Under Vesuvius(57)
“He’s at the villa,” Circe reported, “seeing to the funeral rites for his two guardsmen who were killed this morning. They were his tribesmen and he is obligated to perform the traditional ceremonies.”
“Oh,” I said. “Does he wish us to attend the funeral?”
“No. They were desert men, simple warriors. Since they died in the morning, they must be cremated by nightfall and their ashes returned to their families in Numidia.”
“I wish I had the firewood concession in this district,” Marcus said. “With all the funerals lately, I’d be rich as Crassus.”
* * *
11
WHEN GELON ARRIVED THE NEXT morning our interview was unproductive.
“Patron?” he said.
“Yes. Patron, partner, hospes, what have you. In order to practice business in Italy, he must have had one. You mean you were never introduced?” I was seated in the impluvium that morning. Since the town house was three stories high, this formed a veritable well, with the dining room, master bedroom, entrance hall, and so forth opening off the central collonaae, the upper floors for storage and the household staff. It was bright and airy, with a beautiful fountain and many potted plants. But I was too frustrated to appreciate its charms.
“Not to my knowledge. If he had one, I am sure it was purely as a matter of convenience. No one was ever introduced to me as such.”
“You mean he never mentioned that he had a patron, one who no
doubt demanded a percentage of his profits? This is a grave oversight in an otherwise exemplary man of business.”
Gelon jerked his head sideways, the Numidian equivalent of a shrug. “Nonetheless, he never spoke of such a person to me.”
Marcus awaited nearby. I caught his eye and nodded. Silently he left the house, bound for the municipal archive.
Hermes’ report was likewise unproductive. “This town’s gates haven’t been guarded since the rebellion of Spartacus more than twenty years ago,” he said. “You should see the hinges. They’re solid with rust. They couldn’t get the gates shut if the Parthians invaded. Nobody keeps track of who enters or leaves the town at any hour. They don’t want to do anything that might slow down business.”
“Somehow this doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “Cato sounds like a wiser man by the minute.”
An hour later Marcus returned, smiling so sunnily that I knew he had bad news to report. “The archivist was of no use at all.”
“Gaeto’s registration has to be on record there,” I said. “Have you forgotten how to bribe a public slave? It’s a simple transaction involving money.”
“Oh, he was happy to be of assistance,” Marcus protested. “You know how boring his job must be. It seems that the relevant documents are no longer there.”
“Misplaced?” I suggested. In Rome, the archive slaves kept the filing system deliberately chaotic, so that only they could find anything. You had to bribe them generously if you wanted them to find anything for you.
“No, the archive is in impeccable order. They use the Alexandrian system, with the ends of the scrolls painted in various colors by category, and each category arranged by alpha-beta-gamma, so that any document can be found in seconds. He walked right to where it was supposed to be, but it wasn’t among the registrations of alien merchants. And we quickly saw that it wasn’t misfiled among other documents. It’s just gone.”
I kneaded the bridge of my long, Metellan nose. “My day is a shambles and it’s not even mid-morning yet. I suppose the slave has no idea who might have appropriated this document?”
“He says he’s only been there a year. It might have been taken any time before that.”
“Or,” Hermes said, “somebody might have gone there yesterday and bribed him to turn it over. He would hardly court a severe flogging by admitting it.”
“Everyone here has something to hide,” I said, “and the favorite thing to conceal seems to be any connection to Gaeto the Numidian.”
This left me with one possible source of information: the grieving widow. Just after mid-morning I was at her front door, accompanied by my lictors. The janitor admitted us and Jocasta received me in the atrium.
“Official business today?” she asked.
“It isn’t a court day,” I told her, “but I have some informal questions I’d like to ask.”
“Then please come this way.” As I followed her within the house I admired the way she moved. She had a walk that was both graceful and provocative; its sway emphasized by her long, red hair, which was tied back that morning in a tail that hung down as far as her very shapely buttocks. These and her long legs were clearly delineated by the gown she wore; one of those sheer, close-pleated Greek garments you see in Greek vase paintings, not as shameless as the Coan cloth dresses but extremely bold by stodgier Roman standards. In fact, she was in full Greek regalia that morning, with armlets banding her bare upper arms, her hairstyle and her cosmetics—everything as Greek as Homer.