John Roberts - Oracle of the Dead

A murmur went through the crowd. Most of them had never heard of Elagabal, and this was the first proclamation that the death of the elder Pedarius had been a murder. They had a lot to murmur about.

“Not only that,” I continued, “but I myself was nearly murdered, an arrow shot from ambush missing my heart by the breadth of a finger.” This was something of an exaggeration for dramatic effect, but it had been close enough.

“These murders,” I cried, “are only the latest and most public of a long line of homicides, going back many years, of which the people of this district were entirely oblivious. Consider this, citizens. Visitors have come to this area to consult with your oracles from all over Italy, from Greece and even from Ionia and beyond. They have come here, never to return to their homes. Murdered and robbed in your midst, their bodies disposed of, and you have known nothing of it. You have not even suspected that any of this was happening.”

Those important dignitaries in the front row didn’t like the sound of this. They depended on the transient trade. If people should get to thinking that this place was a death trap, those dignitaries stood to lose a good deal of money.

“Praetor!” one of them shouted. “These are outrageous accusations!”

“You will be silent while I speak,” I proclaimed grandly. “As it happens, I have indeed marshaled a most incriminating host of documents and witnesses, sufficient to prove my charges accurate in the last detail.” Then I gestured toward the two who flanked my chair. “Here to act as witnesses on behalf of the Senate of Rome are two of the most distinguished senators of our day: General Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, most famous soldier in the world, propraetor of Spain and minister extraordinary of the grain supply, and the distinguished Marcus Porcius Cato, former praetor and the most incorruptible governor and minister Rome has ever produced.” People cheered for Pompey and Cato. I hoped Pompey wasn’t interpreting this as support for his military plans. Cheers cost nothing. “They will render to the Senate a full account of all that transpires here today.”

I drew myself up. “Citizens, what has happened here was never the doing of a single murderer. It was the result of a conspiracy involving many persons, some of them active agents in robbery and murder, others passive accessories, who profited from their passivity and their silence.”

They were quiet, half-stunned. “First of all, I charge Iola and the entire staff of the Oracle of Hecate!”

A local lawyer could stand no more. “It is no part of a praetor’s duties to bring charges. This is an outrage and an example of Roman highhandedness and, dare I say it? Roman tyranny!” There were growls of agreement from the crowd.

“Don’t arrest him or kill him,” Pompey muttered in a low voice. “I need these people.”

“Don’t worry,” I muttered back. I had expected exactly this accusation and had prepared for it.

“Citizens,” I said with utmost scorn, “I would have been most happy to see some public-spirited local citizen come forward to indict these miscreants, but nobody has seen fit to do so. Nobody has raised a voice in the ten years that this outrageous conspiracy has existed! And it may go farther back than that. I felt it incumbent upon me to take up the task at which you have failed so miserably.”

I switched to sarcastic, Ciceronian mode. “Of course, should one of you already have a case prepared and be ready now to come forth, I will be most happy to let you come forward, and I will resume my chair and preside.” In a grand rhetorical gesture I cupped a hand to my ear and pretended to be listening. “What’s this? Not a single voice to be heard?” I lowered my hand. “Then, if you will allow me to proceed.” I turned to my lictors. “Bring forth the accused.” The lictors marched off and returned with Iola and her crew, looking a bit the worse for a few nights in custody. At least they didn’t have their dogs with them.

“Iola, I charge you and all your associates gathered here with the most heinous crime of murder, and not merely of murder but a whole series of murders. I charge you with sacrilege for falsifying oracles to lure your victims to their death, and with committing murder, and disposing of the bodies of the slain without the proper rites, in a place deemed holy for many centuries. How do you plead?”

She seemed to speak past some obstruction in her throat. “Not guilty, Praetor.”

“I scarcely expected you to plead otherwise. Iola, stand with your other women over there, aside from the men.” Mystified, she complied.

“Citizens,” I went on, “I will now present you with the account of a crime typical of those perpetrated here. Ten years ago, there was an oil importer of Stabiae named Lucius Terentius. It was his custom to make voyages to consult with his suppliers overseas. Before undertaking a voyage, like many another traveler he would consult an oracle. On that occasion, he made the mistake of consulting the Oracle of the Dead, here at Hecate’s sanctuary. I call the woman Floria, freedwoman of Terentius.”

The woman was brought out and administered the terrible oath that calls down the vengeance of the gods on perjurers. Personally, I have never noticed anyone to suffer for committing perjury unless they were caught and couldn’t bribe their way out of it. Still, I suppose the oath does no harm and scares some people into telling the truth.

“Floria,” I said, “tell this court exactly what happened when your former master came to this place, and of what transpired afterward.”

So she recited her story, much as I had heard it earlier. At first, her voice was weak, and I told her to speak up. When she finally understood that she would truly not be tortured or abused, she gained confidence and her voice steadied. It was actually far more effective than a rehearsed speech, and I could see that many of the onlookers were beginning to believe there was something to all this.

“Well done, Floria,” I commended, when she was done. “Now, I want you to go over there”-I pointed to the knot of black-robed women-“and tell this court if you recognize the slave girl who so treacherously extracted crucial information about your master from you.”

She walked over to them slowly. “I am not sure, Praetor. It was ten years ago.”

“Just examine them carefully and see if you can recognize her.”

The woman looked closely at them, one by one. Then she stopped and gasped. She pointed at Iola. “This is she, Praetor!”

“Are you certain, Floria? Be sure you are not mistaken.”

“There is no mistake, Praetor! Now that I see her, I know her as if it was yesterday I saw her.”

“Thank you, Floria. You are dismissed.”

“So you see, citizens,” I continued, “how they chose and deceived their victims. Those they picked were conducted to the shrine of Hecate, not the riverine Oracle chamber below, and given a false prophecy, which the victims believed to be the voice of Hecate herself. You will now learn how they performed this deception. I call the master stonemason Ansidius Perna.” The man stepped forward and took the oath. “Perna, explain to this court the ventilation system that supplies fresh air to the subterranean tunnel.”

Baldly, Perna explained how a second tunnel, above the first, provided ventilation. When he was done, I dismissed him.

“Ansidius Perna and his workmen cut me an access to the tunnel above. He did not accompany us on our exploration of this second tunnel. That was undertaken by myself and several of my companions. Directly above the chamber of the shrine we found lamps and litter indicating where Iola’s confederate provided the false voice of Hecate. I would now like some of the distinguished men of this district to go and examine the ventilation tunnel and confirm that all I say is true. I have provided a ladder and my men will be there with torches. The more energetic of you may wish to travel the whole length of the tunnel, but it is a long walk, about two miles there and back.”