V

 

 

 

 

There was a loud booming at the door. A slave hurried to answer it. The door swung ponderously open, illuminating the dim hallway with a wedge of muted sunlight that framed a stocky, broad-shouldered silhouette in the flowing red cape of a military officer. Marcus Mummius marched towards us through the little garden, trampling on a bed of herbs and banging his elbow against the delicate faun.

He stopped before the body and scowled at the sight of the exposed wound. ‘You’ve already seen it, then,’ he said, reaching out to replace the camouflage of ivy and making a mess of it. ‘Poor Lucius Licinius. I suppose Fabius has explained everything to you.’

‘Not at all,’ I said.

‘Good! Because it’s not his job to brief you. I wouldn’t have thought he could keep his lips sealed around a stranger, but perhaps we’ll make a soldier of him yet.’ Mummius smiled broadly.

Fabius gave him a withering look. ‘You seem to be in high spirits.’

‘I raced my men all the way up from Misenum. A swift ride to loosen the joints after a few days at sea – that and the air of the Cup should put any man in high spirits.’

‘Still, you might lower your voice just a little, in deference to the dead.’

Mummius’s smile disappeared in his beard. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, and returned to the fountain to dab at the water and touch his moistened fingers to his bowed forehead. He looked uneasily at the body, and then at each of us, waiting for any notice of his impiety to the shade of Lucius Licinius to pass.

‘Perhaps we should call on Gelina,’ he finally said.

‘Without me,’ Fabius said. ‘I have business to attend to in Puteoli, and not much time if I’m to get there and back before sundown.’

‘And where is Crassus?’ Mummius called after him.

‘In Puteoli as well, on business of his own. He left this morning with word that Gelina should not expect him back before dinner this evening.’ The door opened for him, pulled by an invisible slave in the shadows so that it seemed to open by magic at his approach. He stepped into the light and disappeared.

‘What a prig,’ Mummius muttered under his breath. ‘And for all his high-flown attitude, they say his family could barely afford to buy him a decent tutor. Good blood, but one of his ancestors emptied the family coffers and no one ever filled them up again. Crassus took him on as a lieutenant only as a favour to Fabius’s father; he hasn’t turned out to have much talent as a military man, either. I could name a few plebeian families who’ve made more of a mark in the last hundred years or so.’ He smiled a bit smugly, then called to a little slave boy who was crossing the atrium: ‘You there, Meto, go and find your mistress and tell her I’ve arrived with her guest from Rome. As soon as we’ve refreshed ourselves in the baths, we shall call on her.’

‘Is that necessary?’ I asked. ‘After the insane rush to get me here, do you really think we should spend time in a tub of water?’

‘Nonsense. You can’t meet Gelina smelling like a sea horse.’ He laughed at his own joke and put a hand on my shoulder to lead me away from the corpse. ‘Besides, taking the waters is the first thing anyone does when he arrives in Baiae. It’s like praying to Neptune before setting out to sea. The waters here are alive, you know. Homage must be paid.’

It seemed that the relaxing airs of the Cup could loosen even Mummius’s staid and stodgy discipline. I put my arm around Eco’s shoulders and followed our host, shaking my head in wonder.

What Mummius had casually referred to as the baths was in fact an impressive installation within the house that seemed to have been built over a natural terrace on the side of the hill, facing the bay. A great coffered dome lacquered with gold paint arched over the space, pierced by a round hole at the summit that admitted a beam of pure white light. Beneath this was a round pool with concentric steps leading into its depths, its surface obscured by roiling masses of sulphurous steam. An archway on the eastern side opened onto a terrace furnished with tables and chairs, with a view of the bay. A series of doors around the pool defined a semicircular arcade; the doors were of wood painted dark red, the handles were of gold in the shape of fish with their heads and tails attached to the wood. The first door led into a heated changing room; the other rooms, so Mummius explained as we shed our tunics, contained pools of various sizes and shapes, filled with water of various temperatures.

‘Built by the famous Sergius Orata himself,’ Mummius boasted. ‘You’ve heard of him?’

‘No.’

‘The most famous Puteolian of all, the man who made Baiae what it is today. He started the oyster farms on Lake Lucrinus – that earned him his first fortune. Then he turned out to be a master engineer at building pools and fish ponds, and villa owners all around the Cup showered him with commissions. This house contained a modest bath when Crassus acquired the estate. With Crassus’s permission, not to mention Crassus’s money, Lucius Licinius added an upper storey here, a new wing there, and had the baths completely rebuilt, employing Sergius Orata himself to draw up and execute the plans. I’d prefer a little grotto in the woods or a common city pool myself – this kind of luxury is rather absurd, isn’t it? Impressive but excessive, as the philosophers say.’

Mummius stepped up to a brass hook cast as the heads of Cerberus and mounted in the wall. He hooked his shoes over two of the heads and hung his belt in the open jaws of the third. He pulled the heavy chain mail over his head and set about unbuckling leather straps. ‘But you have to admire such feats of plumbing. There’s a natural hot spring that comes out of the earth at just this spot; that’s why the first owner chose to build here – that, and the view. When Orata rebuilt, he designed the pipes so that some of the pools are piping hot, while others are mixed with cool water from a different spring up the hill. You can pass from the coolest to the hottest and back again. In winter some of the rooms in the house are even heated by water from the hot spring, piped under the floors. This changing room, for example, is kept warm all year long.’

‘Most impressive,’ I agreed, pulling my undertunic over my head. I started to place it in one of the coffers in the wall but Mummius intervened. He called to an old, stooped slave who stood at a discreet distance across the room. ‘Here, take these and have them washed,’ he said, indicating my things and Eco’s and pulling his own tunic over his shoulders. ‘Bring back something suitable for an audience with your mistress.’ The slave gathered up the garments and studied us for a moment, estimating our sizes, then slunk from the room.

Naked, Marcus Mummius looked something like a bear, with big shoulders, a broad middle and dense swirls of black hair all over his body, except where he was marked by scars. Eco seemed particularly intrigued by a long slash that ran across his left pectoral like a cleared furrow in a forest.

‘Battle of the Colline Gate,’ Mummius said proudly, looking down and pointing to the scar. ‘Crassus’s proudest moment, and mine. That was the day we retook Rome for Sulla; the dictator never forgot what we did for him. I was wounded early in the day, but fortunately it was on the left side, which allowed me to go on using my sword arm.’ He mimed the action, bolting forward and swinging his right arm, causing the rather stout sword between his legs to swing heavily back and forth as well. ‘In the pitch of battle I hardly noticed the wound, just a dull burning. It wasn’t until late that night when I went to deliver a message to Crassus that I passed clear out. They say I was as white as marble and didn’t wake up for two days. Oh, but that was over ten years ago, I was just a boy, really – couldn’t have been that much older than you,’ he said, punching Eco on the shoulder.

Eco smiled back at him crookedly and curiously examined Mummius for more scars, of which there was no shortage. Tiny nicks and plugs were scattered all over his limbs and torso like badges, easily discernible where they interrupted the general hairiness of his flesh.

He gathered a towel about his waist and gestured for us to do likewise, then led us from the changing room back into the great domed vault with the circular pool. The day was beginning to cool and the steam rose in great clouds from the water, hissing and smelling strongly of sulphur.

‘Apollonius!’ Mummius smiled broadly and strode to the far side of the pool, where a young slave in a green tunic stood at the water’s edge, obscured by the mist.

As we drew closer, I was impressed by the slave’s extraordinary beauty. His hair was thick and almost blue-black, the colour of the sky on a moonless night. His eyes were a vibrant blue. His forehead, nose, cheeks, and chin were perfectly smooth and followed the serene proportions from which the Greeks defined perfection. His full, bow-shaped lips seemed to hover on the edge of a smile. He was not tall, but beneath the loose folds of his tunic he clearly had an athlete’s physique.

‘Apollonius!’ Mummius said again. He looked back at me over his shoulder. ‘I shall begin with the hottest pool,’ he announced, pointing at a door across the way, ‘followed by a vigorous massage from Apollonius. And you?’

‘I think I’ll test these waters first,’ I said, dipping my foot into the main pool and quickly drawing it back. ‘Or perhaps one a little less scalding.’

‘Try that one, it’s the coolest,’ said Mummius, indicating a chamber next to the changing room. He strode away with his hand on the slave’s shoulder, humming a boisterous marching tune.

 

We sweated and scraped ourselves clean with ivory strigils; we immersed ourselves in one pool and then in another, going from cool to hot and back again, and when we were done with our ablutions Marcus Mummius rejoined us in the heated dressing room, where fresh undergarments and tunics had been laid out for us. Mine was of dark blue wool with a simple black border, befitting a guest in a household in mourning. The old slave had a sharp eye; it was a perfect fit, not even tight across my shoulders, as I often find borrowed garments to be. Mummius dressed in the plain but well-tailored black tunic he had worn on the night he summoned me.

Eco was less pleased with his costume. The slave, apparently thinking him younger than he was, or else too good-looking to be seen bare-limbed about the house, had brought him a long-sleeved blue tunic that reached to his knees. It was so modest that it would have been more suitable for a boy or girl of thirteen. I told Eco he should be flattered if the old slave found him so dazzling that he should hide himself. Mummius laughed; Eco blushed and would have none of it. He refused to dress until the slave brought him a tunic that matched mine. It was not quite as good a fit, but Eco made do by tightening the black woollen belt about his waist and seemed happy to be dressed in a more manly garment that showed his arms and legs.

Mummius guided us down long hallways where slaves bowed their heads and stepped meekly out of the way, down one flight of stairs and up another, through rooms decorated with exquisite statues and sumptuous wall paintings, across gardens breathing the last sweet breath of summer. At last we came to a semicircular room at the northern end of the house, set above a crag of rock overlooking the bay. A slave girl announced us and then departed.

The room was shaped like an amphitheatre. Where the stage would have been, steps led up to a colonnaded gallery. It opened onto a spectacular vista of sparkling water below and the port of Puteoli in the distance, and far away to the right an unimpeded view of Mount Vesuvius on the horizon and the towns of Herculaneum and Pompeii at its feet.

The interior of the room was so dark and the light from outside so dazzling that I could see the woman who reclined on the terrace only as a stark silhouette. She sat with her legs extended and her back upright on a low divan beside a small table set with a ewer and cups. She stared out at the bay and made no reaction as we entered; she might have been another statue, except that a gentle breeze wafted through the colonnade and caused the hanging folds of her gown to sway in the air.

She turned towards us. I could not yet distinguish her features, but there was a warm smile in her voice. ‘Marcus,’ she said, extending her right arm across her body in a gesture of welcome.

Mummius stepped onto the terrace, took her hand and bowed. ‘Your guest has arrived.’

‘So I see. Two of them, in fact. You must be Gordianus, the one they call the Finder.’

‘Yes.’

‘And this one?’

‘My son, called Eco. He does not speak, but he hears.’

She nodded and gestured for us to sit. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I began to make out the austere, rather stark features of her face – a strong jaw, high cheekbones, a high forehead – softened by the lush blackness of her eyebrows and eyelashes and the softness of her grey eyes. In deference to her widowhood, her black hair, touched with grey at the temples, was not dressed or arranged but simply brushed back from her face. From her neck to her ankles she was wrapped in a black stola loosely belted beneath her breasts and again at her waist. Her face was like the vista behind her, more lofty than lovely, animated and yet serenely detached. She spoke in even, measured tones and seemed to weigh each thought before she spoke it.

‘My name is Gelina. My father was Gaius Gelinus. My mother was of the Cornelii, distantly related to the dictator Sulla. The Gelinii came to Rome long ago from inland Campania. In recent years many died in the civil wars, fighting Cinna and Marius on behalf of Sulla. We are an old and proud family, but neither wealthy nor particularly prolific. There are not many of the Gelinii left.’

She paused to take a sip from the silver cup on the table beside her. The wine was almost black. It gave her lips a vivid magenta stain. She gestured to the cups on the table, which had already been filled for us.

‘Having no dowry to offer,’ she went on, ‘I was very lucky to marry a man like Lucius Licinius. The marriage was our own choice, not a family arrangement. You must understand, this was before Sulla’s dictatorship, during the wars; times were cruel and the future was very uncertain. Our families were equally impoverished and unenthusiastic about the match, but they acquiesced. I am sorry to say that in twenty years of marriage we had no children, nor was my husband as wealthy as you might think from the evidence of this house. But in our way we prospered.’

She began idly to rearrange the folds of the gown about her knee, as if to signal a change of subject. ‘You must wonder how I know of you, Gordianus. I learned of you from our mutual friend, Marcus Tullius Cicero. He speaks of you highly.’

‘Does he?’

‘He does. I myself met Cicero only last winter, when Lucius and I happened to be seated at the divan next to his at a dinner in Rome. He was a most charming man.’

‘That is a word some people use in describing Cicero,’ I agreed.

‘I asked him about his career in the law courts – men are always happy to talk about their careers,’ said Gelina. ‘Usually I only half listen, but something in his manner compelled me to pay attention.’

‘They say he is a most compelling speaker.’

‘Oh, he is, most certainly. Surely you’ve heard him yourself, speaking from the Rostra in the Forum?’

‘Often enough.’

Gelina narrowed her eyes in recollection, as serene as the profile of Vesuvius just above her head. ‘I found myself quite enthralled by his tale of Sextus Roscius, a wealthy farmer accused of murdering his own father, who called upon Cicero for legal counsel when no one else in Rome would come to his aid. It was Cicero’s first murder case; I understand it made his reputation.* Cicero told me he was assisted by a man named Gordianus, called the Finder. You were absolutely invaluable to him – as brave as an eagle and as stubborn as a mule, he said.’

‘Did he? Yes, well, that was eight years ago. I was still a young man, and Cicero was even younger.’

‘Since then he has ascended like a comet. The most talked-about advocate in Rome – quite a feat, for a man from such an obscure family. I understand that he has called upon your services a number of times.’

I nodded. ‘There was, of course, the matter of the woman of Arretium, only shortly after the trial of Sextus Roscius, while Sulla was still alive. And various murder trials, cases of extortion, and property disagreements over the years, not to mention a few private affairs concerning which I cannot mention names.’

‘It must be very rewarding to work for such a man.’

Sometimes I wish I were mute like Eco, so that I would not have to bite my tongue. I have fallen out and made up with Cicero so many times I am weary of it. Is he an honest man or a crass opportunist? A principled man of the people or an apologist for the rich nobility? If he were clearly one thing or the other, like most men, I would know what to think of him. Instead, he is the most exasperating man in Rome. His conceit and superior attitude, no matter how well deserved, do nothing to endear him to me; neither does his propensity for telling only half the truth, even when his purpose may be honourable. Cicero gives me a headache.

Gelina sipped her wine. ‘When this matter arose and I asked myself on whom I could call – someone trustworthy and discreet, someone from beyond the Cup, a man who would be dogged in pursuit of the truth and unafraid – brave as an eagle, as Cicero said . . .’

‘And stubborn as a mule.’

‘And clever. Above all, clever . . .’ Gelina sighed and looked out at the water. She seemed to be gathering strength. ‘You have seen the body of my husband?’

‘Yes.’

‘He was murdered.’

‘Yes.’

‘Brutally murdered. It happened five days ago, on the Nones of September – although his body was not discovered until the next morning . . .’ Her serenity suddenly departed; her voice quavered and she looked away.

Mummius moved closer to her and took her hand. ‘Strength,’ he whispered to her. Gelina nodded and caught her breath. She gripped his hand tightly, then released him.

‘If I am to help you,’ I said quietly, ‘I must know everything.’

For a long moment Gelina studied the view. When she looked back at me, her face had recomposed itself, as if she were able to absorb the serene detachment of the panorama by gazing upon it. Her voice was steady and calm as she continued.

‘He was discovered, as I said, early the next morning.’

‘Discovered where? By whom?’

‘In the front atrium, not far from where his body lies at this moment. It was one of the slaves who found him – Meto, the little boy who carries messages and wakes the other slaves to begin their morning duties. It was still dark; not a cock had crowed, the boy said, and the whole world seemed as still as death.’

‘What was the exact disposition of the body? Perhaps we should summon this Meto—’

‘No, I can tell you myself. Meto came to fetch me right away, and nothing was touched before I arrived. Lucius lay on his back, his eyes still open.’

‘Flat on his back?’

‘Yes.’

‘And his arms and legs, were they crumpled about his body? Was he clutching his head?’

‘No. His legs were straight, and his arms were above his head.’

‘Like Atlas, holding up the world?’

‘I suppose.’

‘And the weapon that was used to kill him, was it nearby?’

‘It was never found.’

‘No? Surely there was a stone with blood on it, or a piece of metal. If not in the house, then perhaps in the courtyard.’

‘No. But there was a piece of cloth.’ She shuddered. Mummius sat up in his chair; this was apparently a detail that was new to him.

‘Cloth?’ I said.

‘A man’s cloak, soaked with blood. It was found only yesterday, not in the courtyard, but about half a mile up the road that heads northwards, toward Cumae and Puteoli. One of the slaves going to market happened to see it among the brush and brought it to me.’

‘Was it your husband’s cloak?’

Gelina frowned. ‘I don’t know. It’s hard to tell what it must have looked like; you would hardly know it was a cloak at all without examining it – all rumpled and stiff with blood, you understand?’ She took a deep breath. ‘It’s simple wool, dyed a dark brown, almost black. It might have belonged to Lucius; he owned many cloaks. It could be anyone’s.’

‘Surely not. Was it the cloak of a rich man, or a slave? Was it new or old, well made or tawdry?’

Gelina shrugged. ‘I can’t say.’

‘I’ll need to see it.’

‘Of course. Ask Meto, later; I couldn’t bear to look at it now.’

‘I understand. But tell me this: was there much blood on the floor, beneath the wound? Or was there little blood?’

‘I think – only a little. Yes, I remember wondering how such a terrible wound could have bled so little.’

‘Then perhaps we can assume that the blood on this cloak came from Lucius Licinius. What else can you tell me?’

Gelina paused for a long moment. I could see she was faced with a disagreeable but unavoidable declaration. ‘On the morning that Lucius was found dead, there were two slaves missing from the household. They’ve been missing ever since. But I cannot believe that either of them could possibly have murdered Lucius.’

‘Who are these slaves?’

‘Their names are Zeno and Alexandros. Zeno is – was – my husband’s accountant and secretary. He wrote letters, balanced accounts, managed this and that. He had been with Lucius for almost six years, ever since Crassus began to favour us and our fortunes changed. An educated Greek slave, quiet and soft-spoken, very gentle, with a white beard and a frail body. I had always hoped, if we ever had a son, that Zeno could be his first tutor. It is simply not conceivable that he could have murdered Lucius. The idea that he could murder anyone is preposterous.’

‘And the other slave?’

‘A young Thracian called Alexandros. We bought him four months ago at the market in Puteoli, to work in the stables. He has a marvellous way with horses. He could read and do simple sums, as well. Zeno used him sometimes in my husband’s library, to add figures or copy letters. Alexandros is very quick to learn, very clever. He never showed any signs of discontent. On the contrary, it seemed to me that he was one of the happiest slaves in the household. I can’t believe that he murdered Lucius.’

‘And yet both these slaves disappeared on the night your husband was murdered?’

‘Yes. I can’t explain it.’

Mummius, who until then had been silent, cleared his throat. ‘There is more to the story. The most damning evidence of all.’ Gelina looked away, then nodded in resignation. She gestured for him to continue. ‘On the floor at Lucius’s feet, someone used a knife to carve out six letters. They’re crude and shallow, hastily done, but you can read them clearly enough.’

‘What do they spell?’ I asked.

‘The name of a famous village in Greece,’ said Mummius grimly. ‘Although someone as clever as you might presume that whoever did the scrawling simply didn’t have the time to finish the job.’

‘What village? I don’t understand.’

Mummius dipped his finger into his goblet and wrote the letters in blood-red wine on the marble table, all straight lines and sharp points:

SPARTA

 

‘Yes, I see,’ I said. ‘A village in Greece.’ Either that, or a hurried, interrupted homage to the king of runaway slaves, the murderer of Roman slave owners, the escaped Thracian gladiator: Spartacus.

* Roman Blood (Robinson 1997).