Under Vesuvius(45)

“He bought other items from you?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. He had a taste for these massive, Eastern pieces. They are my specialty, you see. Most of the items I sold him, he bought for himself. Men in Numidia wear heavy gold bracelets, for instance. And he bought heavy signet rings, gifts for Numidian colleagues, I believe. And he did not haggle. He knew what my merchandise is worth.”

“I am sorry you have lost a valued customer. I rather liked the man myself, brief though our acquaintance was.”

“I take it,” he said with a wry expression, “that his widow—the local one, I mean—is disputing possession of that necklace with a favorite? It is a common story.”

“Yes, yes, but please keep this to yourself for the time being. Delicate legal matter, you understand.”

“Of course, of course.”

We went out, walked a few streets, and paused by one of the many fine fountains. A little consort of musicians played harp and flute for our entertainment.

“So it was Gaeto!” Hermes said. “He must have been one of her lovers.”

“So it would appear,” I said. I stared into the swirling waters of the fountain, musing on this new development.

“She was doing the father and the son at the same time?”

“If Gelon is to be believed, he was courting her, but matters had not yet progressed to physical intimacy. As Julia pointed out, she almost certainly was not going out to meet the giver of the necklace, because she wore all her jewelry except that one piece. Gaeto was not the killer, because he was at the banquet with us at Norbanus’s house when it happened.”

“Don’t let him off that easy,” Hermes advised. “Men use hirelings to commit their murders and make sure that important people see them when the crime is committed.”

“All too true,” I agreed. “But I somehow feel that it isn’t what happened here. This thing—” my frustration made me lose my vocabulary, a rare thing for me “—this is so different from the sort of crime we are used to in Rome. There, the motives are relatively simple. Men want supreme power and are willing to do anything to get it. When all the confusing shrubbery is cut away, that is what remains: the lust for power. If jealousy is involved, it is because men envy one another’s power.”

“That’s how it is in Rome,” he agreed.

“Here, we have wealth, and status, and jealousy and snobbery and, I suspect, love.”

“Love?” Hermes said.

“Our first day here, Gelon rode up to the temple and we saw how he and that girl looked at each other. I am certain that that was real. Whoever else she was seeing, whatever other lovers she had, she loved that boy, and he loved her.”

“It’s not usually a motive for killing,” Hermes said, “except when a man surprises his wife with a lover. Under law, that’s justification for homicide.”

“That’s not about love,” I said, frustrated. “That’s about property. It’s about honor, if you can define the concept. Love doesn’t come into it.”

“Still, jealousy is a powerful thing,” Hermes said. “If Gaeto was visiting Gorgo on the sly, giving her rich presents, Jocasta would have a reason to kill them both.”

I nodded. “That thought has not escaped me. But you pointed out yourself that the blow that killed Gaeto could not have been delivered by a woman.”

“A hireling,” he said. “This is Campania, homeland of gladiators.”

“And would Gaeto have allowed one such into his bedroom at night? And then turned his back on him?”

“That does present a problem,” he admitted.

“I don’t think my best with a dry throat,” I said. “Let’s see what the district has to offer by way of refreshment.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

We turned our steps toward an entertainment district where there were numerous dining and drinking establishments. Rome is a city of taverns and food stalls and street vendors, but Baiae, as usual, is different. This area featured spacious courtyards filled with tables where elaborate lunches and dinners were served at moderate cost. The main difference between eating in such a place and in a private home is that the diners sit rather than recline at table.

A girl brought us a very superior wine and I ordered big bowls of the savory fish stew. We ate and pondered and discussed and got nowhere. We had a superfluity of circumstance and suspects and yet we were woefully ignorant in a few key areas.

“Praetor Metellus!” This was shouted in that singsong fashion women use when they want your attention from a distance. I looked around and saw Quadrilla, Manius Silva’s wife, waving frantically. She rushed over to our table, followed by a slave laden with parcels, the plunder of a triumphant day of shopping, no doubt. “Might I join you?”