Oracle of the Dead(42)

“Oh, don’t bother, Praetor! I’ll send a slave to fetch him.”

“No, I want to catch him red-handed so I can punish him savagely.”

She laughed happily, giddy with the success of her evening’s entertainment, which would make her the envy of the local aristocrats and parvenus for months. “Oh, go on, then. But be back soon. You don’t want to miss the real climax.”

In truth, I wanted to be away from the press on the terrace, as I had wanted to be away from my entourage that morning. The rest of the villa, all but deserted, seemed dreamlike as I passed through its strung-out, meandering rooms and courtyards, so different from the usual square or rectangular villa plan.

Sure enough, when I came to the training pen, there was Hermes, stripped to a loincloth, his body covered with glowing welts that would soon be bruises from strikes by the long sticks they used for swords. A goodly knot of fight fans were gathered, cheering on the combatants. Campania is the home of what might be called the gladiatorial cult. The bustuarii, to use the old term, were fighting here for centuries before the first munera was displayed at Rome. There were people here from all walks of life, from slaves to senators, who were happy to miss the spectacular entertainment on the terrace in order to watch a good fight.

For a while I stood in the dimness of a colonnade, content to watch Hermes as he contended with a tall, long-armed Gaul who grinned happily as he fought, the way Gauls usually do, even after they’ve been mortally wounded. The boy was a joy to watch, strong and graceful as a panther. He was a match for anyone save these professionals. The Gauls had been fighting all evening for the entertainment of the guests, and they were unwinded, scarcely even sweating. That is what training all day, every day, at nothing but swordplay will do for a man, especially one who is a born athlete and swordsman in the first place, which pretty much describes Gauls of the noble class. Finally, I decided I had indulged him enough. I stepped from the colonnade into the light.

“Hermes!” I barked in my best parade-ground voice.

He paused and turned his head, a mistake a professional never would have made. The long-armed Gaul landed a blow on his helmet that rang like Vulcan’s hammer on an anvil and must have had him seeing stars.

“Let that be a lesson to you!” I shouted. “Never take your eyes off your opponent, even when the patron calls. Now stop making a spectacle of yourself and come attend me as is your duty.”

Amid raucous laughter from the spectators and the Gauls, Hermes put on his best falsely sheepish, repentant manner and went to the bench where he’d left his clothing. Once he was decently dressed, he joined me in the little courtyard above the fighting pen where I was sitting on the rim of a little fountain.

“You should have seen me earlier, Patron,” he said, unable to keep up his humble facade, bubbling with enthusiasm. “I almost beat one of them! And the Brigante named Isinorix or something taught me the most amazing maneuver with the longsword. You don’t even need a shield to pull it off—”

“Do be quiet,” I said. “And go find me some wine. I’ve been politicking all evening and Julia has been keeping her eagle eyes on me the whole time. I could feel her gaze all over me from clear across that terrace.”

“At once,” he said, grinning. He knew his work well and was back a few breaths later with a silver pitcher and two silver cups. Sabinilla had even matched the tableware to the night’s theme. He poured for both of us and sat by me. He took a deep gulp and I grabbed his wrist.

“Drink slowly. The way you’re sweating, that wine will hit you like a German’s club. Drink some water to take the edge off your thirst.”

“Now who’s the spoilsport?” Then said, “Sorry, I forgot.” He tossed the lees from his cup and dipped it in the fountain, which ran with perfectly sweet, clear water, piped to that rocky crag from only the gods knew where.

“I’m troubled,” I said.

“You usually are. What is it this time?”

First I told him about my strange interview with Floria and about my own thoughts on the matter, and Julia’s. He listened attentively, keeping his mouth shut and his thoughts to himself, as I had taught him.

“Nothing quite makes sense,” I told him. “Nothing adds up. Either we don’t have enough information, or we’re looking at it the wrong way. I’ve been examining it all from my own peculiar viewpoint and experience and Julia from her philosopher-trained stance. What are your thoughts?” He took a while before answering. Hermes had been a slave for most of his life and had a view of things that Julia and I, aristocrats that we were, could never share.