John Roberts - Oracle of the Dead

“He said that he had acquired her from a neighbor.”

“And this neighbor’s name?” I asked.

“He never told me. He was not a very communicative man. I know there was a neighbor he visited from time to time, but he never took me with him, and he never mentioned names.”

“Did that not seem odd to you?”

He shrugged. “Men often go visiting people they’d rather not talk about. I was too discreet to press the matter.”

“And this slave. Was she young and pretty?”

“No, my father never bought slaves for decorative purposes. This was a stout, older woman. She was put to work in the kitchen.”

“In the kitchen,” I mused. “That is a strategic location. Is she there now?”

“Ah, no, Praetor,” he said, his face flushing with embarrassment. “She disappeared a few days ago. I thought she was just another runaway. I hired slave hunters, but they have not turned her up. It never occurred to me to be suspicious. My father was poisoned, wasn’t he? And the woman did it.”

“I fear that is so. But don’t feel that you are alone in being deceived. The person behind this is an expert in these matters.” I looked to Cordus. “How is it that you came here with Lucius Pedarius?”

“After I found the slave sale document you wanted, I searched for records of the priesthood of the Hecate cult. I could find nothing in the public records, but it occurred to me that, as hereditary patrons of the Temple of Apollo, the Pediarii might have something. So, I went to call upon them and found a house in mourning, but Lucius Pedarius very kindly let me come in and look at his father’s papers.”

“I had just been going through them,” Lucius said. “My father never took me into his confidence concerning business matters and rarely said anything about the temple, other than to complain about the expense of its restoration.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “The temple has undergone some extensive renovations recently. Your family paid for that?”

“It was our hereditary duty as patrons,” he said. “Of course our own patron, the great general Pompey,” I noted that he said this without irony, “covered part of the expenses. I believe he would gladly have covered it all. Such sums mean nothing to him. But my father was too stiff-necked and proud a patrician to let someone else help out more than was proper.”

“That was quite admirable,” said Julia, predictably.

“Yes, well, it didn’t make him happy about the necessity.”

“I don’t mean to pry into the finances of your family,” I said, “but do you know how your father managed to pay for the restorations?”

He smiled sourly. “You mean since we Pedarii are notoriously penurious despite our patrician status? To be honest, I do not know. I thought that he had sold off some old family treasures that he had hidden somewhere. I began to think differently when I went through his papers after his death.”

“When were the restorations undertaken?” I asked him.

“About nine years ago. It seems odd, now,” he said.

“Odd how?”

“Because that was when he stopped visiting the temple altogether. You would think he would have taken pride in the task he had paid for. When men do that, they seldom omit to show themselves and accept the honors of the community.”

“That is very true,” I said. I had paid for such things myself, and I certainly would never have gone to the expense if it hadn’t spread my fame and made people remember my name at election time. This is the traditional motivation that causes prominent men to undertake public works. So why did old Pedarius pay up and then avoid the place?

“I am going to want a look at those papers,” I said.

“I’ve brought them, and, as my friend Cordus suspected, among the family records is a tolerably complete listing of the priests of the Oracle of Hecate. Although our association is with the Temple of Apollo, the temple and the Oracle for all practical purposes form a single complex. It seems that in centuries past they were not on a basis of mutual hostility and shared in the patronage.”

I sighed. “Yes, much that appears terribly ancient here is of comparatively recent origin. Only the tunnel to the underground river itself, and the recently uncovered ventilation tunnel, are of great antiquity.” This was the first Cordus and Pedarius had heard of the ventilation tunnel, but I was not yet ready to make that common knowledge. “I am convinced that this whole business has been about money.”

Julia looked uncomfortable. She was ready enough to discuss these sordid matters in private, but she felt it improper to speak of matters as base as money in front of a fellow patrician.

“Now, my friend Cordus,” I said. “About that slave sale.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said the historian. “There was nothing at all difficult about its location. The town praetor’s office keeps records of all such transactions. But there was one thing that threw me off the scent, so to speak, and caused quite a bit of searching. You said that the seller was one Aulus Plantius, an itinerant slave dealer. .”

“That was the name given me by the girl herself,” I told him. “It comes as no surprise that she lied, but she had been coached. My friend Duronius, who was my host that evening, confirmed that there was a slave dealer of that name, who sold him a cook.”

“Yes, I ran across a record of that very transaction, which took place several days before the sale of the girl.” He passed me his copy of the record of sale. I read the name of the seller and smiled. I passed it to Julia and her eyebrows went up. Then she looked at me.

“Gentlemen,” I said, “I thank you. I will study the records Lucius Pedarius has brought later. I think I have everything I need now. I do hope you will accept my hospitality and stay for the-well, I won’t call it a trial, but it will be a most damning presentation before the public.”

“I would not miss it for anything,” Cordus said.

The day dawned splendidly. It had the sort of clear light spilling over the unspoiled countryside that the pastoral poets love to sing about. I detest pastoral poetry. To me the day was splendid because it put me one day closer to Sicily. As much as I loved southern Campania, I was anxious to be away.

At midmorning, Cato and his little band came clumping down the road, Cato giving the impression of wearing army boots despite his bare feet. He wore an expression of grim determination. Now that I think of it, that was the only expression he ever wore, with variations that included scorn, anger, and contempt.

“Hail, Praetor!” he shouted, saluting with upraised arm. “I take it you have things wrapped up here?”

“Just about,” I said. I’d already sent a servant for copious wine and now we sat and she poured drinks all around.

“What do you want me to do?” Cato said, after he’d drained his cup and held it out for a refill.

“I want you here as a witness. I am about to do some things of questionable legality and I know that you will report to the Senate exactly what you have seen. There are few senators I can trust to do that.”

He nodded. “Yes, there are no other senators who have my integrity.” He said this with absolute sincerity and not a trace of humor. He was absolutely sincere about everything-and absolutely humorless. “How do you intend to proceed?”

I gave him a brief rundown of my plans. He nodded. “You will be exceeding your authority, all right, but I agree that the circumstances of this case are unique. Unique cases call for unique action. When Cicero condemned the Catilinarian conspirators to death without trial, he exceeded his powers as consul by a great margin, but I supported him because there was no other way he could have proceeded with sanity. When traitors are about to overthrow the constitution with violence, it is pure foolishness to give them the benefit of the constitution.”