John Roberts - Oracle of the Dead

“Not to mention that the underworld is not very far down. I tossed in a stone and heard it strike just moments later. There was an altar nearby and someone had left the usual offerings of bread and wine, but also some small arrows. Does this mean anything to you?”

“Arrows?” He considered for a while. “This is very odd, and I had been thinking upon this very subject.”

“You had?” I said, surprised.

“Yes. You see, in our Temple of Apollo, he is depicted with a bow and arrows.”

“ ‘Apollo the Far-Shooter,’ ” I said, “as he’s described in the Iliad and elsewhere, as in the story in which he and his sister slaughtered the children of Niobe.”

“Exactly. Well, every year at the Festival of Apollo, small arrows are among the offerings brought to the god, although the petitioners usually bring them after dark.”

“Why is that?” I asked. “Apollo is a solar deity, and his sacrifices always take place in the daytime.”

“Because Apollo of the Bow is the god in his aspect as avenger. The arrows mean the petitioner is asking his aid in taking vengeance upon his enemies.”

“Quite interesting,” I said. It seemed there was no way I could keep the gods out of my investigation.

“Cordus,” Julia said. “You said you had been thinking about this very subject. Why is this?”

“Because I was struck by an odd coincidence in names. Do you recall the Greek name for Apollo Far-Shooter?”

I thought about it. “Why, it’s-” Then the light dawned. “It’s Apollo Hecatebylos .”

“Exactly. I am sure that it is a mere coincidence in sounds, but the first three syllables of the cognomen form the name of the goddess of the temple below.”

“Could this have some bearing upon the rivalry between the temples?” I asked.

“It is possible, though I am at a loss to explain why. Confusion among the names of gods is not unknown, sometimes causing an alteration in their forms of worship.”

“That’s interesting,” Julia said. “Can you give us an example?”

“Well, there is the case of the god Plutus, from very ancient times honored as the god of wealth. People confused his name with that of Pluto, Roman god of the underworld, whom we identify with the Greek Hades. As a result, most people think of Pluto as a god of wealth, which was not his original role at all.”

“I am intrigued,” I said, “by something you brought up at our earlier meeting, that Hecate is not an oracular deity. Yet Apollo is. In fact, the most prominent of the oracles-those of Delphi and Cumae and Dodona and such-are priestesses of Apollo. Might this have been a source of this strife? Do the devotees of Apollo see those of Hecate as usurpers of their god’s functions?”

“Perhaps taking advantage of the local peoples’ confounding of the two names?” Julia put in.

Cordus nodded. “Quite possible.”

“But,” said Gitiadas, “this conflict has been going on for centuries. Why have these multiple murders occurred now?”

“That is the question,” I agreed, “and it causes me to think that these murders have little or nothing to do with the ancient strife between the strangely superposed rival temples. I think it is something local, immediate, and most likely based on something mundane, such as money.”

“That would be disappointing,” Julia said.

“We have seen a great many murders in our time,” I told her. “Were any of them motivated by anything elevated? It’s always politics, power, jealousy, insult to personal honor, or money. Usually, money. Men seldom prize their own honor or their wives’ chastity above their purses.”

“My husband is a Cynic, to the extent that he can be said to have a philosophy at all,” Julia commented.

“The doubt of human motives is one of the bases of Cynical philosophy,” Gitiadas said. “Or, should I say, the doubt of human motives as stated . Diogenes said that when a man claimed to be doing something for honor, or for patriotism, or for love of his fellow man, or any other such high-flown reason, you could be certain that the real motive was something base and shabby. This is a perfectly respectable philosophical premise, and the older I get, the more I am persuaded that it is true.”

“Alas, it is so,” Cordus agreed.

“That is because you are all men,” Julia informed us. “Men gain wisdom with age but continue to behave like boys their whole lives.”

“My wife is not an admirer of the male gender,” I told them. “Her uncle Caius Julius always being the exception, of course.”

“One must always make an exception for such men,” Gitiadas said, smiling.

“My husband has an unreasoning distrust of Caesar. He suspects a Sulla-like dictatorial ambition. This is quite foolish. His Diogenean example is an underhanded way to question a great man’s integrity.”

We were straying onto dangerous ground. “But, returning to the question of the temple and its annihilated clergy, there is the matter of the girl, Hypatia. It is clear to me that she was killed because she had some part in the murder of the priests. She was primed to tell me what she did, but someone thought she was going to tell me more and she was silenced.”

“What might she have known?” Julia wondered.

“For one thing,” I said, “the identity of the person who killed her, who is probably also the one who suborned her into her part in the murder. It seems to have been someone she trusted.”

“A lover, perhaps?” Julia said. “After all, she was pregnant.” This was news to our guests, and Julia explained.

“This adds another dimension,” Gitiadas said. “Now there is scope for jealousy, love, treachery, betrayal, and a host of other motives. You should have invited the playwright. I’m sure he is far better regarding matters of the heart than dusty philosophers and historians.”

“Just more complication,” I groused. “As if this matter didn’t have enough of that already.”

The next day I took my perambulating court to Stabiae. It is another of those charming towns on the bay, blessed with a wonderful climate and views fit for the enjoyment of the gods. For part of the way the road took us along the top of a precipitous cliff, causing the ladies of the party (yes, the ladies were along again) to cry out with fright and pretend to faint. We men just looked Stoic.

The town was founded by Oscans, but about forty years before this time they had chosen the wrong side in the Social War and had risen in rebellion against Rome, a famously bad decision for any town to make but especially foolhardy for a tiny resort like Stabiae. As a result, it was destroyed by Sulla and the site was given to the Nocerians, who had remained loyal. They had resettled and rebuilt the city, and now it was once again a favorite resort, with the town plan centered on its medicinal springs instead of the usual forum or temple complex.

As we neared the city, our party was joined by an ornate litter carried by a set of Gauls who wore the twisted neck rings common to that race, their blond hair and mustaches dressed identically. As it drew alongside my saddle, a hand with gilded nails pushed its curtain aside. “Praetor! You should have told me you would be visiting my city.” It was Sabinilla. This time she wore a red wig, to complement her green gown.

“I knew you would insist that I stay at your home, and I have no wish to impose a party this size upon you when there is a perfectly good official residence available in the town.”

“Nonsense! I do insist you stay with me! I’m sure I am not so poor that I can’t afford to entertain a praetor’s entourage properly. I shall be insulted if you refuse.”