The musicians from the compound played harps and sistra, and black Nubians using sticks or their palms beat a hypnotic rhythm on drums made of hollowed logs with skins stretched over the open ends. The drum is an instrument favored by no civilized people, but it creates a stirring rhythm when played by skilled Africans and certain Asians.
The rest of the slaves sent up histrionic lamentations, the Greeks among them being especially skillful in this. Ritual mourning is an ancient tradition, and they wailed lustily, though they could hardly have been deeply moved by Gaeto's death.
Some of the slave women, possibly concubines, stripped naked, smeared themselves with ashes, and flogged one another bloody with bundles of thin rods. Jocasta, who was Greek, took a more decorous course, merely unbinding her hair and letting it fall loose on her shoulders, ripping her gown down the middle and, now bare from the hips upward, drawing a single, symbolic stripe of ash across her brow.
Gelon recited a prayer or eulogy in his native tongue, an eerie, high-pitched chant full of gutturals and vocal clicks, with each sentence or verse seeming to end on a rising inflection. At the end of it he took a torch and set fire to the pyre, and as the flames rose the tribal bodyguard rode around it in an endless circle, whooping and pounding their hide shields with their spears.
All in all, it was a fine send-off. The only thing missing was a delegation of mourners and attendees from the town and surrounding countryside. But there was not a single representative of the local population. Whatever deference Gaeto had received in life, he got none at all in death. Something seemed obscurely wrong about this, but I couldn't put my finger on it.
When the fire had burned to embers, the undertakers went in with rakes and took out the blackened bones and wrapped them in many yards of white linen. This bundle they carefully placed in an elaborate urn and over the bundle poured an aromatic mixture of myrrh and perfume. Then they placed the cover on the urn and sealed it with pitch. This urn, I was informed, would travel by ship to Numidia and be placed in the family tomb.
When all was accomplished, a funeral banquet was held in the courtyard of the villa. It was served in Numidian fashion, with all the feasters seated in a circle on the ground, upon cushions. The centerpiece was the urn containing Gaeto's remains-an interesting variation on the Roman practice of having a skeleton or skull among the decorations of the dining room, to remind diners of the transitory nature of life; that the tomb is never far away; and that food, wine, and good company should be enjoyed while we have the chance.
'What will you do now, Gelon?' I asked.
'You mean, assuming that I'm not found guilty and executed?'
'Naturally. If acquitted, will you continue your father's business?' I picked up a leg of roast pheasant. I had learned that the foods traditional for a Numidian chieftain's funeral-whole roast camel, elephant's feet, baked ostrich, and so forth-had not been available. I was quite satisfied with the fare they had been able to provide.
'I don't think so. Trade has never been to my taste. If I am spared, I will sell out and return to Numidia.' Jocasta made a grimace of distaste. I wondered if she were part of his inheritance. Clearly, she had no liking for the idea of forsaking ultracivilized Baiae for barbarous Numidia.
'And what will you do there?'
'Resume the traditional family business,' he informed me.
'Which is?'
'Raiding.'
'Ah. A gentleman's profession.' As indeed it was, among Numidi-ans as among Homer's Achaeans.
'And have you discovered my husband's murderer?' Jocasta asked in an abrupt change of subject. She had changed into an untorn gown but had left her hair unbound and her forehead was still smeared with ash. Her eyes were red but dry, as if from the effects of sleeplessness rather than weeping.
'I expect to have the culprit in custody momentarily,' I assured her.
'We've been hearing that a lot from you lately,' she said, unmollified.
'Madame,' I said, 'it is not my business to apprehend felons at all. That is the task of the municipal authorities. I take a hand only in the interests of justice, which I feel are not being served in this district.'
She bowed her head. 'I stand chastened. My apologies, Praetor.'
It was raining the next morning when we mounted and made a bedraggled little procession as we rode up the bluff and onto the road that led toward Baiae. The stretch of road leading to Baiae was lined with fine tombs and shaded by large trees. The heavy mist that accompanied the drizzly rain lent the beautiful road a dreamlike aspect, but there was nothing dreamlike about the ambush.
They came from behind the tombs and trees: men on horseback, others on foot. They attacked with quiet ferocity, but the quiet didn't last long. The Numidian guard raised a wild war cry and began to pelt the attackers with javelins while forming a barrier around Gelon.
Hermes already had his sword out, as did my other young men. All except Marcus had fought in Gaul or Macedonia or Syria. Being a serving magistrate I couldn't go about wearing a sword, but I was no fool, either. My sword hung sheathed from the near-front horn of my saddle and I had it out just in time. My attacker took a swipe at my head, but I ducked low and extended my arm, thrusting beneath his jaw. He went off his horse backward with a spray of blood and a gargling cry. My horse collided with his, and its shod feet went out from under it, scrabbling on the wet pavement.
As it fell I managed to jump clear and keep hold of my sword, a circumstance of which I was absurdly proud. I looked around to see the battle well joined, the quarters so close that I could smell the stench of the attackers' bodies and the garlic on their breath. I saw a Nubian go down with a spear through his chest, and then Hermes lopped the sword arm off a mounted man. The arm chanced to fall at my feet and I took the opportunity to appropriate its weapon-a good legionary
I was unarmored and had no shield, so I felt the need of a spare weapon. Besides, I wanted to try out some moves I'd seen that two-sword gladiator use in the Pompeii amphitheater. In Rome, I'd usually waded into street brawls with a
A burly fellow wearing a rag of tunic and wool leggings charged me on foot, thrusting a sword at my chest. With my left-hand sword I banged it aside as I stepped in and slashed him across the belly with the other from left to right. He doubled over and I brought the left-hand blade down on the back of his neck, almost beheading him.
Two more closed in on me. The nearer held a club in both hands, presenting an interesting problem even if he'd been alone. As he raised the club for a blow, I sidestepped and brought my left-hand blade across in a backhand cut against his left wrist, severing it even as I brought the right-hand sword down on his skull, splitting it. The other man was on me even as the first fell, but Hermes rode up behind him and spitted him from back to front.
I spun around, looking for more men to fight. The only action was from a half-dozen horsemen who were pounding away into the mist, having had enough. The dead and wounded lay all over, bleeding, gurgling, cursing. The surviving Numidians were ruthlessly impaling anything that twitched.
'Stop them!' I shouted. 'I need some who can talk!' But it was no use. The tribesmen were beyond control, furious to avenge their slain comrades.
'Casualties?' I demanded in disgust.
'Four of our party wounded,' Hermes said, wiping blood from his sword. 'Two Numidians killed.'
Marcus walked up, having lost his horse somewhere. He was wrapping a cloth around his bloodied upper arm, but he was grinning. 'For such a dignified magistrate,' he said, 'you seemed to be enjoying yourself, Praetor. Wait until I tell Julia.'
'Wait until tonight, when that wound begins to hurt,' I told him. 'I want to see your face then.'
'But the ladies will be fussing over me,' he said. 'I'm a hero, bloodied in defense of my patron. I'll-'
'Hermes!' I said, cutting him off. 'Take the lictors and go into Baiae. Get all those officials out here and tell them the last to arrive gets a flogging.' Of course I had no authority to do this to Roman citizens, but anger was getting the best of me. Besides, one of my uncles had once had a Roman senator flogged in public, and everybody knew it.
While we waited I examined the dead attackers. The rain stopped and the mist began to clear, making the task easier. They looked like army deserters, runaway slaves, ruined peasants-the sort of bandits who are never
