John Roberts - Oracle of the Dead

As I had expected, quite a number of the prominent and less prominent people were eager to see this unprecedented marvel. While they were thus preoccupied, I decreed a recess, and most of the crowd headed for the vendors. I retired with Pompey and Cato to an inner room where we could drink without scandalizing anyone. Roman magistrates on court duty are supposed to abstain from food and wine for the duration. I had never seen this custom observed rigorously, but most officers tried to be discreet about it.

“Not much trouble so far,” I said. “I expected more outrage.”

“There would have been,” Pompey said, “if we hadn’t been here.”

“True,” I acknowledged. “The presence of heavily armed Roman soldiers has a remarkably calming effect.”

Julia joined us. “I must say this is the strangest trial I have ever attended.”

“The usual forms won’t work in this situation,” I told her.

“I am wondering,” she said, “how you can get a verdict without empaneling a jury.”

“Oh, I shall manage, my dear,” I told her. She was not satisfied, but she knew better than to have at me in the presence of two high-ranking Romans. Roman wives, especially patrician wives, were not supposed to act that way, so she had to observe the proprieties. How she and all the other wives acted in private was another matter.

When we got word that people were returning from the tunnel, we went back out and I declared recess at an end.

“Are you satisfied,” I asked, “that the circumstances of that tunnel are as I have described them?”

“We are, Praetor,” said a man of distinction who appeared to be the spokesman for the group. “But we are at a loss how the false voice of Hecate reached the place above the shrine.”

“When those who decided to go the whole length of the tunnel return, they will affirm that it ends at the bottom of what appears to be a deep and wide well, but which is in reality a sort of mundus . It is located in a remote area on the property of the woman Porcia, well known in this area.” This raised a loud murmur from the spectators.

“Bring out Porcia,” I said to my lictors. They tramped off and returned with the woman, who looked decidedly angry.

“Praetor!” she shouted before I could speak. “What is the meaning of this travesty? This is not a proper trial and you are charged only with hearing cases that involve citizens and foreigners. You have no right or authority to do this!” There were mutters from the crowd that she was right.

“As a matter of fact, Porcia, you are a woman of citizen status and she”-I pointed to Iola-“told me herself that she came here from Thrace. So she is a foreigner. I interpret this to mean that this matter falls beneath my purview. You will now take the oath.”

Fuming, she did so.

“Very well,” I said. “Now, Porcia, what was your father’s name?”

“My father was Sextus Porcius,” she said sullenly.

“I now summon Marcus Belasus, duumvir of Pompeii,” I said. Belasus came forward, accompanied by a secretary. The secretary carried a satchel of the type used for holding papers. There was the usual oath taking and I continued. “ Duumvir, will you tell this court the circumstances of my visit to Pompeii some days ago?”

Belasus explained about the murder of the Syrian Elagabal, and about my visit and what proceeded from it. He was a good public speaker, and threw in many embellishments and fine figures of speech. He left out the part about the party that evening.

“I thank you, Duumvir, ” I said, when he was finished. The secretary took a paper and handed it to me. I held it up. “I have in my hand the first of many incriminating documents we found in the office of Elagabal the Syrian, supposedly a speculator in ships’ cargoes, but in reality the most prodigious fence and receiver of stolen goods in all of Italy!” Once again, an exaggeration, but lawyers are expected to exaggerate. It is part of what makes a trial such a popular entertainment. I read off its list of goods. “These are typical robbers’ and burglars’ loot, and it was brought to Elagabal, something more than ten years ago, by none other than Sextus Porcius!” This went over well with the crowd. Many scornful looks were directed toward Porcia. Had she been wellborn as well as rich, she might have drawn more sympathy, but she was a mere freedman’s daughter, and her riches probably made her resented all the more.

“There are probably a hundred men named Sextus Porcius in Campania, Praetor!” she shouted. “Probably far more than that. This means nothing!”

“By itself, no,” I agreed, “but it is only a small part of the evidence against you.” I paused for drama. Then I held up a couple of the tiny arrows. “These, for instance. When we visited the mundus on your property and found some of these nearby, I asked what their significance might be, since they represented no Roman custom. You said that you didn’t know what they were for. Yet I discovered that everyone else around here knows that they are used to petition a god for vengeance. Why this ignorance on your part, Porcia?”

“You think I know every detail about what people here believe? I’ll bet there’s lots you don’t know about Roman religious practice. Everyone’s got more superstitions and beliefs than any one person can know about.” The woman had a quick wit, I was forced to acknowledge.

“Yet,” I said, “at the banquet held by my friend Duronius, whom I see in the first rank of those gathered here, you seemed to have a comprehensive command of local beliefs. And that mundus we visited, the one you said you thought was just a long-dry well that had been abandoned: That is the entrance to the ventilation tunnel.” This last I spoke with the rising inflection employed by all lawyers and actors for making a major point. There came a collective gasp from the crowd.

“I told you I hardly ever visited there, and I spoke the truth!” she said. “You’ve seen my property. Anyone can go to that mundus without my ever knowing about it.” I saw how Iola glared at Porcia. Iola sensed that she was doomed, but that Porcia might somehow get out of this. I was counting on her resentment.

“Yet the evidence is mounting against you, Porcia. You see, when I first suspected that the Oracle was faked, it occurred to me that whoever spoke as the voice of Hecate, a goddess, had to be a woman. You were the voice of Hecate, Porcia. On a day when a victim was to be fleeced by means of a false prophecy, you went down your mundus -we saw where you placed your ladder, by the way-and went down the tunnel to lie with your ear to the vent hole and listen for your cue like an actress about to go onstage. If it was going to be a long day, you took some refreshments with you. You left plenty of evidence behind.”

“It wasn’t me,” she maintained.

“Iola, come over here,” I said. Both women looked a bit startled, which was all to the good.

“Iola, you told me you came here from Thrace about seven years ago, but you were lying. According to the testimony of Floria, you were here ten years ago. You were a temple slave, or posing as one. Which was it?”

“The woman is lying. I was not here then and I was never a slave!”

“I believe you were here then, and that you were a slave, Iola. You see, the estimable Lucius Pedarius, whose family have been patrons of the Temple of Apollo for generations, has provided me with papers detailing the priests of Hecate as well as those of Apollo, their dates of accession and their deaths, providing some details of how they died. It also seems that there was a purchase of slaves twelve years ago including one young woman, unnamed, from Thrace. A lot seems to have started happening here right about that time.”