John Roberts - Under Vesuvius

"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 been 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 (he 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 Horten-sius 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."