Under Vesuvius(37)
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7
MY LITTER CARRIED ME TO THE EDGE OF the town, where my horse was waiting, saddled. I got out of the litter, tossed my toga into it, and ordered the bearers to return to the villa. Mounted and free of the cumbersome garment, I felt invigorated, even younger. Boredom and the trappings of power can be a deadly combination. I was eager for some excitement and I was getting it.
“How?” I demanded as we rode.
“You’ll have to see for yourself,” Hermes shouted above the clatter of our horses. The splendid road was smoothly paved, lined with imposing tombs and stately shade trees. It led along the shore and featured frequent rest areas where travelers could picnic. Each of these featured a fine view of the picturesque bay and had its own bubbling fountain and marble latrine. They left nothing to chance in Baiae.
Hermes led us onto a side road that descended a gentle bluff to the shore. At the end of it was an extensive villa that included many large out—
buildings, almost a small village in itself. From the house stretched a stone jetty. It extended into water deep enough to anchor a sizable ship. There were some small boats tied up to it, and nets hung drying from racks along its sides.
We’d picked up an escort of town guardsmen. These were men in whom I reposed no confidence. They wore gilded armor that looked like something an actor would wear onstage, they were in poor physical condition, and their officer was a wellborn young lout who avoided service in the legions by performing this “essential” civic duty.
I dismounted at the entrance to the compound and began to bark orders. “You lot,” I shouted to the guards, “secure all the approaches to this place. Let no one enter or leave!” They saluted and bustled to obey me. That disposed of them. I was perfectly confident that they would accomplish nothing.
For a moment I stood surveying the place. It entirely lacked the stench that so often hangs over a slave compound like a noxious fog. This place was well run, at least. “Marcus,” I said, “get me the steward. He should be here to meet us. If he’s fled, I’ll have him hunted down and killed.”
“He’s here,” Hermes said, nodding toward the barred gate. A man with a pale, worried face was hustling from the main house with a ring of massive keys in one hand. He was accompanied by a pair of guards who wore leather harness and were armed with whips and bronze-studded clubs of olive wood. Not Numidians this time. These looked like Sicilians.
The man unlocked the gate with shaky, sweating hands. The guards tugged it open, and we passed inside.
“What kept you?” I said.
“Your pardon, Praetor. We have been making an inventory of the staff and the sale slaves to make sure that all were accounted for. Your man ordered this.”
“I did,” Hermes affirmed. “Is the count complete?”
“Yes. All are here save the young master and his tribal guards. We have not seen them since the—the arrest.”
“What about the lady of the house?” I asked.
“The master’s junior wife and her girls have been resident in the town house for several days, sir.”
“And who might you be?” I demanded.
“Oh. Sorry, Praetor. I am Archias, steward to Gaeto. I trust you will pardon my distress. First the young master arrested for murder, now the master—”
“Perhaps it is time that I see your late employer. You are to stay close. I will wish to have a tour of the establishment when I have viewed the body.”
“Of course, Praetor. Please come with me.” We followed him to the main house. It looked much like any fine country house in this district except for the activities. In the distance I could hear a Greek palaestra master calling out exercise commands. Occasionally the crack of a whip sounded above the mutter of the several hundred inhabitants.
“How did you discover him?” I asked as we passed inside the house. The atrium was spacious and blessedly without the pretentious portrait busts with which so many social climbers seek to ape the ancestry of the nobility. The impluvium was splendid and decorated in fine taste, but once again without pretension.
“I must confess it, sir,” said Archias, “I went to seek him when your man came this morning to demand an audience.”
“He was summoning your master to me,” I told the man. “Kings have audiences, not slave merchants.”
“Of course, sir,” he said stiffly. I was being deliberately rude. You often get a better degree of truth from people who are upset and off guard. “In any case,” he went on, “it was far later than he usually rises, and I got no answer to my knock. He was in here.”