John Roberts - Oracle of the Dead

That evening, with just Hermes accompanying me, I arrived at the Villa of Duronius, quite sober. Well, mostly sober, anyway. Like most villas in that part of Italy, it was sprawling and spacious. Duronius was a wine importer and banker, a formula for riches if ever there was one. The company proved to be an entertainingly mixed lot, chosen to make for good conversation. For dignity, there was my distinguished self. For wealth, we had our host, Duronius. For beauty, there was an intriguing lady of Stabiae named Sabinilla. For wisdom, a philosopher of local repute named Gitiadas. For wit, there was the rising young playwright Pedianus, whose reputation for comedy was growing. For low good humor, we had Porcia, a corpulent freedman’s daughter and owner of many commercial properties all over Campania. In Rome it was rare for women to appear unescorted at a dinner party, but it was quite common in Campania. Women could own businesses and had property rights equal to those of men. It wasn’t necessary to be a widow to wield control over their own fortunes, and even married women could manage their own finances independently of their husbands. It was all very un-Roman.

There were others, but I have forgotten their names. The banquet was arranged in the Roman fashion, but the Campanians of that time did not always observe the Roman custom of no more than nine diners at any one dinner. For one thing, they thought it unworthy of a rich man to entertain so few guests. In time, Julia arrived and we were conducted to the table. As ranking magistrate, I had the place of honor at the right end of the center couch. Our sandals were removed by servants and our feet sprinkled with perfume. Garlands were distributed and we were ready to get down to business. Before the first course was brought in, our host made an announcement.

“My friends, today we shall observe the ancient custom of the district: before we begin, we must appoint a Master of Ceremonies, to set the order of the banquet, to mix the wine and water, and to determine the direction of dinner conversation. I nominate our most distinguished guest, the Praetor Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger.” There was much applause and cheering. This was another Campanian oddity. Ordinarily, a Master of Ceremonies was appointed for the Greek symposium, the after-dinner party when the women had withdrawn and the men got down to the serious business of drinking.

“My host and friends, I thank you for the honor, but I confess I am unsuited for such an office,” I said firmly. “The Master of Ceremonies should not be chosen for official dignity, but for taste, elegance, and wit. I propose our renowned playwright, Pedianus.” All agreed that this was an excellent choice. Personally, I intended to be far too inebriated by the end of the banquet to direct much of anything. Let the boy try to keep his wits about him while the wine flowed as it does only in Campanian revelries.

A servant placed a wreath of ivy on the young man’s head and another draped a purple mantle over his shoulders. A third placed an ivywreathed wand in his hand. He stood and declaimed, “My host, great Praetor, honored guests, you do me honor, and I shall in return strive to provide you with an agreeable evening. These rules I decree: One, while guests may be served in order of rank and distinction, there shall be no difference in the quality of the items presented.” Everyone agreed that this was an excellent rule. “Two, the wine shall be mixed at one measure of water to two of wine.” He caught my look. “Make that one measure of water to three of wine.” That was still too much water for my taste, but anything stronger would be considered scandalous. “Three, I forbid all discussion of serious matters. I will hear no debate about Caesar and Pompey. The measures of the Tribune Curio shall not be breathed.”

“What about the murder of the priest Eugaeon?” somebody asked.

He grinned. “That’s not serious. That is gossip. We must have gossip.” Amid much laughter he gestured grandly and the first course was brought in. It was the customary egg course, with the eggs dyed in astonishing colors and painted in fanciful patterns. Some were encased in gold leaf hammered to an incredible thinness. We were supposed to eat these, gold and all. Some were still in their shells, and when cracked open these proved to contain the sort of party favors esteemed by wealthy hosts: perfumes, pearls, gems, golden chains, and so forth. While the ladies made delighted sounds I tried to figure out how they had gotten those items inside the shells, but to no avail. I could see no hole or seam in the complete shells. Maybe, I thought, they just fed the things to the chickens and ducks and this was the result.

More substantial courses followed, each accompanied by the appropriate wines, all of which were uniformly excellent. Between courses we had entertainment, their order directed by Pedianus. There were reciters of poems and dancers, jugglers and tightrope walkers, even an astonishing woman who balanced on her hands while using her feet to shoot a bow and arrow with great accuracy.

In past generations, it had been a custom in Campania to have gladiators fight at banquets. In some houses, this was still done. But I have never felt that blood goes well with food. The munera form the proper venue for such carnage. Thankfully, our host seemed to agree.

For a while we spoke of this and that, the upcoming races, events overseas, the latest omens, and so forth. Julia got the fashionably ragged local philosopher Gitiadas to expound upon a theory that the world is round like a ball, which would have been rather interesting had it not been so absurd. He said something about the circular shadow cast upon the moon during a lunar eclipse, which made no sense whatever.

“Praetor,” said the abundantly endowed Porcia, “are you making any progress on the murder of the priest?” She popped a honeyed fig into her mouth, making her multiple chins jiggle.

“I confess it is perplexing,” I told her. “The priest is dead, the other priests have disappeared, and the devotees of Hecate either cannot or will not help. My biggest headache is figuring out how he got into the river in the first place.”

“Praetor,” said our host Duronius, “the neighborhood is full of the wildest rumors. Of those here, only you and your wife were actually there when the body appeared. Perhaps you could tell us exactly what happened.”

“Of course, but I cannot tell you exactly what happened, only what I observed.” At this I saw the philosopher Gitiadas nod approvingly. So I gave them a perhaps overly lurid recitation of my experience, trying to make it as entertaining as possible. Julia then told the tale as she and the other women experienced it. Her account was much more respectful of the holiness of the site and stressed their awe at the surroundings and the uncanniness of the Oracle. Some of the company had visited the Oracle personally, and agreed that their experiences had been much the same, minus the corpse.

“You had an uncommonly straightforward answer from the Oracle, contradictory though it seemed,” said the beautiful Sabinilla. She wore a white-blond wig that could only have been made from German hair. Her gown was of transparent Coan cloth and she had a cat’s appearance of bonelessness as she lounged on the couch. “I asked her if my husband would recover from his illness and she said, ‘Follow the sun to Vulcan’s pool.’ Later, a physician told me that if we had gone west to Sicily, there is a healing hot spring at the base of Aetna where my husband might have been cured, but by that time he was dead so it wasn’t much help.” Others agreed that they had been given similarly confusing answers that sometimes proved to make sense in retrospect.

“My men have not yet found an access to the river where the priest’s body might have been thrown in. It is most vexing.”