Arms of Nemesis (8 page)

'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 arid 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 gende 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 tunes.'

* Roman Blood
(Robinson 1997).

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.'