Under Vesuvius(20)

“I don’t want to throw him into some flea-ridden pit with runaway slaves and bandits. He’ll stay here. As for the rest of you—” I gazed around at the assembled notables “—I want you to return to your homes and duties. I am holding you responsible for the behavior of your fellow citizens. I want no mobs, no rioting, no rabble-rousers talking up wars two generations past. If there is disorder, I will not hesitate to call in soldiers to reestablish order. Am I understood?”

“Praetor,” Silva protested, “this is not Gaul or Sicily. We have a peaceful, well-ordered society. All shall be according to Roman law.”

“See to it,” I said. I knew it is always best to assert one’s authority at once, especially since my only authority here was that a foreigner was suspect. Still, I had expected more protest from these men. Clearly, none of them wanted any part of this case. That would bear thinking about.



* * *





4


IN THE GRAY DAWN I TRUDGED BACK toward the villa. Halfway there I was met by the horse master. He was a tall man, a Spaniard by the look of him, who walked with a pronounced limp. I read the marks of the cavalry on him.

“The praetor sent for me?”

“Yes. You’ve ridden with the alae, haven’t you?”

He looked pleased. “Fifth cohors equitata, attached to the Fourth Legion in the Sertorian War, first under General Metellus, then under General Pompey. I am Regilius.”

“Well, Regilius, General Metellus was my uncle. General Pompey, I am happy to say, is no relation at all.”

He grinned. “Wasn’t much of a general, either, at least not in that war. At least your uncle fought Sertorius. Pompey bribed the traitor’s friends to kill him.”

“Very true. Regilius, I have a task for you. It is almost light. I want you to go all around the sacred olive grove and look for hoofprints. If anyone rode there last night, I want to know how many there were and what they were riding.”

He grinned again. “Haven’t done any scouting or tracking in a good many years, but I haven’t forgot how. If there’s horse sign out there, you’ll know about it within the hour.” He threw me a sloppy salute and whirled on his heel, shouting for his grooms. It was good to have someone around who knew his business.

Back at the villa I sat on a terrace and called for some breakfast. Trays of hot bread, sliced fruit, and pots of herbed oil and honey all appeared with magical swiftness, accompanied by heated, heavily watered, and slightly sour wine. This last was a wake-up drink much favored by Hortalus and others of his generation. Ordinarily I did not care for it, but just now it was what I needed. As I ate and pondered, I saw a line of litters coming down the road toward the villa: Julia and the other women, finally making it back from Norbanus’s house.

The bearers brought the lead litter onto the terrace and set it down. Moments later Julia emerged. From within came a faint sound of snoring.

“Silly cows,” she said, seating herself at the little table while I poured her a cup. “They slept the whole way back. Not even a murder can keep them awake.” She took a sip and made a face. “This stuff is awful. Well, tell me.”

So I filled her in on the night’s doings. She followed me with great concentration. Julia’s mind was as fine as any lawyer’s, despite her overindulgence in Greek philosophy.

“All this evidence and you still don’t think it’s Gelon?” she said when I finished.

“Why do you think it was?” I asked her.

She bit into a sliver of melon. “A wellborn lady takes at least one slave girl with her when she goes to bathe. Gorgo dismissed her girls to their beds. Then she put on her best jewelry. A woman doesn’t go out to bathe alone, in her best jewels, unless she is meeting a lover. We saw how infatuated she was with the boy, and he was clearly besotted with her.”

“Lovers don’t kill each other,” I said.

“Yes, they do. More often than you’d think.”

“But why?”

She shrugged. “You’ll have to question him. But don’t expect it to be a good reason, or one that would make sense to us. People in love are not sane.”

“Profoundly true.”

At this moment the horse master walked up to us and saluted again. “One rider, Praetor, on a small mare, Roman shod. It was hitched to a tree for no more than an hour.”

“Would a Numidian ride a shod horse?” I asked him.

“We’re talking about the slaver’s boy, right? If I had beauties like his, I’d never ride anything else. No, Numidians don’t ride shod animals and they don’t ride mares, even unshod. Unless—”