The irrepressible Porcia stepped over to young Sextus Lucretius Vespillo and tickled him under the chin. “And this lad had just the thing to get you talking, eh? Praetor, may I borrow him when you’re done with him?” Everyone laughed, but a little nervously. Vespillo’s face flushed scarlet.
“How long have you been here at the temple?” I asked the girl.
“About two months.”
“And who was your former master?”
“Aulus Plantius, sir.”
Duronius spoke up. “Plantius is an itinerant slave trader who comes through here two or three times a year. I remember he was here about two months ago. He deals in high-quality stock. I bought a cook from him.”
“I see. Girl, I may want to question you further, so don’t go anywhere.”
“Where would I go, Praetor? I belong to the temple.”
“So you do. Just don’t let yourself get sold anywhere else. Now,” I said, turning to my audience, “let’s have a look at this new tunnel.”
I stepped cautiously to the lip of the opening. The light from the lamps revealed a steep stairway descending into obscurity. “Bring a torch. I want only Hermes with me for now.” There were sounds of disappointment behind me. I was used to such sounds. Luckily I was not wearing my ponderous official toga. The synthesis had recently come into fashion for dinner party wear and the lightweight garment is much easier for negotiating steep stairways. I thought of simply removing it, but dignity of office forbade going about in only a tunic.
Hermes preceded me down the stairs. In the smoky, uncertain light of the torch I examined the walls and ceiling. I was no expert on the subject of stonework, but the workmanship appeared identical to that of the tunnel leading to the chamber of the Oracle. I did notice one difference: there were no niches for lamps. This was never intended for regular ritual use, I thought. So what was its purpose?
Without the ceremony, the chanting, the smoke, and all the other appurtenances of my earlier journey underground, this one was not as frightening. It was, however, uncomfortable, cramping and confining. Though there was no real reason for it, I found it hard to breathe. The weight of the stone above seemed to bear down upon me. Clearly, I was never meant to be a miner.
I became aware of a faint breeze in the tunnel. It made the torch flicker and it was coming from below. Above the smell of the torch it carried a disagreeable but all too familiar scent: blood and death. But below these there was yet another scent: water. I had expected something like this and the philosopher’s remarks that very evening had suggested it.
As we descended, I tried to keep the layout of the whole double temple compound in my head: how far and to what extent this tunnel paralleled the Oracle’s. It seemed to be far steeper and thus required a stairway. As near as I could judge, its direction was almost parallel to the lower one, but I had no idea of its depth.
After what seemed an interminable descent, we came to a large chamber, and now I could hear the sound of water. There was a thin fog, not as dense as that in the chamber of the Oracle. The blackness all but swallowed the light of Hermes’ torch. “They’re over here,” he said.
He stood beside a round hole in the floor about five feet in diameter. It was a fine piece of masonry, with a slightly raised lip all around. It was from this hole that the fog and the sound of water issued. Lined up just before the hole, in a neat row, were five white-clad bodies.
“Did anyone touch them?” I asked.
“We found them exactly like this. Laid out for a funeral. Has a ritual look, don’t you think?”
“This place is about nothing but ritual,” I groused. “Oracles, temples, ancient, forgotten gods, and Aborigines . . .”
“Aborigines?” Hermes asked.
“Oh, yes, you weren’t at the dinner party.”
“No, I was out doing your work, and very productive, if I may say so.”
“Yes, well done. I want to examine them in better light, but first I want a look around this chamber before anyone else comes down here. Let’s start by walking the periphery.”
Hermes leading with the torch, we went to the wall and began to pace it. The chamber proved to be circular, with the hole in its exact middle. The wall sloped gently inward, so that it was shaped like the rustic beehives farmers weave from wicker. Like the tunnel and chamber of the Oracle, it had been hewn from solid rock, resembling certain tombs I had seen in Egypt. The hole in the center reminded me horribly of the trap in the Tullianum prison, where the bodies of strangled enemy kings are thrown after taking part in the victor’s triumph. Some have been thrown in while still alive. Nobody has ever come out, living or dead.