to float upon pools of fire.
'A pity Marcus Crassus is not here to enjoy such a feast,' said Metrobius, picking up a stuffed pear and breathing in its aroma. 'Of course, with Crassus here, the discussion would have turned on nothing but politics, politics, politics.'
Mummius glowered at him. 'About which some people know less than nothing. A good political discussion might keep certain people quiet for a change.' He popped a chestnut into his mouth and smacked his lips.
'The table manners of a barbarian,' Metrobius muttered to me under his breath.
'What did you say?' Mummius bolted forward.
'I said you have the able manner of an agrarian. Your family still farms, do they not?'
Mummius sat back slowly, looking sceptical.
'Perhaps we should discuss something we all have in common,' suggested Metrobius. 'What about art? Iaia and Olympias create it, Dionysius contemplates it, Orata buys it. Is it true, Sergius, that you've contracted to. construct and decorate a new fish pond for one of the Cornelii down in Misenum?'
'True,' said Sergius Orata.
'Ah, these villa owners on the Cup and their love of a decorative fish pond. How they cherish each and every bearded mullet! I've heard of senators who give each fish a name and feed them by hand from infancy, and when the mullets are grown they cannot bear to eat them.'
Gelina finally smiled. 'Oh, stop, Metrobius. No one is that silly.'
'Oh, yes, they are. I hear the Cornelii insist on surrounding then-new pond with all sorts of pretty statues — not for the enjoyment of their human guests, but for the edification of their fish.'
'Nonsense!' Gelina giggled and drained her cup, then held it up for a slave to refill it.
Metrobius looked utterly serious. 'Of course, the problem is that the mullets — well, I hate to pass on such vicious gossip — but they say that the mullets of the Cornelii are so stupid that they can't even tell the difference between a Polyclitus and a Polydorus. You could switch the head of Juno and Venus and they wouldn't know. Imagine that!' Amid the general laughter Metrobius wagged his finger at Orata. 'So be careful, Sergius, what kind of statuary you bring over for the Cornelii's new pond! No need to spend a fortune on a Mad Mullet who won't appreciate the difference.'
Orata blushed amiably. Mummius looked apoplectic. Faustus Fabius, I noticed, had one restraining hand on Mummius's thigh, clutching hard enough to whiten his knuckles, while with his left hand he raised his cup to his Lips to hide his smile.
Gelina was suddenly talkative. 'If you wish to discuss art, we should talk about Iaia's project downstairs, in the anteroom to the women's baths. It's delightful! From the floor to the ceiling on all four walls, octopi and squid and dolphins all cavorting beneath the skylight. It makes me feel so serene and protected, as if I were at the bottom of the sea. Such shades of blue — dark blue and pale azure and blue-green seaweed. I love blue, don't you?' she said tipsily, smiling at Olympias. 'Such a lovely blue colour you're wearing tonight, so lovely with your lovely blonde hair. What talent you both have!'
Iaia pursed her lips. 'Thank you, Gelina, but I think everyone here has already seen the work in progress.'
'No!' Gelina said. 'Gordianus hasn't, nor has his charming boy, Eco. They must be shown everything. Do you understand? We must conceal nothing from them, nothing at all. That's why they're here. To see, to observe. He has a sharp eye, they say. Not the eye of a connoisseur, I mean, but the eye of a hunter. Or a Finder, that's what you call yourself, isn't it? Perhaps tomorrow, Iaia, you can show him your work, and let him contemplate the wonder of your flying fish and terrible squids. Yes, I don't see why not, as long as there are no women in the women's baths, no women bathing, that is. Why not? I'm sure Gordianus appreciates art as much as any of us.'
Olympias cocked one eyebrow and looked at me coolly, then at Eco, who fidgeted under her gaze. Iaia, imperturbable, smiled and nodded. 'Certainly, Gelina, I'll be happy to give Gordianus a look at our work. Perhaps in the morning, when the light is at its best. But as long as we're speaking of art, I know that
Dionysius has a new play in progress, and we've hardly heard a thing about it.'
"That because Crassus always shuts him up,' Metrobius whispered in my ear.
'Actually, I've set aside my comedy for the time being.' Dionysius's thin Lips compressed into a smile. 'The events of the last few months, and especially of the last few days, have turned my thoughts to more serious matters. I am engrossed in a new work, a treatise with a timely subject — an examination of previous slave revolts, with some obs
ervations on how best to avoid such disruptions in the future.'
'Previous revolts?' Gelina said. 'You mean such things happened before Spartacus?'
'Oh, yes. The first that we know of was about a hundred and twenty years ago, after the war with Hannibal. Rome's victory resulted in a great capture of Carthaginians, who were held as hostages and prisoners of war. The slaves of these Carthaginians were captured as well, and were sold as booty. It happened that a large number of these hostages and. slaves came to be concentrated in the town of Setia, near Rome. The hostages contrived a plot to free themselves, and in this enterprise they embroiled their former slaves, promising them their freedom if they should rise up against their new Roman masters and help their former masters return to Carthage. Gladiator games were to be held in a few days' time at Setia; the plan was to rise up then and to slaughter the unsuspecting populace. Fortunately, two of the slaves betrayed the conspiracy to the praetor in Rome, who gathered a force of two thousand men and rushed to Setia. The leaders of the conspiracy were arrested, but there was a great flight of slaves from the town. Eventually they were all recaptured or slaughtered, but not before spreading terror through the vicinity. The two slaves who had wisely informed on their fellows were rewarded with twenty-five thousand pieces of bronze and given their freedom.'
'Ah!' Gelina, who had been listening, wide-eyed, nodded approvingly. 'I like a story with a happy ending.'
'The only thing more boring than politics is history,' said Metrobius with a yawn. 'In times of great crisis, such as we live in now, it seems to me that Dionysius would be doing the world a far greater service by producing a decent comedy instead of rehashing the dead past.'
'What on earth did a man like Sulla ever find to talk about with a man like you?' muttered Mummius.
Metrobius looked at him balefully. 'I might ask the same question about you and your-'
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