Under Vesuvius(3)

While our own slaves and the villa’s made our quarters ready, we were given a tour of the place. We Metelli were not exactly paupers, but there were too many of us to concentrate so much wealth in one place. In truth, only a handful of men could match the splendor of Hortalus’s properties, of which this was only one. The collection of Greek sculpture was breathtaking, and most of it was displayed in formal gardens landscaped especially to provide a setting for them. He had no fewer than three originals by Praxiteles, including a stunning sculpture of the Graces. You see copies everywhere, but this was the original.

We saw the huge fish ponds that had been Hortalus’s passion. He had written long books on the subject and for many years had engaged in a rivalry with his friend Phillipus, who was afflicted with the same mania. The ladies of our party were delighted with the grotesquely fat fish, who gathered at our approach to be fed, mouths agape like baby birds. Urns of fish food stood by for the use of anyone inclined to this activity. Julia and her friends tossed out enough food to founder a pride of lions. Then the tour continued.

“If you would be so good, Praetor,” Annius said solemnly, “how did you last find my patron?” We were making our way toward the temple.

“In a very bad way, I fear,” I told him. “You and the rest must prepare yourselves for the worst. However,” I added with some satisfaction, “I have reason to believe that he has made excellent provision for you all.”

“What temple is this?” Julia asked. “It is so lovely!”

“This is the Temple of Campanian Apollo,” the steward said proudly. “It is the oldest Greek sacred structure in Italy, founded by colonists more than four hundred years ago. The great Hortensius has made its maintenance and enrichment his dearest project. All the decayed old marble he replaced with the finest Parian. The tile roof he restored with glittering bronze. Where the trees of the sacred grove had died, he brought in and had planted full-grown trees from the holy precincts of other temples.”

“He’s never been one to do things by halves,” I acknowledged.

“Is there still a priest in residence?” Julia wanted to know. “Are ceremonies still performed here?”

“Oh, yes. Southern Campania has a large Greek community, and they have always supported this temple. The priests of Apollo hold a hereditary office, and the current one is a direct descendant of the founding priest, who was a citizen of Athens. His name is Diodes.”

At this moment a lovely young woman emerged from the temple accompanied by two slave girls who bore long ivy wreaths. She wore a simple, elegant gown of dazzling white belted with gold. Under her careful direction, the girls began to drape the wreaths around the altar.

“And this is Gorgo, daughter of Diocles,” the steward said.

“We must meet her,” Julia insisted.

As we crossed the well-kept lawn one of the slave girls caught sight of us and spoke to her mistress. The young woman in white crossed to the top of the stairs and awaited us there, her hands folded modestly before her. When we drew near, she inclined her head gracefully.

“The Temple of Campanian Apollo welcomes the praetor and his lady,” she said in beautiful Attic Greek. Julia answered in the same language, which she spoke as perfectly and as naturally as she did Latin. All upper-class Romans learned Greek, but with the Caesars it was something of a mania.

“So you knew we were coming?” I said after the steward formally introduced us.

“The whole district has anticipated the arrival of the distinguished Senator Metellus and Lady Julia.”

Meaning that everyone wanted to meet Julius Caesar’s niece. One more praetor wasn’t likely to cause much of a stir.

“Here comes part of the district now,” I noted.

A little party of horsemen was approaching along the paved road leading to the temple, their mounts clopping along on unshod hooves. Hermes gave a low whistle. It was meant for the horses. They were superb, far more splendid than my own. The riders were an exotic lot. Four were tawny-skinned, bearded men with their hair dressed in numerous plaits. They rode bareback, each controlling his mount by a single rope halter looped around the animal’s muzzle. Each wore a brief, white tunic and carried a sheaf of javelins in a quiver across his back.

Their leader was an extraordinarily handsome young man who sat a Roman saddle and wore Greek dress, but whose skin was the same desert color as his followers’. His mount was draped with an elaborate caparison that trailed hundreds of tassels of scarlet and gold.

“Numidians,” I observed, “horses and men both. What brings them here?”