Under Vesuvius(59)
“My husband was alive at the time of our last interview. He would have taken a very dim view of my speaking of his feuds to an official. Numidians settle such matters personally.”
“And did you not suspect Diocles of murdering your husband?” I demanded.
She snorted delicately. “That feeble old man kill a man like Gaeto? Only a strong man with a sure hand and eye could have struck that blow.” She smiled. “At least you know it wasn’t Gelon. He was in your custody when my husband was killed.”
“So he was. What were relations like between father and son?”
“Probably better than between a Roman father and son. You Romans are known for your tyrannical attitude toward your children. Oh, Gelon chafed a bit under paternal authority. What spirited young man does not? But Gaeto adored him and indulged him shamelessly. You saw his horses, his trappings, his personal escort, like that of a young prince. No, Gelon had little to complain about.”
“Did Gaeto forbid him to see the priest’s daughter? I spoke to Gaeto about this personally, because I foresaw trouble in my district.”
“I believe they exchanged some sharp words on the matter, but I heard nothing clearly. And if you foresaw trouble, you share the gift of the Cumaean Sibyl.”
“Actually, I had no idea just how bad trouble could get in this district. But I am learning.”
“You know,” she said, subtly shifting her shapely body, “you are a very interesting man. I’ve heard how you all but wiped out those bandits by yourself.”
“An exaggeration,” I assured her. “I accounted for two of them. My men and Gelon’s did for the rest.”
“But Rutilia told me how you faced down the whole power structure of Baiae with a sword in each hand, drenched in blood from head to foot. She said it was a most stimulating sight. From the way she gushed on about it, you probably could have mounted her right there on the road in front of everybody and she’d have loved it.”
“What is life but a series of missed opportunities?” I said.
She laughed gaily, apparently quite recovered from her recent bereavement. “You are just not what one expects in a Roman official. Most of them are such dullards.”
“I try to be entertaining. So you have been socializing with Rutilia? I thought the local ladies cut you dead.”
“Oh, in public they elevate their noses, but I fascinate them. Last night Rutilia called on me, ostensibly to console me in my loss. Of course she claimed that she truly wanted to attend the funeral, but Norbanus wouldn’t hear of it. She really wanted to get all the details of the murder and learn what was to become of Gelon. Quadrilla had already been by earlier, on the same mission. I know them well, you see. Them, and the other society wives of Baiae. They come to learn from me.”
“And what do you teach them?”
“Can’t you guess? They want to learn how to best please their lovers. No woman is more accomplished than a Greek hetaera, after all. That is our reputation, at least.”
“Their lovers, not their husbands?” I queried.
“Why waste fine technique on a husband? First, they’d wonder how their wives learned such depraved practices. Then, they’d just go and teach their mistresses how to do it.”
“I thought we were cynical in Rome. You people make us seem like infants.”
“You Romans vie with one another for world power, which is political and military. Here, men vie for local power, which is political and commercial. To that end they indulge in all manner of dirty politics, espionage, personal leverage, scandalmongering, slander, bribery—the list is a long one. Their wives and daughters please themselves while striving to improve their own positions. Rome and Baiae: the same game, just a different scale.”
“And here you add a certain sophistication we lack in Rome,” I said.
“Do you? Or is the famous Roman reticence, gravitas, stoicism, and so forth just a pose to cover the reality that you are a pack of voluptuaries as degenerate as any Sybarite?”
My conversations with this woman never seemed to manage to stay on the intended course, which was to find out what had happened when the priest’s daughter and Gaeto had been murdered, what had been going on in the Numidian’s house and business. She was continually diverging down irrelevant and suggestive paths. To my distress, I found that I had little objection to this. I decided to let her speak on. I’ve often learned revealing truths in what is intended to be inane or misleading conversation. And if, in the meantime, I enjoyed the spectacle, well, what Roman doesn’t enjoy a spectacle?
“Actually,” I told her, “we’re just a community of Italian farmers who happened to be good at fighting. We worry a lot that, if we get too accustomed to luxury, we’ll lose our military edge. When we conquered Sicily more than two hundred years ago, among the loot brought back were fine couches and pillows. The censors were convinced that such luxuries would turn us into a horde of indolent, decadent degenerates. There were also some statues and paintings in the loot, and it was feared that these would cause us to become effete art critics.”