I stood up to stretch as best I could within the cramped quarters. I splashed my face with water and sucked in a mouthful, swished it to clean my tongue and spat it out the porthole. Eco had already set out my better tunic. While I dressed he combed my hair and then played barber. When the ship gave a tiny pitch I held my breath, but he did not nick me once.
Eco fetched bread and apples, and we fed ourselves on the deck, contemplating the view as Marcus Mummius guided the ship into the great bay which Romans have always called the Cup, likening it to a vast bowl of water with villages all about its rim. The ancient Greeks who first colonized the region called it the Bay of Neapolis, I think, after their chief settlement. My sometimes-client Cicero calls it the Bay of Luxury, with a derisive tone of voice; he himself does not own a villa there — yet.
We entered the Cup from the north, skirting the narrows between the Cape of Misenum and the small island of Procida. Directly before us, at the far side of the bay, loomed the larger island of Capri, like a craggy finger pointing skyward. The sun was high, the day was fine and clear without a touch of haze on the water. Between us and the opposite strait that separates Capri from the Promontory of Minerva the water was spangled with the multicoloured sails of fishing boats and the bigger sails of the trading ships and ferries that circle the bay, carrying goods and passengers from Surrentum and Pompeii on the south side to Neapolis and Puteoli on the north.
We rounded the headland, and the entire bay opened before us, glittering beneath the sun. At its apex, looming above the little village of Herculaneum, rose Vesuvius. The sight always impresses me. The mountain towers on the horizon like a great pyramid flattened at the top. With its fertile slopes covered by meadows and vineyards, Vesuvius presides over the Cup like a bounteous, benevolent god, an emblem of steadfastness and serenity. For a while, in the early days of slave revolt, Spartacus and his men took refuge on the higher slopes.
The Fury stayed close to the land, circling the Cape of Misenum and then turning her back on Vesuvius to glide majestically into the hidden harbour. The sails were furled; sailors ran about the deck securing ropes and tackles. I pulled Eco out of the way, fearing that without a yoice to protect himself he might be stepped on or tangled in the swinging ropes. He gently shrugged my hand from his shoulder and rolled his eyes. I'm not a boy any longer, he seemed to be saying, but it was with a boy's excitement that he turned his head this way and that, trying to observe everything at once, craning his neck and skittering about with a look of awe on his face. His eye missed nothing; in the rush of confusion he grabbed my arm and pointed towards the skiff that had pushed off from the docks and was making its way towards the Fury.
The boat pulled alongside. Marcus Mummius leaned over the bulwark, shouting a question. After he heard the reply he threw back his head and let out a sigh — whether of relief or regret I could not tell.
He looked up and scowled at my approach. 'Nothing was resolved in my absence,' he sighed. 'You'll be needed after all. At least the journey wasn't wasted.'
'Then you can tell me officially now that my employer is Marcus Crassus?'
Mummius looked at me ruefully. 'You think you're awfully clever, don't you? I only hope you'll be half that clever when the need comes. Now off with you — down the ladder!'
'And you?'
'I'll follow later, after I've seen to the ship. For now you're in the hands of Faustus Fabius. He'll take you to the villa at Baiae and see to matters there.'
Eco and I descended to the skiff, where a tall redheaded man in a dark blue tunic stood waiting to greet us. His face was young, but I saw the lines of age at the corners of his cat-green eyes; he was probably in his middle thirties, about the same age as Mummius. He clasped my hand, and I saw the flash of a patrician ring on his finger, but a gold ring was hardly necessary to show that he came from an old family. The Fabii are as old as the Cornelii or Aemilii, older than the Claudii. But even without the ring and without the name I would have known him for a patrician. Only a Roman noble of the most venerable ancestry can pull back his shoulders quite so stiffly and hold his chin so rigidly upright — even in a small, rocking boat — without looking either pompous or ridiculous.
'You're the one they call the Finder?' His voice was smooth and deep. As he spoke he arched one eyebrow, such a typical patrician gesture that I sometimes wonder if the old nobility have an extra muscle in their foreheads for just this purpose.
'Gordianus, from Rome,' I said.
'Good, good. Here, we'd better sit, unless you're an excellent swimmer.'
Tm hardly a swimmer at all,' I confessed. Faustus Fabius nodded. 'This is your assistant?' 'My son, Eco.'
'I see. It's good that you've arrived. Gelina will be relieved. For some reason she took it into her head that Mummius might be able to get back by late last night. We all told her that was impossible; even under the very best conditions the ship couldn't return before this afternoon. But she wouldn't listen. Before she went to bed she arranged to have messengers descend to the harbour, one every hour, to see if the ship had arrived. The household is in chaos, as you can imagine.'
He saw the blank look on my face. 'Ah, but Mummius has told you next to nothing, I suppose. Yes, those were his instructions. Never fear, all shall be made clear to you.' He turned his face to the breeze and took a deep breath, letting his unfashionably long hair flutter in the wind like a red mane.
I looked about the harbour. The Fury was by far the largest vessel. The rest were small fishing boats and pleasure craft. Misenum has never been a particularly busy port; most of the trade that flows into and out of the Cup is channelled through Puteoli, the busiest port in all Italy. Yet it seemed to me that Misenum was more quiet than it should be, considering its proximity to the luxurious district of Baiae and its famous mineral springs. I said as much to Faustus Fabius.
'So you've been here before?' he asked.
'A few times.'
'Well acquainted with trading vessels and business on the Campanian coast, are you?'
I shrugged. 'Business has brought me to the Cup now and again over the years. I'm no expert on sea traffic, but am I wrong to say that the harbour appears rather empty?'
He made a slight grimace. 'Not wrong at all. Between the pirates at sea and Spartacus inland, trade everywhere in Campania has come to a standstill. Hardly anything moves on the roads or the sea lanes — which makes it all the more amazing that Marcus was willing to send the Fury after you.'
'By Marcus you mean Marcus Mummius?'
'Of course not; Mumrnius doesn't own a trireme! I mean Marcus Crassus.' Fabius smiled thinly. 'Oh, but you weren't supposed to know that, were you, at least not until you landed? Well, here we are. Hold on for the jolt — these clumsy rowers, you'd think they were trying to ram an enemy vessel. A stint on the Fury might do them some good.' I saw the slaves at the oars cower, or pretend to.
As we stepped onto the dock I looked back again at the harbour. 'You mean to say there's no trade at all these days?'
Fabius shrugged. I ascribed his grimace to the patricians' traditional disdain for all matters of commerce. 'Sailboats and skiffs shuttle back and forth across the Cup, of course, exchanging goods and passengers between the villages,' he said. 'But it's a rarer and rarer occurrence to see a big ship from Egypt or Africa or even Spain come in from the sea headed for the big docks at Puteoli. Of course, in another few weeks travel by sea will stop altogether for the winter. As for goods from inland, all of the south of Italy is under the shadow of Spartacus now. He's made his winter stronghold in the mountains around Thurii, after spending all summer terrorizing the region east of Vesuvius. Crops were destroyed, farms and villas were burned to the ground. The markets are empty. It's a good thing the locals needn't live off bread; no one around here will starve so long as there are fish in the Cup or oysters in Lake Lucrinus.'
He turned and led us across the dock. 'I don't suppose there are any shortages in Rome, despite the troubles? Shortages are not allowed in Rome.'
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' "The people fear, but suffer not," ' I quoted from a recent speech I had heard in the Forum.
Fabius snorted. 'It's just like the Senate. They'll go to any lengths to see that the rabble in Rome remains comfortable. Meanwhile, they can't manage to send a decent commander against either Spartacus or the pirates. What a congregation of incompetents! Rome has never been the same since Sulla opened the doors of the Senate as a reward to all his rich cronies; now trinket salesmen and olive oil merchants line up to give speeches, while gladiators rape the countryside. It's only luck that Spartacus has so far lacked either the brains or the nerve to march on Rome itself.'
'That possibility is discussed daily.'
'I'm sure it is. What else do Romans have to talk about these days, between plates of caviar and stuffed quail?'
'Pompey is always a popular subject for gossip,' I offered. 'They say he's almost put down the rebels in Spain. Popular opinion looks to Pompey to hurry back and put an end to Spartacus.'
'Pompey!' Faustus Fabius infused the name with almost as much disdain as had Marcus Mummius. 'Not that he doesn't come from a good family, of course, and no one can discount his military achievements. But for once Pompey is not the right man in the right place at the right time.'
'And who is?'
Fabius smiled and dilated his broad nostrils. 'You'll be meeting him shortly.'
Horses awaited us. Accompanied by Fabius's bodyguard, we rode through the village of Misenum and then headed north on a stone-paved road beside the broad, muddy beach. At length the road turned inland from the beach and ascended a low wooded ridge. On either side, through the trees, I began to glimpse great houses, set far apart with cultivated gardens and patches of wilderness between them. Eco widened his eyes. At my side he had met wealthy men and had occasionally been allowed in their homes, but such ostentation as that which thrives on the Cup was new to him. The city houses of the wealthy, set close together with plain facades, do not impose as do their country villas. Away from the jealous eyes of the urban masses, in settings where no one but slaves or visitors as wealthy as themselves are likely to come knocking, the great Romans show no fear in advertising their taste and their ability to pay for it. Old-fashioned orators in the Forum say that wealth did not flaunt itself in earlier days, but in my lifetime gold has never been afraid to show its face, especially on the Bay of Luxury.
Faustus Fabius set a leisurely pace. If this errand was urgent, he did not show it. There seems to be something in the very air of the Campanian coast that relaxes even the most harried of city dwellers from the north. I sensed it myself — a crispness in the pine-scented air spiced with sea spray, a special clarity of sunlight charging the sky and reflected from the vast bowl of the bay, a feeling of harmony with the gods of earth, air, fire, and water. Such contentment loosens tongues, and I found it easy to open up Faustus Fabius by exclaiming at the views and asking a few questions about the topography and the local cuisine. He was a Roman through and through, but clearly he visited the region often enough to have a thorough knowledge of the coastal Campanians and their old Greek customs.
'I must say, Faustus Fabius, my host on land is certainly more informative than the one I had at sea.' He acknowledged the comment with a thin smile and a knowing nod; I could see he had little affection for Marcus Mummius. 'Tell me,' I went on, 'just who is this Mummius?'
Fabius raised his eyebrow. 'I thought you would have known that. Mummius was one of Crassus's proteges in the civil wars; since then he's become Crassus's right-hand man in military affairs. The Mummii aren't a particularly distinguished family, but like most Roman families that survive long enough, they do possess at least one famous ancestor. Unfortunately, the fame goes hand in hand with a taint of scandal. Marcus Mummius's great-grandfather was a consul back in the days of the Gracchi; he won triumphs for his campaigns in Spain and Greece. You never heard of Mad Mummius, also known as the Barbarian?'
I shrugged. The minds of patricians are surely different from those of us ordinary men; how else can they effortlessly catalogue so much glory and gossip and scandal about so many ancestors, not just their own but everyone else's? At the least prompting they can recount picayune details of life after life, going all the way back to King Numa and beyond.
Fabius smiled. 'It's unlikely, but if the matter should happen to come up around Marcus, be careful what you say; he's surprisingly sensitive about his ancestor's reputation. Well, then: many years ago this Mad Mummius was commissioned by the Senate to put down the revolt of the Achaean League in Greece. Mummius destroyed them completely, and then systematically looted Corinth before levelling the city and enslaving the populace by senatorial decree.'
'Another glorious chapter in the history of our empire. Surely an ancestor any Roman should be proud of
'Indeed,' said Fabius, his teeth slighdy clenched at the irony in my voice.
'And his butchery earned him the name Mad Mummius?' 'Oh, by Hercules, no. It wasn't his bloodthirstiness or his cruelty. It was the indiscriminate way he handled the works of art he shipped back to Rome. Priceless statuary arrived in pieces, filigreed urns were scarred and scraped, jewels were torn from caskets, precious glassware was shattered. They say the man couldn't tell a Polyclitus from a Polydorus!' 'Imagine that!'
'No, really! They say a Juno by Polyclitus and a Venus by Polydorus each lost her head in transit, and when Mad Mummius was having them reassembled he ordered the workmen to attach the wrong heads to the wrong statues. The error was evident to any fool with two eyes. One of the Corinthian captives, outraged by the blasphemy, advised Mad Mummius of the error, whereupon the general had the old man soundly whipped and sold to the mines. Then he ordered his men to leave the statues exactly as they were, saying he thought they looked better that way.' Fabius shook his head in disgust; to a patrician, a scandal a hundred years ago is still a scandal this morning. 'Old Mummius became known as Mad Mummius, the Barbarian, given that his sensibilities were no better than those of a Thracian or a Gaul. The family has never quite shaken off the embarrassment. A pity, since our Marcus Mummius idolized his ancestor for his military skills, and rightly so.'
'And Crassus recognizes the skills of Marcus Mummius?'
'His right hand, as I said.'
I nodded. 'And who are you, Faustus Fabius?'
I looked at him steadily, trying to pierce his feline countenance, but he rewarded my scrutiny with a bland expression that seemed to be a smile on one side and a frown on the other. 'I suppose that would make me the left hand of Crassus,' he said.
The road grew level as we gained.the summit of the ridge. Through the trees to the right I caught occasional glimpses of water below and, far away across the inlet, the clay roof-tops of Puteoli, shimmering like tiny red beads. For some time I had seen no houses on either side; it seemed that we were passing through a single large estate. We passed grape arbours and cultivated fields, but I saw no slaves at work. I remarked on the absence of any signs of life. Thinking Fabius had not heard me over the clatter of our horses, I repeated my remark more loudly, but he only looked straight ahead and did not answer.
At last a smaller road branched off to the right. There was no gate, but two pylons flanked the road. Each red-stained column was surmounted by the bronze head of a bull with a ring through its nose.
The land on either side of the road was wild and forested. The way wound gradually downward towards the coast. Through the trees I could see blue water flecked with faraway sails, and again the roofs of Puteoli across the water. Then the way took a sharp turn around a large boulder. The trees and thickets abruptly drew back, revealing the massive facade of the villa.
The roof was of clay tiles which blazed fiery red in the sunlight. The walls were stained saffron. The central mass was two storeys high, flanked by wings that projected to the north and south. We halted in the gravel courtyard, where a pair of slaves ran to help us dismount and to lead the horses to the nearby stables. Eco dusted his tunic and looked about, wide-eyed, as F
austus Fabius escorted us to the entrance. Funeral wreaths of cypress and fir adorned the high oak doors.
Fabius knocked. The door opened just enough for a blinking eye to peer out, and then was pulled wide open by an unseen slave who cowered behind it. Fabius raised his hand in a gesture that invited us to follow and at the same time demanded silence. My eyes were used to the sunlight, so that the hallway seemed quite dark. I saw the wax masks of the household ancestors in their niches only as vague shadows on either side of us, like ghosts without bodies peering from little windows.
The dark hallway opened into an atrium. The space was square, surrounded by a colonnaded portico on the ground floor and a narrow walkway on the floor above. Cobblestone pathways meandered through a low garden. There was a small fountain at the centre, where a bronze faun threw back his head in delight as tiny jets of water splashed from his pipes. The workmanship was exquisite. The creature seemed to be alive, ready to leap and dance; the sound of bubbling water was almost like laughter. At our approach, two yellow birds who were bathing themselves in the tiny pool flew in a startled circle about the faun's prancing hooves, then upwards to perch nervously on the balustrade that circled the upper storey, and then upwards again into the blue sky.
I watched them ascend, then lowered my eyes to the garden again. That was when I saw the great funeral bier at the far end of the atrium, and the body that lay upon it.
Fabius walked through the garden, where he paused to dip his fingers into the basin at the faun's feet and then touch them to his forehead. Eco and I followed his example and joined him before the body. 'Lucius Licinius,' said Fabius in a low voice.
In life, the dead man had possessed great wealth; either that or his funeral arrangements were being provided by someone with a remarkable purse. Even very wealthy families are usually content to lay their deceased upon a wooden bed with ivory legs and perhaps some decorative ivory inlays. This elegantly carved bed was made entirely of ivory, from head to foot. I had heard of such lavishness, but had never before seen an example. The precious substance glowed with a waxen paleness almost as smooth and colourless as the flesh of the dead man himself.
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