John Roberts - Oracle of the Dead

“That was not I!” she cried, her voice trembling on the edge of hysteria. “The sanctuary has always had slaves, and many of them are from Thrace because that is the homeland of the goddess. I was born a free woman and I came here as a priestess!”

“Yet I believe you to be this Thracian girl in the records. There is no record of her manumission. You know what that means, do you not?” Iola went dead pale. As a noncitizen, a foreigner and a slave, she was subject to judicial torture.

“At the time you arrived, the priest was one Agathon. He died within a year of your purchase, displaying symptoms identical to those of the late Manius Pedarius, whom I am firmly convinced was poisoned by another slave recently arrived in his household. The position was then taken by one Cronion, who died shortly thereafter from an unspecified fall which resulted in a broken neck. Next to take up this hazardous office was Hecabe, a priestess, who lasted quite a bit longer, several years, before being found dead in her chamber from what appeared to be some sort of seizure: face blackened, eyes bulged and red, foam at the lips, and so forth.”

“These were all natural deaths, Praetor,” Iola protested.

“One such might not arouse suspicion,” I admitted. “Even, perhaps, two. But three priestly deaths in a row that could easily be interpreted as violence or poisoning? This strains the limits of coincidence.” Iola looked as if she was staring directly at her doom. Porcia, for her part, was glaring at Iola. She knew the other woman would break first.

“Oh, yes,” I said, as if I had just remembered something, “there is a peculiarity about these records of the Pedarii. They go back for generations, kept by ancestors of the present generation of that family. They include fairly detailed records of their patronage of the Temple of Apollo. They also include much briefer records of the priesthood of the sanctuary of Hecate, since it seems there was a limited patronage of that cult, probably because both occupy essentially the same property. However, these record only such things as the accessions and deaths of the high priests and priestesses and, very occasionally, of large purchases of property such as slaves, this I presume because the Pedarii contributed some of the purchase money as partial patrons. These details of how the priests and the priestess died occur only in the records kept by Manius Pedarius, and only for the last ten to twelve years. Why do you think that might be?” I looked back and forth from Iola to Porcia. The crowd was utterly silent. I had them now.

“I will tell you what I think. I believe that Manius Pedarius was a man with a great deal of pride and very little money. His was once one of the great patrician families of Rome. They fell upon hard times, as have many other fine families, through no fault of their own but through bad luck or the malice of some god.” Here I made one of the gestures to ward off the unwelcome attention of the immortals. It was repeated by everyone present, along with some local variants.

“Rather than continue dwelling in Rome as virtual paupers among the great families, they chose to remove to the south of Campania, where they prospered modestly and upheld the obligations of a patrician family through patronage of this unique double temple. It is not one of the great temples of Italy, but even its modest requirements strained the finances of the Pedarii.

“Some years ago, the priests of Apollo approached Manius Pedarius. The temple was in need of restoration. Could he undertake the costs incurred by this project? He could not, but he was too proud to say no. His patron and my friend General Pompey,” here I gestured toward that resplendent figure, “very generously offered to underwrite the entire expense, and not even place his name on the pediment, the usual custom of one paying for such a project.” There was applause for this largesse, which Pompey acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head.

“But Manius Pedarius thought it unfit that he should accept more than a fraction of the required money from his patron. Apparently, the priest of the sanctuary of Hecate knew of the proposed restoration and realized that this would put Pedarius in a very difficult situation. This was probably the priest Agathon, but I cannot be certain. He offered to cover the cost, but with a proviso: Pedarius was never again to visit the sanctuary, to take no interest in its doings. Naturally the man was suspicious, but he needed the money badly to save his honor. He stayed away, but he kept track of certain things, such as how the priests came and, more importantly, went. He had to be suspicious that the sanctuary had to have come by this wealth in some less than holy fashion.”

“Praetor,” Iola said, “this is pure speculation.”

“Then call me a philosopher,” I advised her. “My school of philosophy consists of collecting facts, even tiny facts that seem irrelevant, and building them into a picture of what has happened. With these facts and pictures, I can form a model, or to use the Greek word, a paradigm, of events as they are most likely to have occurred.” I could see that nobody had the slightest idea what I was talking about. Well, I shouldn’t have strayed into a field that I couldn’t explain very well.

Pompey whispered behind me so only those on the dais could hear, “How far would this sophistry get you in a Roman court?” Even Cato chuckled.

“Thus,” I said, getting back to business, “we can see that the illicit practices of the sanctuary of Hecate go back a number of years, probably before this woman Iola even came here. Perhaps they go back centuries, but we can do nothing about that. What is clear is that Iola brought a new scope to the proceedings-and I do not believe that she came up with the plan alone. Porcia was its creator.”

“Prove that, Praetor,” said the woman.

“In due time, Porcia. Be patient. We now come to the murder of Eugaeon and the rest of the priests of this venerable temple.” Another grand sweep of the arm, toward the temple that stood above and behind me. A finely draped toga makes this gesture especially graceful and impressive. When the toga has a purple border, it can scarcely be matched.

“In earlier days, before the advent of the resourceful Iola and the devious Porcia, the practice at the sanctuary of Hecate had been to find petitioners who were from places far from here and who had no local friends who would notice their disappearance. They were taken into the chamber of the Styx and the Oracle”-I pronounced these heavily loaded words in my most solemn tones-“and there, instead of receiving a prophecy, they were murdered and their bodies thrust down into the river, where its powerful current swept them down beneath the earth, never to be seen again, their shades destined to wander forever because they never received the customary rites.” My audience shuddered, their faces betraying horror.

“But Porcia,” I pointed at her, “knew something that the clergy of the temple did not, or had long forgotten. You see, the tunnel and its grotto were here long before the Greeks or the Oscans came. It was already ancient even before they arrived. The cult of Hecate moved in and claimed it not knowing that the tunnel had a ventilation tunnel above it, and that the ventilation tunnel debouched at the supposed mundus on the estate of Porcia. At least, they didn’t know until Porcia came and told them. But you didn’t tell the whole staff, did you, Porcia? You told Iola first, and between you was hatched a long-range plan. The priests, Agathon or Cronion or whichever it was, would of course have leapt at a plan that promised such abundant booty with such safety. Nevertheless, you wanted to narrow the field. You would do away with the superiors until you had maneuvered Iola into the position of high priestess.”