Oracle of the Dead(75)

“Remove her wig,” I ordered one of the slaves.

“Why?” Julia asked. “Do you think she hid something under it.”

“No, I just want to know the true color of her hair.” Julia snorted. The man lifted the wig which, thankfully, was unbloodied. Her hair was red, a striking shade. I wondered why she did not display it. Then again, red hair is often associated with bad luck, so perhaps she thought it best to hide it.

“She can go back home in the morning in her litter,” I said.

Shortly after that, Hermes came in to tell us that the assassin had not been found.

“Somehow I am not surprised,” I said. “This killer gets about like a phantom. Just flits from place to place to shoot arrows at me.”

“I’ll get the huntsmen and their dogs in the morning,” Hermes said. “Maybe they can get a scent off the arrows.”

“You can try,” I said, “but I don’t hold out great hopes. Whatever else he may be, this assassin knows what he is doing. I don’t doubt he has taken precautions to confuse dogs.”

So it transpired. The next day, the huntsmen arrived with their dogs. The animals sniffed the nock-ends of the arrows, where the shooter’s scent should have been strongest, then they ran all over the temple compound, yipping happily.

“So much for that, then,” I said.

“From now on, until this is settled,” Julia said, “you will be indoors well before dark.” I gave her no argument.

“Maybe we should just wait,” I said. “The thieves are falling out now. They’re afraid their confederates will betray them, so they are killing each other off. Soon there may be nothing left for me to do. They’ll all be dead.”

“Don’t count on it,” Julia advised.

I went outside, took a look around, and groaned. “They’re back!”

Already, the mob was assembling: the vendors, the mountebanks, the vast number of gawkers. More murder. More fun.

“Why do they do this?” I inquired of no one in particular. “Don’t they have anything else to do? This is southern Campania! There ought to be plenty of other diversions to occupy the idle.” I received no answer from the gods or anyone else. There was no explanation. There is just a basic flaw in human nature that causes people to flock like vultures to a place where ghastly events have occurred. Doubtless they hope something equally ghastly will happen that they can actually witness. This was probably something that escaped when Pandora opened her box.

I sent Sabinilla’s body home in her litter. I’d had undertakers come in so she was properly cleaned up and Julia had donated a gown so she wouldn’t arrive looking as if the Furies had been at her. Whatever she had done, she was beyond the hand of justice now, and I felt the decencies should be observed. Needless to say, the gawkers lined the road to see the litter pass. I wondered what it was they expected to see. Just another of those inexplicable things, I supposed.

While I awaited the people I had summoned, who would not be likely to arrive before at least the next day, and the reports of those who were digging up evidence, I retired to a terrace that was away from the crowd and allowed me a broad vista. I was in no mood for appreciating the scenery, but it kept any archers from creeping within range. Just to make sure, I had stationed a lookout atop the Temple of Apollo. Young Vespillo was my choice, because he had exceptionally good eyesight.

I did not idle away my time, but began to write down my arguments and list my evidence, not all of which was gathered, but which I expected soon to have in my hands. I wrote out the events as they happened, in sequence. (I have that account by me now and it has been a great aid to my memory. It pays to keep all your old papers.) I organized my oration as I had learned from Cicero, in the fashion of the day, not neglecting the occasional character assassination, snatches of relevant poetry, and so forth. I knew I wouldn’t be using all of it, but it helped to keep things orderly in my mind.

Around noon the next day Cordus arrived, and with him was a man of about thirty-five years, wearing a dingy, dark toga, his face unshaven. Accompanied by my guards, I went to greet them. “I believe I have found what you want, Praetor,” Cordus said. “This is the distinguished Lucius Pedarius.” Apparently “distinguished” was how the locals referred to genuine patricians. From his dress and grooming, it looked as if the family had fallen on truly hard times.

“Pedarius?” I said. “I wondered when some representative of your clan would see fit to show up.”

“I do beg your pardon, Praetor. My household has been in mourning for my father.” His Latin was impeccable. That explained the dingy toga, beard, and tangled hair. The Pedarius family still took the old-fashioned mourning practices seriously. In Rome, we usually just borrowed an old toga from a freedman, allowed a little stubble to show, and left our hair unbarbered but combed.