John Roberts - Oracle of the Dead

The tunnel still took us down. It may be that the smoke and drink distorted our sense of time and distance. Sometimes the flames of the torches seemed to draw far ahead of us and every word spoken or chanted seemed to echo endlessly. As always when venturing underground, I found that the weight of earth and stone above me seemed to press down and I had to slow my breathing, knowing that it would take little for me to burst into panic, a state far too undignified for a praetor.

Just when I thought the whole ordeal had become unbearable, the air grew humid and there was a smell of sulfurous water. The tunnel opened somewhat and divided, one way sloping up, the other downward. We came to a room that would have seemed intolerably small for a proper shrine, but after the suffocatingly cramped tunnel it was almost like emerging into open air, though the light was still dim and the air full of smoke and mist.

In the center of the chamber was an altar decked with dead foliage and covered with innumerable bones that piled high and spilled onto the floor. Some of the bones were human, among them the skeletons of infants. Julia and Circe turned away in horror, but Antonia stared in fascination. She was as demented as the rest of her family.

“Here we pay tribute to the shades of the dead,” intoned Iola, “and to their queen, Hecate.” At that, one of the priests walked to the back of the chamber and thrust his torch into a bowl that contained twigs and brush. The flames rose, revealing an image of the goddess, hewn from the same stone as the surrounding walls. The women gasped, though it was only an archaic carving. The goddess was depicted holding her leashed hounds and she was three-faced, with the face on one side that of a young woman, that on the other an old hag, and the one in the center that of a mature matron, all of it done so crudely that it must have been made long before people in these parts knew anything about Greek sculpture.

The priest, if that was what he was, cast a handful of incense upon the fire and we were wreathed in fragrant smoke. Iola shouted what sounded like a prayer in some incomprehensible language, although I thought I caught a Marsic word or two.

Circe gasped. “The goddess moved!”

“Just the flickering light,” I muttered. Julia turned and glared at me.

“The goddess grants us permission to approach the Styx and summon her subjects for questioning,” Iola said.

The Styx? I thought. It was a long walk, but surely we haven’t come that far!

Now Iola took us down a side passage that descended just a short way and the smell of sulfur water grew more pronounced and the mist more dense. This time the other black-robed figures did not accompany us. There was a sound of rushing water and even my hardened, Skeptical faculties deserted me. We were headed for the Styx, and I wasn’t ready to cross it yet. I didn’t even have a coin beneath my tongue.

At last we came to a chamber full of steam and there before us was a rushing stream of water, literally boiling as if it had run through Vulcan’s forge before entering the chamber. We could not see the far side of the stream, for the fog obscured it. I had the impression that the distance was not great. In an odd way this was of some comfort to me. I had always heard that the Styx was a wide, slow-moving, black river, but if this was not the true Styx, it was certainly something uncanny.

I could see that most of my party were quite convinced that they were standing beside the river over which the gods swore their most solemn oaths, but their minds did not work like mine. I was puzzled by something else, something to me as strange as any supernatural manifestation: Somebody, long ago, had driven this tunnel, at the cost of great difficulty, straight down to this underground river, with absolute sureness and no hesitation. In the entrance tunnel I had seen no side shafts or exploratory excavations, as you see when miners search for metal-bearing ore. Whoever cut the tunnel knew exactly where he was going, and accomplished it in such a fashion that the doorway was precisely aligned with the sunrise on Midsummer Day.

Everyone jumped when we heard a hoarse, croaking voice from the river.

“Who seeks the wisdom of the Oracle?” I have heard ravens with more melodious voices.

“A praetor of Rome,” Iola said.

“Approach.”

“What?” I said. “I’m already here.”

“Praetor,” Iola said. “You must stand so that you actually touch the water.”

“But it’s boiling!” I protested.

“Wisdom does not come without cost,” she informed me.

“Go ahead,” said my beloved wife. “Don’t be so timid.” I heard chuckles from behind me. My loyal entourage, no doubt.

So, much against my better judgment, I stepped to the edge of the stream and just let the tips of my toes touch the water. To my surprise, while quite warm it was not truly boiling, despite the turbulence and foaming bubbles. Reassured, I went out ankle-deep. The bottom was perfectly smooth rock, not a trace of sand or gravel.

“What would the praetor know?” croaked the goddess or whatever it was.

Might as well ask something of consequence, I thought. “What will be the outcome of the current strife between Caesar and the Senate?” This was the great question on everyone’s mind, and a source of great dread.

“Caesar is doomed,” Hecate said baldly.

“Well, that’s plain enough,” I said. “Not like that old hag at Cumae who only babbles gibberish.”

“Decius!” Julia hissed. She suspected me of disrespect, no doubt.

“Well, then, will the Senate prevail, and our republican institutions remain safe?”

“The Senate is doomed,” she said.

“How can they both be doomed? Who will triumph ultimately, then?”

“Caesar will be victorious, and will rule for many, many years.”

“I take it back. She does speak gibberish. How can Caesar rule for many years, yet be doomed?”

“Praetor,” Iola said, “you have asked three questions and have been answered. Three questions are all that are permitted.”

“What? You never said that before we came down here.”

“Nonetheless, it is ancient custom. Three questions and no more.”

I felt cheated, but I am not certain why. More questions would merely have meant more such nonsense. I backed out of the water and went to rejoin my party. Hermes passed me a flask and I took a swig of good Falernian.

“Reverend Iola,” Julia said, “might I approach the goddess?” I suppressed a groan at her piety. She never talked to me like that.

“You may.”

Julia stepped into the water and I dreaded what was about to happen. I knew she would ask the goddess about a cure for her infertility, right there in front of all those people. Instead, to my surprise and somewhat to my relief, she screamed loudly.

“Julia,” I chided. “The water’s not all that hot.”

But she was pointing at the water a few feet before her. My thinning hair stood on end as I saw something surfacing there. I dashed forward and jerked Julia back. Now some of the other women were screaming. Some of the men, too, I think.

“What is it?” Iola gasped. Her eyes bugged out.

“Surely nothing can live in this water!” Antonia cried, hustling forward to get a good look.

“Actually,” I said, “it’s nothing living at all. It’s quite dead, in fact.” By now I saw that it was a white-robed corpse, floating on its stomach. “Iola, have your slaves take this unfortunate person from the water.”

She hissed her orders and a pair of black-robed slaves waded into the water and dragged the corpse ashore. They laid it on its back and I called for torches. A couple were lowered toward the bloodless face and a great collective gasp arose.