John Roberts - Under Vesuvius

"Bruttium," I muttered.

Reluctantly, I rose and went to the wing where we were keeping Gelon. He had borne the news of his father's death stoically. Of course, I had no idea what their relationship might have been, except that Gaeto had been generous with his son in terms of money. Not every son is saddened by the passing of a father. He had turned pale when I described the circumstances of his father's murder, but that was to be expected. To be murdered in your own bedroom by someone you trust is always an unsettling prospect.

When I arrived at his quarters, I found Antonia already there. Wanting to console the boy in his grief, no doubt. From the look of things, she was succeeding.

"Gelon," I said, pretending not to notice his guilty expression, "today you may ride to your father's house to see to his obsequies."

"That is very good of you, Praetor," he said.

"Before leaving, you will be required to swear oaths before the gods and witnesses that you will not try to flee custody."

"Certainly."

"You will also be escorted by my men. This is more for your protection than from any concern I might have that you will try to escape. There is probably a good deal of hostility toward you among the local populace, especially the Greeks."

"I have no objection," he said.

"May I come along?" Antonia asked.

"You may not," I said.

Thus it was that, a little past noon, we rode from the villa down the Baiae road. As we passed the temple I saw the last smoke rising from the embers of the morning sacrifice. This caused me to wonder how Diocles was coping with his personnel shortage. As we went on to the main road I chanced to look back and I saw the old man standing before the altar, looking at us. The distance was too great to read his expression.

By the time we approached Gaeto's residence and slave compound, the bright day had turned gloomy, with lowering clouds promising rain. It seemed fitting. Not because of the solemn occasion but because the days had been all too bright and pure since my arrival. When things go too well for too long, the gods have something nasty in store for you, and weather is no exception. A break in the fine weather might be a good thing.

We arrived at Gaeto's compound to find preparations well advanced. Jocasta and the steward had arranged what I was informed was a traditional Numidian chieftain's funeral, with certain Greek and Roman embellishments.

On the beach had been erected an imposing funeral pyre, made of seasoned wood with abundant frankincense stuffed into every available cranny. Gaeto lay atop it on splendid cushions, clothed in equally magnificent raiment. He looked startlingly lifelike, almost as if he would rise from the bier and join the obsequies. This was the advantage of having your own Egyptian undertakers.

The musicians from the compound played harps and sistra, and black Nubians using sticks or their palms beat a hypnotic rhythm on drums made of hollowed logs with skins stretched over the open ends. The drum is an instrument favored by no civilized people, but it creates a stirring rhythm when played by skilled Africans and certain Asians.

The rest of the slaves sent up histrionic lamentations, the Greeks among them being especially skillful in this. Ritual mourning is an ancient tradition, and they wailed lustily, though they could hardly have been deeply moved by Gaeto's death.

Some of the slave women, possibly concubines, stripped naked, smeared themselves with ashes, and flogged one another bloody with bundles of thin rods. Jocasta, who was Greek, took a more decorous course, merely unbinding her hair and letting it fall loose on her shoulders, ripping her gown down the middle and, now bare from the hips upward, drawing a single, symbolic stripe of ash across her brow.

Gelon recited a prayer or eulogy in his native tongue, an eerie, high-pitched chant full of gutturals and vocal clicks, with each sentence or verse seeming to end on a rising inflection. At the end of it he took a torch and set fire to the pyre, and as the flames rose the tribal bodyguard rode around it in an endless circle, whooping and pounding their hide shields with their spears.

All in all, it was a fine send-off. The only thing missing was a delegation of mourners and attendees from the town and surrounding countryside. But there was not a single representative of the local population. Whatever deference Gaeto had received in life, he got none at all in death. Something seemed obscurely wrong about this, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

When the fire had burned to embers, the undertakers went in with rakes and took out the blackened bones and wrapped them in many yards of white linen. This bundle they carefully placed in an elaborate urn and over the bundle poured an aromatic mixture of myrrh and perfume. Then they placed the cover on the urn and sealed it with pitch. This urn, I was informed, would travel by ship to Numidia and be placed in the family tomb.

When all was accomplished, a funeral banquet was held in the courtyard of the villa. It was served in Numidian fashion, with all the feasters seated in a circle on the ground, upon cushions. The centerpiece was the urn containing Gaeto's remains-an interesting variation on the Roman practice of having a skeleton or skull among the decorations of the dining room, to remind diners of the transitory nature of life; that the tomb is never far away; and that food, wine, and good company should be enjoyed while we have the chance.

"What will you do now, Gelon?" I asked.

"You mean, assuming that I'm not found guilty and executed?"

"Naturally. If acquitted, will you continue your father's business?" I picked up a leg of roast pheasant. I had learned that the foods traditional for a Numidian chieftain's funeral-whole roast camel, elephant's feet, baked ostrich, and so forth-had not been available. I was quite satisfied with the fare they had been able to provide.

"I don't think so. Trade has never been to my taste. If I am spared, I will sell out and return to Numidia." Jocasta made a grimace of distaste. I wondered if she were part of his inheritance. Clearly, she had no liking for the idea of forsaking ultracivilized Baiae for barbarous Numidia.

"And what will you do there?"

"Resume the traditional family business," he informed me.

"Which is?"

"Raiding."

"Ah. A gentleman's profession." As indeed it was, among Numidi-ans as among Homer's Achaeans.

"And have you discovered my husband's murderer?" Jocasta asked in an abrupt change of subject. She had changed into an untorn gown but had left her hair unbound and her forehead was still smeared with ash. Her eyes were red but dry, as if from the effects of sleeplessness rather than weeping.

"I expect to have the culprit in custody momentarily," I assured her.

"We've been hearing that a lot from you lately," she said, unmollified.

"Madame," I said, "it is not my business to apprehend felons at all. That is the task of the municipal authorities. I take a hand only in the interests of justice, which I feel are not being served in this district."

She bowed her head. "I stand chastened. My apologies, Praetor."

It was raining the next morning when we mounted and made a bedraggled little procession as we rode up the bluff and onto the road that led toward Baiae. The stretch of road leading to Baiae was lined with fine tombs and shaded by large trees. The heavy mist that accompanied the drizzly rain lent the beautiful road a dreamlike aspect, but there was nothing dreamlike about the ambush.

They came from behind the tombs and trees: men on horseback, others on foot. They attacked with quiet ferocity, but the quiet didn't last long. The Numidian guard raised a wild war cry and began to pelt the attackers with javelins while forming a barrier around Gelon.