Under Vesuvius

There was a collective gasp from the crowd. They didn't get entertainment like this every day. I heaved up from my curule chair, so enraged that I swayed from dizziness. 'Have a care, lawyer! I'm of a mind to have you flogged from this court!'

'Roman citizens may not be scourged,' he said haughtily.

'That Metellus Celer you mentioned had a reputation for doing just that,' I replied. ^y

Tiro stepped in smoothly. 'Praetor, please resume your chair. Your color is very bad. We'd hate to have you taken from us by apoplexy.'

'Listen to him!' Julia hissed.

Slowly, glaring at Vibianus, I sat back down. 'You've talked long enough, Vibianus. Tiro, proceed with your defense.'

Vibianus retired to his corner with a triumphant smirk. Not only had he conducted a very competent prosecution argument but also had made me lose my temper and probably convinced most of those present that I was a corrupt, bribe-taking magistrate. Since these were a large majority of Roman judges, nobody needed much convincing. This was looking bad. Not just bad for Gelon, bad for me.

Tiro launched into another oration, giving me time to calm down. Wisely, he did not call Jocasta or any of the other witnesses. They had nothing to say that might help to clear Gelon. Instead, he attacked Vib-ianus's arguments as specious, denouncing each point with Ciceronian sarcasm. These arguments held little real weight, but Italians and Greeks have always prized eloquence above logic. He wound up with another round of vituperation.

Then it was Vibianus's turn to do the same. He used stock phrases but with excellent composition and timing, and with a great deal of spirit. In spite of myself, I almost enjoyed the performance. When the lawyers retired, I rose to address the jury.

'Citizens,' I said, 'I now invoke my authority to give special instruction to the jury. This is not commonly done, but I feel that this is a very special case, one in which there is a great deal of ambiguity and in which too much guilt is being loaded upon the head of a single unfortunate man, Gelon son of Gaeto.

'To begin with, he is accused of a murder in what is actually a chain of related murders. The slaying of Gorgo was only the first. No sooner was the son in custody than the father was murdered. Gaeto could not have committed that crime. Next came the death of Charmian, the only possible witness of her mistress's murder. Gaeto could not have killed her. Quadrilla, wife of the duumvir Silva was murdered as well. Her connection to the other killings is unknown, but she was murdered in the very same, highly unusual fashion as Gaeto. Gelon could not have killed her.

'I almost hesitate to bring up the bandit attack, since, as the learned, distinguished, and eloquent Vibianus has pointed out the ambiguities of that incident. I can testify, however, that one of the bandits was mounted on the same horse ridden by the murderer of Gorgo and the slayer of Gaeto.' I gazed around and saw Julia wince. She didn't think much of this argument. Well, you use what you have.

'The horse was a Roman-shod mare, such as Numidians never ride. This steed was a part of the bandit's hire!' The crowd muttered, impressed. They lacked skepticism. Not so the jury, who looked skeptical beyond measure.

'There is a final piece of evidence I believe should be made public before the jury retires to its deliberations.' I gestured to Hermes and he took the scroll from inside his tunic and handed it to me. I held it high.

'This is the will of Gaeto of Numidia. It was deposited for safekeeping in the Temple of Juno the Protector at Cumae, after the custom of this district. I subpoenaed it for this trial and did not see it until it was delivered by messenger this morning. As all can see, the seal is unbroken.' I passed it to the little group of local magistrates and they examined the seal. Quite carefully, in fact. They were not unfamiliar with documents that had been tampered with. At last they passed it back, affirming that the seal was authentic and intact.

'I will now have the document read. I feel certain that it contains evidence that bears on this case.' It certainly couldn't make things much worse, I thought. I passed it to Marcus and he broke the seal and unrolled the scroll with the verve of a man about to read news of a victory to the Senate. He scanned the contents briefly.

'This is written in Greek,' he said.

'You can read Greek,' I told him, 'and most people here understand Greek. For the benefit of those who don't, I will provide a translation into Latin. Begin.'

And so, pausing every few lines for me to translate, Marcus read the will.

''I am Gaeto,'' it began, ' a native of Numidia, of the line of Juba, a prince of the Tarraelian Berbers.'' There followed a number of oaths to Gods Greek, Roman, Numidian, and, I believe, Carthaginian. There attested that he was sound of mind and body and not under the baleful influence of witchcraft, curse, or divine displeasure.

The actual will began with the manumission of certain faithful slaves of long service. In Roman wills these testamentary manumissions are usually at the end, but perhaps things are done differently in Numidia. Then he got to the meat of the matter.

'To my beloved son, Gelon, I bequeath all my lands, estates, tribal titles, and hereditary clientships and loyalties in the land of Numidia, and commend to him the care of his mother and all my concubines.'' The crowd seemed to find this last clause a rare jest.

''To my second wife, Jocasta,'' he went on, ''I bequeath my lands, houses, properties, and business interests in Italy.'' This was a cause for some astonishment. Under Roman law widows and daughters can of course inherit property, but one does not expect such a thing of a barbarian, certainly not one with a surviving son. Gelon looked astounded, jocasta was quite impassive. Well, I thought, the boy hadn't wanted to trade slaves in Italy, and now it looked like he would get his wish. He'd probably expected to be able to sell up, though.

''My beloved second wife,'' the document continued, ''has been my helpmate in all my business dealings, for which my son shows no aptitude nor desire. She is Greek, and a life in Numidia would be a cruel imposition. I assure her comfort and position thus.''

Now here was a puzzle. A man does not often justify himself in his will. There is no need, unless he wants to cut out some obnoxious heir and wishes to append an insulting comment to make it worse.

Marcus read off a few final oaths, then displayed the seal of Gaeto to all and sundry. Then he handed it to me. Crowd, lawyers, and jury all looked at me, mystified. Finally, Vibianus spoke.

'Honored Praetor, does this odd document in your opinion supply some new and conclusive sort of evidence?'

'I feel that it does,' I said, frustrated.

'Will you impart it to us?' he asked so impassively that you could hear the sneer. When I did not answer he said, 'Is there any reason to delay further the deliberations of the jury?'

'There is none,' I said.

The jury retired within the basilica while I sat and brooded over the will. Surely, I felt, the answer was here. It was my last hope. I began to wonder why I even bothered. What was a slaver's son to me? And what true reason had I for believing him innocent other than that he made such an agreeable first impression and that I had so little liking for Diocles and the others involved in this sorry business? The red ink and Greek lettering had an odd familiarity, but I set the will down when the jury returned.

'They weren't gone long,' Hermes said. 'That's a bad sign.' He didn't have to tell me that.

I stood. 'President of the jury,' I said, 'how do you find?'

The man stepped forward with the traditional vase and dumped its contents on the court secretary's table. In Baiae they used a variation of the Greek ostracon. Here, instead of potsherds, they used little tile disks the size of scallop shell: white for innocent, black for guilty.

Every tile was black. 'We find the defendant, Gelon of Numidia, guilty of the murder of Gorgo, daughter of Diocles, priest of the Temple of Campanian Apollo.'

The boy's face drained of color, turning his usual high olive complexion a dirty yellow gray. I had ruled out crucifixion and the lions, but even a gentlemanly beheading is not an easy thing to contemplate.

I was about to pronounce that sentence, knowing that the crowd wouldn't like it and not caring, when Julia touched my arm and pointed at the will, lying at my side. She whispered: 'It's the same hand that wrote those poems.'