The River God's Vengeance(9)

The walk was not a long one. We crossed the fine, still new Fabrician Bridge to the Island and its complex of buildings that combine temple and hospital. The temple itself re joiced in a new facade, provided by some ambitious politician to celebrate his own glory. I didn’t even glance up to see whose name now decorated the pediment. We were barely off the bridge when we heard the groaning.

“Sounds like a battlefield after a fight,” Hermes said.

“It means there are more survivors than I’d expected. Maybe some of them can give us some answers.”

We climbed the steps, newly resurfaced with gleaming white marble, and passed between a pair of splendid braziers of shining bronze wrought in the shape of the god’s serpent-wound staff, topped with a bronze basket in which fire would burn on special occasions. These were also new.

We found the big fellow in a recovery room attended by a temple slave. The priests had taken my instructions for special treatment to heart, it seemed.

“How is he?” I asked.

“He hasn’t come around since I’ve been attending him,” the slave said. “He mumbles a little, but mostly he’s like this, completely unconscious.” The attendant was a young man wearing the livery of the temple, a white tunic embroidered on front and back with the caduceus. He rose. “I will fetch the attending priest.”

The comatose slave was as big as any Gaul or German; but washed free of dust and plaster, he proved to have the common features and coloration of southern Italy. He was olive skinned and black bearded, and I thought I detected something of Bruttium in the cast of his features. His eyes were open but unfocussed, and he mumbled continuously, although I could make out no words.

“I don’t think this one is going to be with us much longer,” Hermes opined. “Should I go get Asklepiodes?”

“I doubt he could do much. In any case, his specialty is wounds caused by weapons.”

Moments later the priest arrived. He was one I knew from previous visits to the temple, a slave named Harmodias. By ancient tradition, one-third of the priests of this temple are freeborn, one-third freedmen, and one-third slaves. The freedmen and slaves are the best consultants on injuries and treatable diseases. The freeborn priests confine themselves mainly to interpreting the dreams of ailing people brought in to sleep in the nave before the statue of Aesculapius.

“Will he be able to speak?” I asked him.

“He has suffered severe injuries to the skull and spine, Aedile. I’ve seen a good many cases like this, and I’ve never seen a complete recovery. Even partial recovery is rare.”

“I just want him to recover enough to talk,” I said.

“He may babble incoherently for a while, although periods of lucidity are not out of the question.”

“I can’t wait around for that. Have you a secretary who can take down any coherent statements he might make?”

“I could do it myself, but what sort of statement might be of interest?”

“This one seems to have been awake when the disaster occurred. He was dressed at any rate, and it looks as if he was on his feet when the fioor collapsed under him. Anything he can say about the events of last night could be of help. Also, we are having difficulty learning anything about the equestrian family to whom he belonged. The name Lucius Folius is all I’ve been able to find out. I want to know anything he can tell me, even if it’s just scurrilous slave gossip. I’d prefer, of course, to hear it personally. If he seems to come around, send a messenger to fetch me.”

“I shall do it without fail,” he promised. “Of course, this will detain me from other duties—” I snapped my fingers and Hermes passed me my money pouch. I gave Harmodias a couple of silver denarii, and he tucked them away, bowing. “I shall send for you the moment he begins to talk coherently, recording diligently anything he might say before you get here. If he dies, you shall likewise be notified.”

“Good. Tell him he’ll have a decent funeral. That may put him in a cooperative frame of mind.” Slaves usually were thrown into the Puticuli if nobody claimed them for burial.

I tried to question some of the other survivors, but, as I feared, they had nothing to tell me. All had been sound asleep at the time of the disaster. They had awakened to noise, pain, terror, and confusion. Many remembered nothing at all of that night, the shock having disordered their minds.

We left the temple and made our way back across the bridge, thence south along the river to the Temple of Ceres, where I had a cramped cubicle laughably termed an office. For centuries the temple had been the headquarters of the aediles, but in the early days the duties of that office had been far less comprehensive. Office space was as inadequate as everything else attached to the title.