John Roberts - Oracle of the Dead

“She said that it was not my ardency that upset her, but the memory of the last time she had stood upon that spot, when she had witnessed something that disturbed her.”

“And that was the incident of which she informed us.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, at least you have hope for the effectiveness of your masculine charms. Take me to the spot where you stood during your abortive tryst.”

He indicated the pillar and we stepped behind it. “It was just about this time of day, wasn’t it?” He concurred that it was.

The interior of the temple was dim, as is always the case with temples, which have doorways but no windows. I could just barely make out the statue of the god. The pedestal below his feet was even more obscure. What, I thought, must it have looked like at night, when the only illumination was the flickering light of the torches?

“She claimed that she went no closer than this spot, did she not?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Yet somehow she saw clearly the bit of carving, among such a profusion of floral stonework, that is the concealed latch to the trapdoor.”

“This is the sort of thing you’re so famous for, isn’t it?” Vespillo said. “Examining scenes and circumstances and picking away at the-the inconsistencies?”

“It’s a simple and logical process,” I said. “People lie and sometimes they trip themselves up. Unfortunately, I am not now able to interrogate the girl about this improbability. I suspect that this is the reason for her murder.”

We left the temple and I saw a woman on the dais, her ample bottom perched on the arm of my curule chair, which seemed to have become a public convenience on these days when court was not in session. Catching sight of us, she smiled and waved. It was Porcia, the wealthy freedman’s daughter.

“Praetor!” she yelled, turning heads for acres around. “And if it isn’t the handsome young Vespillo! Do you have any plans for lunch?”

I drew closer so I wouldn’t have to shout. “As a matter of fact, we are entirely at loose ends.”

“Then you must come to my house and have a bite. It’s quite nearby.”

“Vespillo here yielded to just such an invitation, and bad things can come of it.”

“If I hadn’t, you’d still be looking for those dead priests,” he objected.

“You are right, so we must accept this invitation. Lead on.”

She led us to a huge litter that stood near a fountain, the bearers squatting by the poles, taking advantage of the cool spray. We climbed in and were hoisted. The bearers set off through the motley, alternately festive and sullen crowd.

Her house lay only a mile from the temple complex, a great, sprawling villa surrounded by orchards and lovingly sculpted formal gardens. We were carried up the steps of the main house and through its extra high and wide doorway and set down in a huge atrium graced with a number of family portrait busts. They all had the look of Italian peasants and no attempt had been made to ape aristocratic practices like a formal chest full of spurious ancestral death masks. I had known social climbers to haunt estate auctions and snap up a whole family tree of spurious ancestors to dignify the atrium.

“Welcome to the Villa of the Mundus . It’s what my father named the place.”

“You have a mundus here?” I said. “Is there anyplace in Campania that isn’t in direct contact with the underworld?”

She laughed raucously. “It’s just a hole in the ground! An old peasant who used to own a piece of this land claimed that people could get in touch with their dead by leaving offerings in his mundus . As you’ve figured out by now, people in this area will believe just about anything. He salted away a lot of denarii before he croaked. He usually charged a denarius per offering, but he was a shrewd judge of what people could afford and he had a sliding scale. He’d accept a copper as if he thought that was all he could get out of you.”

“A man of enterprise,” I said. “An example of the drive and initiative that have made Italy great among the nations of the world. He should be an inspiration to us all.”

Again, the great, hooting laugh. “Praetor, you are priceless! Come, you must be famished. I’ve had something laid out by the pool.”

“Nothing too lavish, I hope,” I said, hoping just the opposite. “After all, you might not have found me in time for lunch.”

“Oh, I always have a bit laid out just in case I bring someone home from town. I usually do.” We entered a wide, colonnaded courtyard with a central pool.

“I can see why you have many takers,” I said, eyeing the long tables stacked with every imaginable delicacy and endless pitchers of wine. Half-naked Egyptian girls wafted huge ostrich-feather fans to keep the flies away. We took couches, and Asian slaves not only took our sandals but washed our feet in the Eastern fashion, finishing by rubbing them with aromatic oils.

We were handed tall beakers of solid gold filled with a wonderful vintage I recognized as Coan. Vespillo, no veteran, sipped his and made a face. I tried mine and raised my eyebrows, glancing at Porcia.

She grinned. “I noticed at Duronius’s dinner that you don’t favor too much water in your wine. My own idea of the proper proportion is no water at all.”

“I can see that we are going to get along famously,” I commended, downing half of it in a gulp.

Since this was an informal lunch, not a dinner or formal banquet, there was nothing resembling the customary progression of courses starting with eggs and finishing with fruit. Instead, the slaves brought us a succession of small, bite-sized snacks, each very different from the others and all delicious: small skewers of venison wrapped in bacon and broiled over coals; whole squab, each about two bites; ground duck mixed with pine nuts and rolled in grape leaves; squares of melon wrapped in parchment-thin slices of ham cured in the northern fashion; little squid deep-fried in a thin crust; bits of bread toasted with cheese on top and sprinkled with capers; and other things I no longer remember. It was all delicious and, lavish though it was, it was without the vulgarity we commonly associate with rich freedmen. There were no ridiculously rare tidbits or ostentatious servings or grotesque ingredients or preparations. It was all rather simple food, superbly prepared and presented.

In time I lay back, replete. “Campania is famed for its cuisine,” I said, “but I do not think I have eaten better since coming here, and I’ve been entertained in some of the finest houses.”

Porcia beamed. “I thought I’d read you right. People who want things like sow’s udders stuffed with Libyan mice and German bear stuffed with oysters just want you to think they’re sophisticated. I like to serve the things I enjoy eating myself and forget about impressing people.”

“Consider me impressed,” I said.

“It’s all pretty silly,” she said, “lowborn people like me trying to use their money to gain acceptance by aristocrats. It’s just not going to happen. I’ll always be a freedman’s daughter and I don’t pretend to be anything else.”

“A wise philosophy,” I said. “Speaking as an aristocrat myself, I can tell you that the advantages of high birth are greatly overrated. You get to hold high office, which can get you killed or prosecuted; you are qualified for the highest priesthoods, and I cannot imagine anything more boring than that. Worst of all, you have to spend a lot of time with your fellow aristocrats, most of whom are bores, insane, or congenital criminals. Be content with wealth and luxury. Those will get you all the respect and deference you could ask for, without all the other headaches.” Vespillo looked scandalized at my disloyalty toward my own class. Perhaps I exaggerated, but throughout my adult years I had been growing more and more embittered toward my class, the senatorial aristocracy, who in their self-seeking folly were dragging the Republic down to ruin and destroying much of Italy and the Roman world in the process.