John Roberts - Oracle of the Dead

Minutes later, the rest of the party arrived. I had decided to let a number of people see this rather than allow rumors to run rampant through the district.

“Well, this settles it,” Duronius said. “It wasn’t accident or suicide. It was murder.”

“But why kill a whole temple staff?” said Pedianus, still wearing his purple mantle and ivy wreath.

“More to the point,” Julia said, “why kill five and lay them out like this but throw Eugaeon down this well into the river?” She walked around the corpses, stepped to the lip of the hole, and peered down. Roman ladies of those days weren’t upset by dead bodies, what with all the disorder and combat in the City. These days they are more delicate. With all the peace and quiet enforced by the First Citizen, everyone has gotten disgracefully soft. I’ve seen patrician ladies turn pale at the sight of a gladiator being killed.

“Perhaps he wasn’t thrown down there,” said Gitiadas. “Perhaps he jumped in, hoping to escape the fate meted out to these five.”

“A valid speculation,” I approved.

“I’m not so sure,” Julia said. “Sextus Vespillo, bring that torch.” At her direction, the boy knelt at the lip of the well and lowered his torch inside. “The river is only a few feet down,” she reported. “The current seems fairly swift. I don’t think the chamber of the Oracle can be more than a few paces from here. Yet he was thoroughly dead when he arrived in our midst.”

“Another valid point,” I mused, “but Gitiadas was right about one thing: he said there had to be another access to the river near the chamber to account for all those bubbles. Now, has anybody here ever heard of a second tunnel? Even an old tale or rumor? I find it hard to believe that the Oracle’s tunnel to the Styx is so famous while this one is unknown.” The locals looked at one another and shrugged. No help there. Our host had thoughtfully brought along some burly slaves who carried sizable jugs of wine and others with cups; girls passed around cups to us all, and soon we were standing around the bodies sipping at the excellent vintage like guests at an embassy reception.

“Praetor,” Hermes said, “do you want to examine the bodies here or shall I have them carried above so you can see them when the sun is up?”

“Take them up,” I told him. “Torchlight is never adequate for a thorough examination.” That, and my aging eyes, I thought glumly. I was nearing my fortieth year.

Hermes went up to fetch some slaves. A while later he returned with them and the chamber grew very crowded. Already, the torches and lamps were making the air very close and we were all glad to vacate the premises. Once outside, everyone breathed deeply and with relief.

“Hermes,” I said, “first thing tomorrow, I want you to find the master of the local stoneworkers’ guild and summon him here.”

“Why?” Hermes asked.

“To answer some questions, of course. I also want to speak with Iola as well.” Then I addressed the others. “This is likely to get very ugly. As long as it seemed likely the other priests did Eugaeon in, things were under control. It might have been some personal vendetta. But now we know they were all murdered. The different factions will be accusing each other and we may have the countryside up in arms.”

“There is still a possibility that they were not murdered, Praetor,” said Gitiadas.

“Eh? If you can tell me how that may be, I will be grateful.”

“We all saw how close and confined that room is, how quickly the torches and our own exhalations staled the air. Perhaps they were engaged in some ceremony that involved burning some noxious substance. In fact, an ordinary charcoal brazier has been known to suffocate people in a confined space. Eugaeon may have fallen down the well when he was overcome, ending up in the Oracle’s chamber.”

“But there was no sign of such a thing,” I said. “And how would it account for the bodies being laid out as they were?”

“It does not, but it may be the best story to put about, to keep things quiet until you can fathom what really happened.”

“Sly as well as philosophical, I see. Not a bad idea. It would account for the lack of any marks on the bodies, not that I’ve examined these others thoroughly as yet. All right, everybody. For official purposes, we shall maintain the pose that these men met their fate through misadventure. I don’t believe it for a minute, but it’s in all our interests to maintain the fiction. I want no wild speculations or rumormongering. As far as the public is concerned, the staff of the Temple of Apollo died through some frightful accident. Maybe we can keep things from getting riotous for a few days while I sort all of this out.” They all nodded and promised to heed my warning. Fat chance of that happening. Futhermore, I knew the slaves would talk to other slaves. The district would hum with rumors before the sun was up. No help for that.

I just hoped I would not have to call any soldiers in.

At first light we examined the bodies. As with Eugaeon, there were no wounds to account for the fatalities, but the hands of two of them were somewhat battered. Hermes pointed this out. “Looks like there was some fighting down there.”

“So they resisted,” I noted. “But how did the killers overcome and kill them without leaving more marks on the bodies? They haven’t been strangled. Their necks aren’t bruised. Even smothering with pillows should have left their faces darkened and their eyes red.”

“Poisoned?” Hermes hazarded.

“Possibly, though how it was administered remains perplexing.”

“We had to drink that stuff before we were allowed to go down the tunnel. Maybe they had a similar rite and someone poisoned the drink.”

“Not impossible, though most poisons have rather violent effects. You would expect them to have thrashed about a bit, perhaps foam at the mouth. There also was their neat, side-by-side arrangement.”

Hermes shrugged. “Whoever did it had plenty of time to clean up before we found the bodies.”

“Exactly.” I sighed. “There are just too many explanations for everything. We need to narrow them down somewhat.”

“That’s what you are supposed to be good at,” he pointed out.

The master stoneworker was named Ansidius Perna. He was a big man with scarred hands and eyes permanently reddened by rockdust. Hermes had needed to do some searching to find the right man. It turned out that there were all sorts of stoneworkers: quarrymen, drillers, cutters, smoothers, polishers, fine carvers, and decorators, men who did nothing except cut the precise holes for placing the drumlike stones of pillars, and, of course, the masons who stacked the prepared stones into buildings and temples. Perna was head of the guild that represented quarrymen, drillers, and cutters. He stood before me as I lounged in my curule chair, draped in my purple-bordered toga, attended by my lictors.

We were in the temporary headquarters I had set up next to the double temple. The minor festival of a few days before had turned into a veritable regional bazaar and more people were arriving every day. The place buzzed with word of the new killings, but so far no riot had broken out. The news was too fresh. Everyone was agog to hear more about the matter that had them all enthralled. Probably, I thought, they are hoping for even more killings.

“Perna,” I said, “have you been in the tunnel that leads down to the chamber of the Oracle and the St-that river?”

“I have, Praetor.” He was well dressed, barbered and bathed, as befitted the master of an important guild, but the dust was embedded in the creases of his skin as permanently as any tattoo. Plainly, he had been a common hammer-and-chisel man in his younger days.