Oracle of the Dead(67)

I left the trees and walked around the complex to the Temple of Apollo. There I went into the precincts and examined once again the ingenious trapdoor, recalling that that tunnel had no vent holes. Because nobody expected to be down there long enough to suffocate.

Then I went outside, to the stableyard. There I looked around the place where we had found the body of the slave girl Hypatia. She had come out here in the middle of the night to get away or to meet somebody. It must have been someone she trusted. Who? And why was she killed? She was pregnant. Was that significant? Perhaps she had a lover who might find himself embarrassed by her condition and had killed her to eliminate the problem. It would be a sordid sort of killing, but such were quite common, and it would have no bearing on the case. I had tinglings of imminent revelation, but nothing definite. I felt sure that her death was tied in somehow. I just had to put together the sequence of events that had led her out to this stableyard that night, and to her death.

My men followed at a discreet distance while I rambled about. Nobody had forgotten the hidden archer, least of all me. I was faintly amused by this. Hermes asked me why I was chuckling.

“Well,” I said, “it just occurred to me that this would be a fitting place for whoever tried to kill me to have another go at it. After all, this temple is dedicated to Apollo the Archer, patron of bowmen. The god might help out and secure a fatal shot this time.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Hermes said. “Remember what Julia said the last time you talked like this, and you were almost killed immediately after.”

“You listen to Julia too much. She puts too much faith in the fates and godly interaction in mortal doings. You’ll find that human beings will give you no end of trouble, with no involvement of the immortals whatever. The gods are just distractions when working out what has gone on here.”

“If you say so,” Hermes said dubiously. Despite being around me for so many years, he was born a slave, and a Roman slave at that. Such persons are usually inclined to superstition and to see supernatural forces at work everywhere. Especially if they are passionately fond of gambling, as Hermes was.

My podium still stood from the last time I had held court here, though my curule chair had of course gone with me on my travels. We sat on the podium and lunched on provisions we had brought with us, and by early afternoon Perna was back with four men who had tool bags slung from their shoulders. They wore workingmen’s tunics, the sort that leaves one shoulder bare, and their hair was gray with stone dust. When Iola saw the chisels and mallets protruding from the men’s bags, her eyes almost popped from their sockets. She came rushing over to me, black robes flapping.

“Praetor! What do you intend? You cannot allow the sanctuary of the Oracle to be harmed!”

“There will be no great harm done,” I assured her. “The sanctuary of the Oracle will not be touched, nor the shrine and statue of Hecate. We are just going to make a small hole up here near the entrance. We’ll plug it up again when we are done, if you like. You can even smear soot over it to hide any marks left behind.” I was watching her, and when I mentioned soot she knew I was talking about the ceiling. From alarm and anger her expression turned to one of stark fear.

“I forbid it!” she shouted like a Tribune of the Plebs blocking legislation. “You cannot lay profane hands on the sanctuary! Hecate will curse you! She will send her black bitches to tear you to pieces! She will—”

“Be silent!” I barked. I didn’t want the workmen to refuse to do my bidding for fear of divine retribution. I snapped my fingers and my lictors quietly surrounded Iola and her little knot of acolytes. “Confine these people to their quarters until I tell you to loose them. If any tries to get away, they are to be killed.”

“You cannot do this, Praetor!” Iola screamed. “You have no authority!” One of the lictors stifled her protests by placing a broad hand over her mouth.

“I have all the authority I need. As I’ve told you before, if you have serious objections, you may go to Rome and take them up with the Senate.”

They were marched away while the small crowd of petitioners and a few locals gaped. I addressed them. “You might as well go to your homes. The Oracle of the Dead is closed until I or the Senate decree that it is to be reopened. I rather fancy that that will be a very long time indeed.” With looks of great disappointment they gathered up their possessions and left.

“Let’s go,” I said to Perna and his workmen. We entered the tunnel once more, and when we stopped at the first vent, Perna gave the men their instructions, which I could not follow very well because he spoke in the specialized language of stonecutters, using terms and abbreviations with which I was unfamiliar. He scratched a square on the ceiling with the corner of a chisel, and I had to admire the precision with which he drew, freehand and using a crude tool never intended for the task. I could not have drawn such a perfect square using a scribe and a compass to keep the corners true.