“You do?” Circe said. “I usually carry mine down here.” She poked a finger into her own ample cleavage. As usual, every new thing I learned about Roman women alarmed me.
“It weighs practically nothing,” Antonia observed, tossing it high, end over end, catching it adroitly by the handle on the fall. “You could hide it in your hair. That way, it would still be handy when you’re wearing nothing at all.”
“Enough of that, ladies,” Julia said, entering the room.
“Actually,” I pointed out, “little daggers similar to this are sometimes carried by prostitutes, hidden in their hair, as Antonia suggests. They carry them to protect themselves from cruel or violent customers. Assassination is not the point. Such women know how to, ah, distract a man by stabbing him in an intimate spot.”
“You two are having a bad influence on my husband,” Julia said. “But if it’s a prostitute’s trick, doubtless Gaeto had a number of them in his slave barracks.”
“The murderer came from outside—we’ve established that,” I told her.
“If you can rely on the word of an old cavalryman,” she said. “If he made up some details to make himself seem more important, he wouldn’t be the first.”
“I trust him,” I said. “Now what have you learned from the girls?”
“Leto is shattered and not a hand has been laid on her. Gaia is made of stronger stuff and that girl Charmian must have been made of iron to escape after the beating she took. I’ve dosed both the girls in our custody with poppy juice. I hope they can talk for a few minutes before they pass out.”
“They’d better,” I said. “I have to find Charmian. Surely she must have had someplace to run to.”
“You should send out word that she is to be brought to you when she’s found,” Circe advised. “Otherwise she’ll be turned over to Diocles for the reward and he’ll probably kill her. That old man is entirely too fond of the whip.”
“And he has something to hide,” Julia said.
“Everyone does,” I mused, “but I don’t want people combing the whole countryside for her. I need her alive and talking, and it’s best if she comes to me freely.”
“How is she to know?” Antonia asked.
“Hermes will put out word on the slave grapevine,” I said. “He knows how to do it.”
“You have a romantic conception of slaves’ concern for one another,” Julia said. “Her fellow slaves are as likely to sell her to Diocles as guide her to you.”
“Nonetheless, that is my decision.”
Shortly after this, Hermes came to inform us that the girls were able to talk. I told Antonia and Circe to rein in their unhealthy curiosity and stay where they were. They yielded with poor grace. Julia and I went to the room that had been prepared for our unexpected guests. Gaia lay on her stomach. The cushions beneath her were arranged for the greatest degree of comfort. Her stripes were cleaned and anointed with soothing oil, and she was covered with the lightest, gauziest sheet to be found in the villa. Leto sat beside her, holding her hand. She swayed in her chair, calm but almost numbed by the drug. Julia and I took other chairs, while Hermes and Marcus stood behind us.
“Girls,” I said, “I need some information from you. I know you both need sleep but this will not wait. I am not going to threaten you with punishment, but I must have your fullest cooperation. You will be much safer that way. Do you understand?”
Leto nodded dumbly. Gaia managed to say “yes” in a weak voice.
“We won’t turn you back over to Diocles,” Julia told them firmly. “You have been seized as evidence. My husband will have you remanded to the state, and I can then buy you and give you easy work in our own household. My husband can do this. He is a Roman magistrate. But you must answer him honestly.”
This seemed to reassure them. “What do you want to know?” Gaia asked, her voice a little stronger. She must have been captured young or else born in captivity. Her Latin was without discernible accent.
“First off,” I said, “what was Charmian’s offense?”
“She was helping Mistress Gorgo,” Leto said, speaking for the first time, although somewhat listlessly. “When the mistress went out at night, Charmian spied the way for her. Sometimes, I would sleep in Gorgo’s bed, so it would look like she was there.”
“Charmian would hide the gifts the mistress returned with,” Gaia said. “When Gorgo could not get away, Charmian would sneak out and tell the—the visitor.”
“Gorgo was seeing a lover?” Julia asked. Both girls nodded. “How often?”
“Almost every night,” said Gaia.
“Was there just one lover?” I asked. “Two? Many?”
“They never told us,” Gaia said. “She confided fully only in Charmian. They were almost like sisters.”
“I think there was more than one,” Leto said in a tiny voice.
“Why do you say that?” I asked her.
Even in her benumbed state, the girl’s face flushed. “Some nights, when I slept in Gorgo’s bed, she would just climb in and tell me to go back to our chamber. On some nights she—she smelled different than others.” Her head nodded and in seconds she was asleep, still sitting, holding Gaia’s hand.
“She never told me that,” Gaia said.
“A few words more and you can sleep, too,” I told her. “How did you help Charmian escape?”
“I was caring for her. She begged me to help her. She said one more beating would kill her and I knew it was true. She hadn’t told Diocles everything and she swore she would die first. He knew she was withholding something and was just waiting for her to recover enough for the torture to resume.
“The night before last, when she was recovered enough to walk, even run if she should have to, we left the temple, went out through the grove by the spring, and from there she ran.”
“Where did she go?” I asked. “Did she tell you her destination, who would hide her?”
“She said she would be safe, that she had a friend in Baiae.”
“So you returned to the temple and pretended that she was still in the lockup?”
“Yes. Diocles wasn’t fooled for long, but I bought her time to escape.”
“Gaia,” Julia said, “why didn’t Charmian accompany Gorgo on the night she was killed?”
“She went, but Gorgo told her to stay at the edge of the grove, not go with her to the spring.”
“Had Gorgo done that before?” Julia asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so…” The girl was asleep.
We rose and left them there, under the eye of a slave woman skilled in healing. Back in the colonnaded courtyard, we compared notes.
“She went to Baiae,” I said. “Who would she have gone to? Who would hide her?”
“It must have been one of the lovers,” Julia said. “What other free ‘friend’ would she have had?”
“We know it wasn’t Gelon,” Hermes said.
“It’s a long walk to Baiae for a girl in her condition,” Marcus noted.
“Desperation drives people to do surprising things,” I said.
* * *
The next day was a day when official business was forbidden, for which I was grateful. It gave me a chance to wander about in Baiae, ostensibly just enjoying the sights but in reality snooping. Hermes and I made our way into the goldsmiths’ and jewelers’ quarter which, this being Baiae, was bigger than Rome’s.
“Somewhere here,” I said, “there has to be someone who knows who bought that necklace.”
“Why?” Hermes asked. “It might have been bought in Alexandria or Athens. Somebody may have found it in a shipwreck and peddled it cheap. The man who gave it to her may have stolen it. Why are you so sure that the man who sold it is here? I looked all over this quarter last time.”
“Because this morning I sacrificed a very fine ram to Jupiter and I specifically requested that we find that man today.”
“Oh, well, then. Let’s go find him.”
Amazingly, we found the rig
ht man on the third try. The shop was one of the smallest, wedged between a huge cameo display and a place that seemed to specialize in rubies the size of minor Asiatic kingdoms.
“Must’ve missed this one,” Hermes muttered.
We went inside and a man looked up from behind a display case. “Yes, sir? How may I—” he caught sight of my purple stripe and jumped from behind the case “—help you?” He was of that Greek-Asian breed so common in the gem trade, the sort who hails from Antioch or Palmyra or some other Eastern metropolis.
“Hermes,” I said. He took the necklace from inside his tunic and held it up for the man to see. “Do you recognize this?”
The man took two or three of the massive links in his fingertips and studied the carved gems. “Why, yes. I sold this piece about a year ago. I am quite certain. This is a very remarkable necklace. It’s Phrygian. Is there some problem?”
“I just need to know who you sold it to,” I told him.
“Of course. Gaeto the Numidian bought it. I’ve heard he is dead. Is there a problem with the inheritance?”
“Exactly.” I was astounded, but I had a politician’s knack for covering such lapses. “Did he indicate when he bought it that he intended it as a gift?”
“No, but I presumed that he did intend it so. A man does not wear such jewelry, after all.” He thought about this for a moment. “Well, admittedly there are certain men who—but not Gaeto, certainly. He must have intended it for a woman.”
“For his wife?” I asked innocently.
“Well, sir”—he chuckled—“in the first place, I understand that he had more than one. In the second, well, in my experience, which is quite extensive, a man rarely buys such a piece for a woman to whom he is already married, if you take my meaning.”
“I know what you mean,” I told him. “I don’t suppose he made any indication of just who the recipient might be?”
“I am afraid not. Gaeto was always the soul of discretion.” He sighed. “I am sorry to hear that he is no more. I know he was a slave dealer but really quite a splendid man, extremely rich and a very good customer.”
“He bought other items from you?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. He had a taste for these massive, Eastern pieces. They are my specialty, you see. Most of the items I sold him, he bought for himself. Men in Numidia wear heavy gold bracelets, for instance. And he bought heavy signet rings, gifts for Numidian colleagues, I believe. And he did not haggle. He knew what my merchandise is worth.”
“I am sorry you have lost a valued customer. I rather liked the man myself, brief though our acquaintance was.”
“I take it,” he said with a wry expression, “that his widow—the local one, I mean—is disputing possession of that necklace with a favorite? It is a common story.”
“Yes, yes, but please keep this to yourself for the time being. Delicate legal matter, you understand.”
“Of course, of course.”
We went out, walked a few streets, and paused by one of the many fine fountains. A little consort of musicians played harp and flute for our entertainment.
“So it was Gaeto!” Hermes said. “He must have been one of her lovers.”
“So it would appear,” I said. I stared into the swirling waters of the fountain, musing on this new development.
“She was doing the father and the son at the same time?”
“If Gelon is to be believed, he was courting her, but matters had not yet progressed to physical intimacy. As Julia pointed out, she almost certainly was not going out to meet the giver of the necklace, because she wore all her jewelry except that one piece. Gaeto was not the killer, because he was at the banquet with us at Norbanus’s house when it happened.”
“Don’t let him off that easy,” Hermes advised. “Men use hirelings to commit their murders and make sure that important people see them when the crime is committed.”
“All too true,” I agreed. “But I somehow feel that it isn’t what happened here. This thing—” my frustration made me lose my vocabulary, a rare thing for me “—this is so different from the sort of crime we are used to in Rome. There, the motives are relatively simple. Men want supreme power and are willing to do anything to get it. When all the confusing shrubbery is cut away, that is what remains: the lust for power. If jealousy is involved, it is because men envy one another’s power.”
“That’s how it is in Rome,” he agreed.
“Here, we have wealth, and status, and jealousy and snobbery and, I suspect, love.”
“Love?” Hermes said.
“Our first day here, Gelon rode up to the temple and we saw how he and that girl looked at each other. I am certain that that was real. Whoever else she was seeing, whatever other lovers she had, she loved that boy, and he loved her.”
“It’s not usually a motive for killing,” Hermes said, “except when a man surprises his wife with a lover. Under law, that’s justification for homicide.”
“That’s not about love,” I said, frustrated. “That’s about property. It’s about honor, if you can define the concept. Love doesn’t come into it.”
“Still, jealousy is a powerful thing,” Hermes said. “If Gaeto was visiting Gorgo on the sly, giving her rich presents, Jocasta would have a reason to kill them both.”
I nodded. “That thought has not escaped me. But you pointed out yourself that the blow that killed Gaeto could not have been delivered by a woman.”
“A hireling,” he said. “This is Campania, homeland of gladiators.”
“And would Gaeto have allowed one such into his bedroom at night? And then turned his back on him?”
“That does present a problem,” he admitted.
“I don’t think my best with a dry throat,” I said. “Let’s see what the district has to offer by way of refreshment.”
“I thought you’d say that.”
We turned our steps toward an entertainment district where there were numerous dining and drinking establishments. Rome is a city of taverns and food stalls and street vendors, but Baiae, as usual, is different. This area featured spacious courtyards filled with tables where elaborate lunches and dinners were served at moderate cost. The main difference between eating in such a place and in a private home is that the diners sit rather than recline at table.
A girl brought us a very superior wine and I ordered big bowls of the savory fish stew. We ate and pondered and discussed and got nowhere. We had a superfluity of circumstance and suspects and yet we were woefully ignorant in a few key areas.
“Praetor Metellus!” This was shouted in that singsong fashion women use when they want your attention from a distance. I looked around and saw Quadrilla, Manius Silva’s wife, waving frantically. She rushed over to our table, followed by a slave laden with parcels, the plunder of a triumphant day of shopping, no doubt. “Might I join you?”
“Please do,” I said, mystified at this seeming friendliness.
“Cleitus,” she said to the slave, “take these things to the house and have the litter sent to me here.” Wordlessly the man left. “I was hoping to find you today, Praetor.”
“I must wonder at that,” I said. “Your husband was most displeased with me.”
She laughed gaily. “Oh, he was! Serves him right, too, trying to pass such an obvious bribe. Poor Manius! That sly Cretan gets him into more trouble.” She accepted a cup from the serving girl and downed a good portion of it.
“Is Diogenes really counterfeiting perfume?” I asked.
“I have no idea. If he does, it’s good enough to fool me. But double-dealing and suborning are reflexive with Cretans, they just can’t help themselves. Diogenes has to outmaneuver all his competition, by underhanded means if at all possible.”
“You mean it wasn’t true, what your husband said about Diogenes being such a hardworking and resourceful businessman?”
“Oh, it’s all true. But that is not enough, you see. Diogenes could never be content to know that he excelled through hard work and courage and
intelligence. He has to know that he’s tricked everybody. It’s been that way since Ulysses, you know. Ulysses never opened his mouth except to lie, and Greeks have held to that ideal from that day to this. And the Cretans are the most Greek of the Greeks. Deceiving Romans is child’s play to them. Diogenes has to prove that he can outlie, outtrick, and outbribe all the other Greeks in Campania.”
“They are a competitive lot,” I agreed. “Not as homicidal as they used to be, though.”
“Homicidal?”
“Yes, you know: the Iliad, the House of Atreus, the tyrannicides, Harmodius and Aristogiton, even Alexander and his friends. They were as bloody handed a pack as you could ask for. But these days they’d rather connive than murder forthrightly.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.” She hadn’t been expecting this.
“Just that I have two murders on my hands and I’d like to eliminate as many suspects as possible.”
“Don’t you think Gelon killed the girl, and her father killed Gaeto in revenge?”
“Quite possible, of course. Likely, in fact. But I dislike having the obvious thrust before my nose. It makes me suspicious.”
“As it should. It’s so seldom Rome sends us a man of subtlety. I like you, Decius Caecilius, even if my husband is temporarily indisposed toward you. What has stirred up your suspicions?” She sat back and twirled a blue-painted fingernail in her wine.
“A number of things. For instance, the late Gaeto was a man everyone affected to despise, yet I saw him at formal and private functions, always receiving the deference one expects to be shown a public official or a prominent priest or patrician, not a slaver. Why was that?”
“Ah, poor Gaeto.” She stared into the bottom of her cup, which seemed to have grown distant in her sight. “I’ll grant you, his profession made him lowly—”
Says the probable ex-prostitute, I thought.
“—but he was a remarkable man. One grows so tired, you know, of effete aristocrats, money-obsessed businessmen and their social-climbing wives. And that is about all we have here in Baiae, as you may have noticed. Gaeto was something very different. As wealthy as any of the local tycoons but not at all softened by riches and luxury. He had a manner that is rare in Romans of this generation. I am not saying that he was just some primitive brute. You can buy as many of those as you want in the market.”
Under Vesuvius Page 12
