Under Vesuvius(16)

“Come meet our other guests,” Rutilia said. “I believe you already know some of them.”

And indeed we did. There were Publilius the jewel merchant and Mopsus the silk importer and a dyestuff tycoon and several others we’d met, plus an Alexandrian banker and a Greek shipbuilder who were new to us. Then I spotted Gaeto across the triclinium, conversing with Manius Silva. Rutilia followed my gaze.

“My apologies for having him here. He has—business dealings with a number of the more important people here. It doesn’t do to snub him, much as one might wish to. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not a bit,” I assured her. “I’ve found him to be good company. But then, I’ve gotten on well with Gauls and pirates and senators, so I’ve no reason to fear the company of a slaver.”

She smiled. “A broad-minded Roman. We meet so few of those.”

“Just one of my husband’s singular traits,” Julia told her.

As guests of honor, we were placed at the main couch in the triclinium, one wall of which was open to a large, fountain-centered courtyard. Everyone had brought friends, so couches and tables had been set for them in this courtyard so that we were all, in effect, at the same banquet.

Above the courtyard wall to the southeast the graceful cone of Vesuvius rose in green-clad majesty. As we took our couches a great cloud of dark-gray smoke shot from its crest. From the cloud a rain of something fell, trailing smoke in long streamers. I presumed these to be red-hot rocks.

“It it erupting?” Antonia asked, her face pale.

“Not at all,” Norbanus assured her. “It does this every few months, done it for years. Hasn’t erupted in living memory.”

“That’s what my husband said when we arrived,” Julia said. “Is it what you people keep telling yourselves?”

“Perhaps it is better to live near a well-behaved volcano,” Gaeto said, “than in the lethal political atmosphere of Rome.” It was a valid point, but the guests laughed harder than the witticism deserved.

“Point well taken,” I admitted. “But in Rome, all the lava and ash fall on the senatorial class. Under a volcano, everyone suffers. I’ve seen Aetna in eruption. The destruction was truly comprehensive.”

“When was that, Praetor?” Rutilia asked.

“During the first consulship of Pompey and Crassus. I was sent to help the grain quaestor, a cousin of mine. We heard about the eruption and went to see.”

“That was brave,” Circe said.

“Not at all. We watched from the sea, in a fast trireme. Even then, some big rocks landed near us. They were glowing red and smoking, and when they hit the water they exploded in a huge cloud of steam. The noise was quite indescribable.”

This led to a discussion of whether volcanoes were really the fires from Vulcan’s forge or some sort of natural phenomenon, like storms and floods. I was of the latter opinion, because Vulcan is reputed to be the greatest of smiths and I doubt he would let his fires get out of control.

The food was, as might be expected, superb, but I will not waste words on a description of every extravagant dish, even if I could remember them all. Because the most memorable thing about that dinner was what happened just as it was ending.

It was several hours past sunset. The slaves were bringing out silver trays of fruits and nuts, the usual final course of every dinner, whether a modest meal at home or a splendid public banquet. In keeping with the place and company, these were not simple items, fresh from the tree and vine, but elaborately preserved, honeyed, salted, or otherwise enhanced. Even though more food was the last thing I needed, I gave them a try.

We were complimenting our hosts on their splendid layout when we were distracted by the sound of pounding hoofs.

“That beast is being ridden hard,” Silva commented.

“Someone with an urgent message,” I said with a sense of dread, knowing that this sojourn in southern Campania had been entirely too pleasant. Knowing that this message had to be for me and that it wouldn’t be good, I hoped that it wasn’t word from Rome that civil war had broken out.

But when the man came into the courtyard I recognized him as one of the messengers belonging to Hortalus’s villa.

“Oh, I hope there hasn’t been a fire,” Julia said.

“Praetor,” the messenger said, “you must come at once to the Villa Hortensia. There has been a murder.”

This set up a babble all over the courtyard. Murder was a common thing in Rome, but in these easy environs it was a great rarity.

“Murder? Who?” I demanded.

“Gorgo, daughter of Diocles the priest.”

At this there was uproar and shouts of outrage. The murder of a slave would have caused comment. That of any freed or freeborn person would have been cause for excitement. The murder of the beautiful young daughter of a prominent man was sure to cause a sensation. I sensed that things could get quickly out of hand, so I took immediate action.