John Roberts - Oracle of the Dead

“And one famed for his successful criminal investigations,” Duronius put in.

“Ah! Most excellent points,” said Gitiadas. “What says the praetor to this?”

“Socratic method, eh?” I said, letting him know that I was not entirely ignorant of philosophical matters. I pondered the question, which was indeed a good one. “First off, they did not know we were coming. The visit was suggested in idle conversation and we set off forthwith. The killing must have been plotted well in advance and had to be carried out at a specified moment. It seems that they could not alter their plan.”

“Quite logical. And the sudden appearance of the body in the river-do you think that it was intended or an accident?”

“I can hardly think that someone who wished to carry out what must have been a rather difficult murder should have intended that the victim appear before our very noses,” I said.

“The goddess took a hand in it,” Porcia said with great conviction. “She was offended that someone would pollute her sacred river with a dead body, so she threw it up before the praetor’s party. She wishes justice from you, sir.”

I was about to rebuke her for dragging the gods back into the matter, but I saw Julia nodding agreement and held my tongue.

“Oh, rubbish,” said Stabinilla, coming to my rescue. “The gods don’t interfere in human affairs as petty as a mere murder, unless it’s patricide, and even then I rather doubt it. I have half a dozen neighbors I’m pretty sure helped their fathers along into the afterworld, and they are doing just fine. As the praetor said, people get tired of waiting to inherit.” For the first time I noted the understated elegance of her jewelry. Unlike most Campanian women, she did not favor ostentatious amounts of gold and precious stones and pearls. Instead, her bracelets, earrings, and necklace were of bronze-but it was not plain metal. It was the old Etruscan work, in which the surface was covered with minute beads of bronze so close set that they give the piece an exquisite texture. It is said that only children had a touch delicate enough to set the bronze beads in place for soldering, and that it could not be done past the age of twelve. The art of making this jewelry has been lost; it was only in recent years that Romans had begun to appreciate it, and the old pieces were eagerly sought after.

“You’re one of those Skeptics, I take it,” said Porcia.

“Are you a follower of Aenesidemus?” Gitiadas asked, apparently referring to some philosopher of that school.

“Never heard of him,” Sabinilla said. “But I believe in good sense. I like to see evidence. If you buy a horse, do you just listen to the seller blather on about the perfection of this beast he wants you to buy? No. You go look at the horse. You check its teeth and punch it for wind. You examine its legs and hoofs for evidence of illness or injury or poor breeding.”

“You can’t know everything by empirical observation,” Julia said.

“Who wants to know everything?” Stabinilla countered. “I just want to be clear about the things that affect me personally.”

“I merely meant,” Julia said, “that there are such things as instinct, and inspiration, and divine revelation.”

“Difficult concepts to use in court,” I said. “Evidence works better there, although imaginative vituperation and character assassination can be more persuasive.”

“Not to mention showing off your scars,” Julia commented drily. In those days any man in public life was expected to be a soldier and it never hurt to remind a jury of one’s honorable service. In these recent, decadent times many men practice law who never lifted a sword.

“Also excellent legal technique. Look at this,” I said, hiking up my tunic to show the huge furrow that slanted from my left hip diagonally down almost to the knee. “Got that when I was run over by a British chariot. That one’s won me many a favorable verdict. Not a lawyer in Rome can match it, not even Marcus Antonius, and he’s been cut and stabbed and speared more times than all the heroes in the Iliad combined.” The other guests murmured admiration at the spectacular scar, but Julia just rolled her eyes again and turned away. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen it before.

This little entertaining moment was interrupted when Hermes appeared at the entrance to the triclinium. He made his way around the couches and stood by my side. As highest-ranking guest and a serving magistrate, I was of course given the “consul’s place,” the right end of the center couch, where it was convenient for a man on public service to receive and dispatch messengers, for a Roman official was never off duty.

“Praetor,” Hermes said in a low voice, “we’ve found the other priests.”

Of course the whole buggering lot of party guests, including half of the slaves, had to come along. You don’t get to see a spectacle like this every day, and all my protests and fulminations did no good. So much for the dignity and majesty of Roman office. Like some great traveling festival, we all descended upon the precincts of the Temple of Apollo and the Oracle of the Dead.

The evening was well advanced, and thus the uncanniness of the venue all the more pronounced. A mild wind blew, causing a sinister rustling among the funereal trees and shrubs, like small deities of the underworld conversing just below the level of human hearing. I was just as happy to bypass the gloomy grove and go to the temple instead.

“So close,” Julia said, stepping down from her litter. “Just a few steps from where it all started.”

“I felt it must be so,” I told her. “There was just no time for them to have gotten far, or that no one would have seen them.”

My lictors arrived from our quarters and I directed them to stand guard on the steps of the temple and let no one enter save myself and the members of my party.

Hermes came to join us, accompanied by a few of my other young men. They had that smug look of men who know something important that nobody else knows yet. I suppose I’ve worn that expression myself from time to time.

“It was easy to miss,” Hermes said. “The Oracle isn’t the only place around here with odd passageways.”

We followed him into the temple. The lamps glowed warmly and the god smiled down upon us benignly, above all human foolishness.

“Well, let’s get to it before the word spreads and the sightseers start to gather,” I said.

Hermes nodded to young Sextus Vespillo, and the boy, trying not to swell with importance, went to a decorated paving stone just before the plinth supporting the statue of Apollo. He bent and fiddled a moment with a bit of carved ornamentation. Then he worked free what looked like a loop of stone vinework. He twisted the loop and tugged and up came the stone, and not just that one but about eight adjacent blocks. The whole must have weighed the better part of a ton, but the boy raised it as easily as a wooden trapdoor in a house. Another piece of that mysterious engineering we had come to so admire.

Julia and the other women gasped. The men muttered. I merely asked, “It’s well hidden. How did you discover it?”

“I am a brilliant investigator like you and-” he caught my look. “Actually, Sextus Lucretius here got on rather well with one of the temple slave girls. She told him she’d spied on the priests opening this trap one night.”

“If only all my assistants exercised their gifts to such beneficial effect,” I said. The boy blushed furiously. “Where is the girl?”

Hermes signaled and the girl stepped from the shadow of a column. “Her name is Hypatia.”

“Come here, child.” The girl was about sixteen, and quite beautiful. This was to be expected. Apollo is associated with all that is beautiful, so his temples never employ ugly slaves. Any physical imperfection bars one not only from Apollo’s service but from his priesthood as well. This girl had hair as yellow as that of a German princess and huge blue eyes. Her simple white shift was modest enough, but it left no doubt as to the perfection of her body. She stepped near me and lowered her beautiful eyes.