“I shall have it sent to you,” he assured me.
Outside the gate was convoked a crowd of Baiae’s officials and magistrates and other important people, including wives and all the rabble that usually assembles at the site of scandalous doings.
“Is it true, Praetor?” demanded Manius Silva. “Has Gaeto been done away with?” He still looked peeved at the way I had conducted the morning’s trial.
“Dead as Achilles,” I confirmed. I watched their faces closely. Some affected philosophic impassivity; others looked relieved, Silva and Norbanus among them. Rutilia looked delighted, but then some people just love murders. She turned to her friend Quadrilla and said something behind a masking hand. Quadrilla’s face was grim and her expression did not change at whatever Rutilia said. I thought this odd, but then she might have stuck an even larger sapphire in her navel and it was causing her discomfort.
“Listen to me, all of you,” I said. “Things are getting out of hand here. Just because murders happen all the time in Rome is no reason to think you people have some sort of license to imitate us.”
“The slaver was probably killed by his own livestock,” said Publilius the jewel merchant.
“Let’s have no loose talk,” I commanded. “I will investigate and the killer will be brought to justice.”
“At least we know it wasn’t parricide,” Rutilia remarked. “That would have brought the wrath of the gods.” This brought an appreciative chuckle. Ordinarily I admire sophisticated wit, but at this moment I was in no mood for it.
“Here comes the grieving widow,” Quadrilla said.
A litter carried by hard-pressed bearers was descending the bluff. Minutes later it was set before me and flame-haired Jocasta emerged, her clothes in disarray, her bright hair unbound and streaming. She looked around wildly, then at me.
“I see it must be true.” Her eyes were dry but furious. “My husband is dead. Murdered.”
“I am afraid so,” I told her.
“You know it was that priest!” she said through clenched teeth. “He couldn’t reach the son, so he killed the father. Have him arrested!”
“I know no such thing. You have my condolences, Jocasta, but your husband had many enemies. Several hundred of them reside in that compound.” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder at the wall of the estate. “I will find out who killed Gaeto—slave, freed, or freeborn—and I will render justice.”
She hissed, then took a deep breath and gathered her dignity. Greek women have extravagant ways of mourning, but she did not wish to put on such a display for Romans. “I want to see him.”
“You don’t need my permission,” I told her. She strode past me and disappeared within the gate.
“Everyone here,” I said, “disperse to your homes and your business. This is just another sensation and it needn’t be made worse by a lot of idle speculation.”
They did not look pleased with my highhanded methods, but they knew better than to argue. I was the man with the lictors and the imperium. By this time the older men of my staff had caught up, and I beckoned them to me.
“Publius Severus,” I said, addressing an elderly freedman who for fifty years had been secretary to some of Rome’s greatest jurists, “I need you and your colleagues to search the law books. This man may have been killed by one of his slaves. I need to know if the old law that condemns all his slaves to crucifixion in such a case is valid only if the victim was a citizen. This man was a resident alien.”
“I can tell you right now, Praetor,” said Severus. “The matter was addressed during the consulship of Clodianus and Gellius, when slaves were murdering their masters right and left. The ultimate punishment was inflicted only in the case of a citizen murder. The status of foreigners is little higher than that of slaves, and the matter is to be treated as an ordinary homicide. Only the murderer and his direct accomplices are subject to crucifixion.”
“Excellent,” I said, greatly relieved. The last thing I wanted to do was order several hundred crucifixions of people who were in no way responsible for their master’s death. We have some truly monstrous, archaic punishments on our law books.
Regilius the horse master arrived and I dispatched him to scout for signs of an intruder. He began to ride slowly along the estate wall, his eyes on the ground.
I ordered everyone back to the villa and we mounted. Riding, this time at a leisurely pace, I discussed the latest murder with Hermes.
“It was someone he knew,” Hermes said.
“Clearly. Someone he had in his bedroom after dark, when the estate was closed up. That doesn’t let the slaves off. He might have sent up one of the girls. He certainly had some fine stock.”