John Roberts - Oracle of the Dead

“And what is your impression of the stonework?”

“Well, it was cut by men who knew their business. Every stroke is straight and true, the marks are still there to see. Strange how they did it, one or maybe two men working at the rockface. Must have taken them twenty years to drive that tunnel in such a fashion. With a good team of a dozen cutters I could drive a tunnel that long in a year. It would have to be wider, of course. But then, how can we judge the way ancient people did things? They must’ve thought the gods wanted it done that way, and who’s going to argue with the gods?”

“Quite so,” I mused. I had been inside one of the great pyramids outside Thebes, and none of it made any sense at all, with shafts leading nowhere and chambers containing nothing and slots no wider than your hand that led a hundred feet or more through solid stone to the outside, and nothing to be seen through them but a star or two. They were different people with different gods and how are we to understand them?

“Perna,” I said, “I heard a rumor that the tunnel was cut upward, from below. Any way that could have happened?”

“How is that possible?”

“I didn’t say it was possible,” I said testily. “I just wondered if it could be true.”

He chuckled. “No, sir. I know how to read chisel cuts, and that tunnel was driven downward like any other, and it was done with normal mallet-and-chisel work. Hard to even swing a sledge in such a narrow space.”

“Have you any idea how it was driven straight to the river?”

He shrugged. “That I couldn’t tell you. I suspect the gods were involved.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.” I rose from my seat. “Come with me. I want you to tell me what you think of this new tunnel we’ve found beneath the temple.” My lictors followed us.

“I’ve never heard of this tunnel,” Perna said, “and I’ve lived in this district all my life.”

“That’s what everyone says. Somebody has been very good at keeping a secret.”

Inside the temple, I had one of my lictors raise the trap. Perna grunted and examined the door, then peered into the hinging arrangements. “The counterweight is hidden in the foundation,” he pronounced. “This is Greek work, but not local. I’ve heard of this sort of device being used in Alexandrian temples. They’re fond of spectacular effects like raising the god up through the floor during ceremonies.”

“Yes, I’ve been in Alexandria and have seen that sort of thing. Now for the tunnel.” We went down the ramp and Perna examined the walls, floor, and ceiling.

“Greek work again,” he said. “The pattern of cuts is the same that’s been taught by Greek stonecutters for generations. Very different from the cutting done in the Oracle’s tunnel.”

“That’s as I suspected. Is there any way to judge how old this work is?”

“That’s harder to say. Under the surface like this, there’s no natural wearing to age the stones.”

I nodded, remembering the pyramid. It was more than two thousand years old, the priests said, yet the stonework in the interior looked as if it had been finished the day before.

“It’s much newer than the Oracle’s tunnel,” said Perna. “And this temple is far older as well. It’s a Greek temple now, but a lot of the stonework is pre-Greek. The foundation here is made of huge blocks, nothing like native work, more like something Egyptians would use. The temple dates from later than that. It’s pure Campanian work. Then the Greeks came along and altered it to their own taste.”

It was not an uncommon thing in a place like this, which had been overrun so many times by various conquerors as well as peaceful immigrants. I had seen more complicated structures in Sicily. Why waste a good, solid foundation or sound walls when you can just build on top and redecorate?

“How long has your family been in the district?” I asked him.

“You mean how was this tunnel built without anyone outside knowing about it?” He was not without a certain native intelligence. He rubbed his chin. “I’d say it could be done without great difficulty. If someone were to give me a contract to accomplish such a task, I’d bring in foreign workmen and keep them here in barracks under guard. They could work at night, since night and day are the same thing underground. The rubble could be carried out in baskets and scattered in fields or in the nearby rivers.” He thought for a while. “But I can think of an even better way.”

“What might that be?”

“Do it when the temple is being restored. That way, nobody at all would wonder about the work going on. You wouldn’t have to disguise the rubble. Just keep sightseers away. Priests can always do that by threatening curses, or promising ritual contamination or talking about omens.”

“You possess a certain sophistication in these matters,” I told him.

Perna grinned. “One of the plagues of the building trades is that, for some reason, idlers always want to hang about construction sites, gawk, and get in the way.”

“I’ve noticed the phenomenon.”

“Well, I’ve hired more than one priest or soothsayer to keep them away. Usually, it works.”

“Thank you, my friend,” I said, with a hearty politician’s clap on the shoulder. “You have given me much to think about.”

“I am happy to be of help,” he said. “But, if you don’t mind my asking, what has the stonework to do with what happened here?”

“I have no idea,” I admitted, “and ultimately this may be of no assistance. But I long ago discovered that learning everything there is to know about a place or a scene or a family can have great bearing upon the solution of a crime.”

“If you say so, Praetor,” he said doubtfully. Another one who didn’t understand.

Next I summoned Hermes. “Find me the local historian,” I ordered him, and this time he knew better than to question me. I knew that there would be one. There always is. Usually it is some tiresome old pedant, one with nothing better to do, who busies his normally worthless time with compiling the trivia of local history: its mythical antecedents, the wars fought and social movements, local genealogies. Rome was full of them, having so much history. Having created so much history, for that matter. The virtue of such people was that they needed little provocation to talk about their favorite subject. The problem was to narrow their recitations to the topic you were interested in.

About lunchtime, Julia appeared with Iola. The priestess looked considerably less haughty than before. Her eyes were haunted rather than illuminated with a self-induced religious fire. “Praetor, how may I help you in this terrible matter?”

“First of all, please, both of you, be seated.” Julia conducted her to a chair, then took one herself. Julia was usually not slow to assert herself, but when I was seated in the curule chair she had to comport herself humbly. Cato at his most patriotic never had greater respect for Republican traditions than Julia.

“Now, first,” I said, “Iola, I want you to swear to me, before all the gods, that you and your people had nothing to do with the killing of the entire staff of the Temple of Apollo. I will summon whatever priests or other sacerdotes you require to make your oath binding. But you must know that to make such an oath before a Roman magistrate, you already swear before Jupiter, Juno, and Mars.”

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose. “I am quite aware of this, Praetor. Your gods are not mine, but I acknowledge their sovereignty. I swear by Hecate that I will tell you nothing but the truth-and I swear by the Styx.” Julia jerked a look at her. By tradition, only the gods of Greece swore by the Styx, but her cult was a peculiar one, with a special relationship to that dread river.