Oracle of the Dead(27)

“Nothing that’s very indelicate to tell about, I’m afraid.” He looked downcast like any other unsuccessful would-be swain. “She got—ah—very friendly and pulled me behind a pillar and while I was preparing to—”

“Do something indelicate?” I prodded.

“Very indelicate,” he said, perking up at the thought of his intention. “But then she pulled back and stared at the statue of the god, as if she feared his disapproval.”

“I don’t see why,” I said. “Old Apollo was as randy as the rest of the male gods, always chasing mortal women and getting them turned into plants, like Daphne.”

“My very thought. In fact, I was making exactly that objection, only using the example of Castalia, the girl of Delphi, who got turned into a fountain.”

“Yes, and some yielded to his advances,” I said. “Back in the days when a mortal woman had a chance to bed a truly exalted lover, he sowed the world with little bastard demigods. So, how did the girl respond to this eloquent line of reasoning?”

“She said that it was not my ardency that upset her, but the memory of the last time she had stood upon that spot, when she had witnessed something that disturbed her.”

“And that was the incident of which she informed us.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, at least you have hope for the effectiveness of your masculine charms. Take me to the spot where you stood during your abortive tryst.”

He indicated the pillar and we stepped behind it. “It was just about this time of day, wasn’t it?” He concurred that it was.

The interior of the temple was dim, as is always the case with temples, which have doorways but no windows. I could just barely make out the statue of the god. The pedestal below his feet was even more obscure. What, I thought, must it have looked like at night, when the only illumination was the flickering light of the torches?

“She claimed that she went no closer than this spot, did she not?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Yet somehow she saw clearly the bit of carving, among such a profusion of floral stonework, that is the concealed latch to the trapdoor.”

“This is the sort of thing you’re so famous for, isn’t it?” Vespillo said. “Examining scenes and circumstances and picking away at the—the inconsistencies?”

“It’s a simple and logical process,” I said. “People lie and sometimes they trip themselves up. Unfortunately, I am not now able to interrogate the girl about this improbability. I suspect that this is the reason for her murder.”

We left the temple and I saw a woman on the dais, her ample bottom perched on the arm of my curule chair, which seemed to have become a public convenience on these days when court was not in session. Catching sight of us, she smiled and waved. It was Porcia, the wealthy freedman’s daughter.

“Praetor!” she yelled, turning heads for acres around. “And if it isn’t the handsome young Vespillo! Do you have any plans for lunch?”

I drew closer so I wouldn’t have to shout. “As a matter of fact, we are entirely at loose ends.”

“Then you must come to my house and have a bite. It’s quite nearby.”

“Vespillo here yielded to just such an invitation, and bad things can come of it.”

“If I hadn’t, you’d still be looking for those dead priests,” he objected.

“You are right, so we must accept this invitation. Lead on.”

She led us to a huge litter that stood near a fountain, the bearers squatting by the poles, taking advantage of the cool spray. We climbed in and were hoisted. The bearers set off through the motley, alternately festive and sullen crowd.

Her house lay only a mile from the temple complex, a great, sprawling villa surrounded by orchards and lovingly sculpted formal gardens. We were carried up the steps of the main house and through its extra high and wide doorway and set down in a huge atrium graced with a number of family portrait busts. They all had the look of Italian peasants and no attempt had been made to ape aristocratic practices like a formal chest full of spurious ancestral death masks. I had known social climbers to haunt estate auctions and snap up a whole family tree of spurious ancestors to dignify the atrium.

“Welcome to the Villa of the Mundus. It’s what my father named the place.”

“You have a mundus here?” I said. “Is there anyplace in Campania that isn’t in direct contact with the underworld?”

She laughed raucously. “It’s just a hole in the ground! An old peasant who used to own a piece of this land claimed that people could get in touch with their dead by leaving offerings in his mundus. As you’ve figured out by now, people in this area will believe just about anything. He salted away a lot of denarii before he croaked. He usually charged a denarius per offering, but he was a shrewd judge of what people could afford and he had a sliding scale. He’d accept a copper as if he thought that was all he could get out of you.”