John Roberts - Oracle of the Dead

“In that case, how can I say no? Give my freedman directions to your home and I will join you there as soon as I conclude my business for the day.” She was overjoyed, or put on a good show of it. I had indeed not let her know I was going to Stabiae for precisely this reason. I knew that she would try to outdo everyone else who had entertained me in the lavishness of her hospitality. At another time this would have suited me perfectly, but now my pleasant stay in Campania had turned serious, and I wanted no more distraction. I told Hermes to get the party settled at Sabinilla’s villa while I went to confer with the city officials.

“Cheer up,” he advised me. “There are worse fates than being entertained to death.”

With a few of my helpers and preceded by my six lictors I rode on into the beautiful city, where I was greeted with the usual choruses of children and girls in white gowns who strewed flower petals in my path and local poets who read panegyrics composed in my honor. At least, I think they were panegyrics. I’ve never been too clear on the distinction between a panegyric and an ode. Oh well, as long as it’s not a eulogy, I’ve no cause to complain.

The city offices were in the Temple of Poseidon, which was Stabiae’s finest. The town is located on the sea, so the sea god is naturally held in great reverence there. Also, the region is very prone to earthquakes and Poseidon is the god of earthquakes. Furthermore the locals revere Poseidon as the patron of their hot springs, so he is held in triple reverence.

Of course I was taken in to see the statue of the god, a stunning bronze by the sculptor Eteocles, only a bit larger than life-size, and in an unusual pose: standing, his left arm thrust forward in the fashion of a javelin thrower, right extended rearward, balancing the trident as if for a cast. His hair and beard were enameled blue, a treatment I had never seen before on a statue, paint being more commonly used. His eyes and teeth were likewise enameled, rather than the more common ivory and silver treatment. Everything about the image was exquisite, and I was not sparing in my praise. The trip would have been worth it just to see the statue.

We retired to an office and took care of the modalities: the location for the morning’s court, the officials to be present, and the order of hearing the cases to be presented.

“Will there be any special complications in any of these cases?” I asked. “Right now, I am in no mood for unpleasant surprises.”

“All very straightforward, Praetor,” said the town’s own praetor, an official lacking the imperium and broad powers of a praetor from Rome. Since the locals had full citizenship, his judgments could be appealed to a Roman court. This was usually an unwise move, since Roman magistrates hated to have their dockets cluttered with the petty complaints of provincials. Only someone able to pay a hefty bribe dared try it.

With these petty matters settled, I decided to wander about and see the town. I dismissed my lictors, telling them I would meet them at Sabinilla’s villa. They protested, saying it was unworthy of a praetor to walk abroad without an escort. I told them I had imperium and could do anything I wanted to. I exchanged my toga praetexta with its purple border for a plain white one and bid them be off.

I was utterly tired of having an entourage dog my steps every waking minute. I pined for the days when I was an anonymous citizen recognized by few people and could prowl about and get into trouble as I wished. It was the sort of juvenile thinking for which Julia was forever scolding me. But she was right. We men only learn to fake maturity and wisdom. Inside, we are perpetual adolescents, heedless and foolhardy. Well, what of it? That was the way I liked it.

Not that I was totally unwary, of course. I had my dagger and caestus tucked away in their usual place inside my tunic. To tell the truth, I was half-hoping to get into a brawl. I hadn’t been in a good fight for several months, and felt that I was losing my edge. Not a serious brawl, of course, just a little fist-swinging and bench-throwing to get the blood stirring.

Unfortunately, Stabiae turned out to be a quiet, peaceful town, full of wealthy visitors come to take the cure in the hot springs and vendors to see to their wants and relieve them of excess money. I went into some low sailors’ dives, but there was nothing to be had except bad wine. The sailors drank and rolled dice and exchanged the names of especially skilled whores, but that was all. After a while I left the dockside area and went back into the city proper.

I was about to give up and go to Sabinilla’s place when I heard someone hissing at me, and saw a hand beckoning me toward a doorway. I was passing through a street not much wider than a typical alley, one which I hoped would lead to the forum, where I could get my bearings and find the landward gate. The hand was white and fairly shapely, adorned with a number of rings, though none of them looked terribly expensive. I assumed that it was a whore in search of a customer, but as I drew near the door, the woman thrust her head outside. She wore a shawl over hair that fell straight to her shoulders, a fashion not much in favor with prostitutes, nor was her dress, which was typical of any matron’s.

She looked quickly up and down the alley, then she said, “Aren’t you the Roman praetor? The one who’s investigating those killings at the temple?” She spoke barely above a whisper and seemed agitated, clearly in a state of fear.

“I am.”

She reached out and took me by the arm. “Come inside, quick!”

My hand went inside my tunic as I stepped across the threshold. I’d scarcely been in town long enough for anyone to set up an ambush, but you never know. As soon as I was inside, she scanned the alley again and shut the door. The room was illuminated dimly by some clay lamps, but I was all but blind coming in from the bright daylight outside. Slowly my eyes adjusted and I saw that this was the dwelling of an ordinary citizen, neither wealthy nor especially poor; a typical shopkeeper’s house.

“Your business had better be urgent,” I told her, “and it had better not be about any of the cases to come before me. I take it ill when people believe that I may be suborned.”

“Oh no!” she said. “Nothing like that. It’s about the killings.”

“What is your name?” Her face twitched as I jerked her from whatever terror held her to something mundane. I have found it a useful interrogation technique many times: If you destroy a person’s concentration on what they are trying to tell you, sometimes they reveal things they’d rather not.

“My name? Why, it’s, it’s Floria, Praetor.”

I knew instantly that the name was false. She’d taken too long to make one up, but informants often don’t want their names known. It didn’t mean that her information was bad, just that I would have to be suspicious. As if I wasn’t already. People lie more often than they tell the truth, even if they have nothing to gain by it. They lie to officials even more often.

“Well, Floria, you should know that I have taken a very personal interest in the doings at that temple-those temples, I should say-and I wish very much to have some reliable information. On the other hand, I will punish very severely anyone who tries to give me false information. Is that understood?”

“Certainly, Praetor!” she said, looking even more scared. “I would never-” My raised hand silenced her.

“Yes you would. I just want you to know that it would be a terribly bad idea. Now, tell me what you have for me.” My eyes had adjusted to the dim light and now I could see that she was a handsome woman of perhaps thirty years, with broad cheekbones and huge eyes, a look common to southern Italy.