"So you really think the boy is innocent?" Cicero said.
"Something is just not right. He is too convenient and there are too many other contenders."
"Decius always has good instincts in these matters, Brother," said Lucius, "and Tiro could certainly use the exposure. Trying a capital case in Rome might be too ambitious a start, but Baiae is just right-plenty of wealth without the distraction of great political power."
"I agree," Cicero said. "How about it, Tiro? Would you like to launch your career as a barrister here?"
"Well," Tiro said, "as a former slave myself, I might be reluctant to defend a slaver's son. However, since he plans to renounce his father's business and become a respectable thief and raider, how can I refuse?"
We were just leaving the baths when a clatter of hooves announced the arrival of my reinforcements. The forum crowd gawked as a full turma of thirty cavalrymen rode in, their scarlet cloaks streaming gaily. They wore glittering mail coats split at the sides to facilitate riding and scarlet-crested helmets of shiny bronze. Instead of the long, oval shields carried by Caesar's cavalry, these had the old-fashioned pompanum shield, so-called for its resemblance to the round, bossed cake used in sacrifices. Their long, slender spears waved gracefully. They were fine-looking young men and had all the earmarks of the sons of wealthy equites of southern Italy, too well-bred to slog around behind a shield in the legions. Still, they were full of spirit and verve.
Their leader was an even handsomer youth who wore a bronze cuirass sculpted to resemble the torso of Hercules. It was an immensely uncomfortable thing to ride in, as I knew from sore experience, but a splendid thing to see. His helmet was skinned with silver artfully embossed to resemble a head of curly hair. He reined in and spoke to Cicero.
"I am Marcus Sublicius Pansa, optio of the Ninth Turma, attached to the eleventh Legion, now being raised at Capua by the proconsul Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus. Have I the honor of addressing the praetor peregrinus Metellus?"
"No, you address the proconsul Marcus Tullius Cicero," I told him. "I'm Metellus." Technically, Cicero was still proconsul while he awaited his triumph, and would not lay down his office until he reentered Rome. The boy had made a natural mistake but he looked mortified.
"My apologies, sir! I thought-"
"Quite understandable," I told him. "It's only natural to think the most distinguished-looking man with a purple stripe is the one in charge. As it occurs, I am the one who sent for you. Who is your commander?"
"Sextus Pompeius, sir, the proconsul's son." The young man's diction reeked of the Greek rhetoric schools that were considered essential for a public career.
"Marcus Sublicius," I said, "we've had an outbreak of banditry in the region. I was personally assaulted and I take that as an insult to the dignity of Rome. I want them scoured out, and a few brought back alive for questioning. They are most likely on their way to the crater of Vesuvius, although they probably won't venture inside until the current venting dies down. Do you think you can handle that?"
He grinned. "It will be good training for the boys." The boys. He had to be all of nineteen years old.
"Good. Go first to the Villa Hortensia and get the horse master there. His name is Regilius and he's an old cavalryman and scout. He knows this countryside intimately and will guide you where you need to go. You have my authority to requisition supplies, grain, and remounts if need be anywhere in this district. With or without those men, be back here on the morning after tomorrow, in case I need you to keep civic order here."
"It shall be as you command, Praetor." He saluted, whirled, and rode out with his turma clattering at his heels.
"They seem to be a likely band of young men," Cicero said. "What do you think, Decius? You served with Caesar's cavalry. How would these match up to Caesar's?"
I didn't have to think about it long. "They're smartly turned out. Lots of glitter and panache, but they look like the horsemen of Scipio Africanus two hundred years ago. Caesar's cavalry look like bandits who plundered their gear off a battlefield. If it came to a fight, they'd eat those boys alive."
Cicero sighed. "That was what I was afraid you'd say."
12
The local festival was an annual celebration in honor of Baios, the helmsman of Ulysses, whose tomb I had been shown outside the gates. It commenced with a sacrifice at the tomb, accompanied by much pomp and ceremony. This I attended as a visiting dignitary. All the priests of the region turned out, many of them dressed in regalia peculiar to the district. Diocles was there, representing the Temple of Apollo, looking no more solemn than usual.
Young girls robed in white danced before the tomb and draped it with wreaths and garlands of flowers, and libations of wine and oil were poured over the altar. Then the girls led the procession back into the town amid loud singing from the civic chorus, scattering flower petals lavishly.
In the forum, stages had been erected upon which dancers and actors performed stories connected to the epic voyage of Ulysses, many of these extremely salacious. Calypso was portrayed by a Spanish dancer from Gades whose joints seemed to bend in all directions. We also learned
that Circe and her attendants still had uses for Ulysses' men even after they were transformed into beasts.
The performances were followed by another of the lavish public banquets we had grown accustomed to. It occurred to me that, had it not been for all this chasing about after murderers and the occasional fight with bandits, this stay in southern Campania would be making me very fat.
The duumviri went out of their way to be conciliatory. There was, after all, no profit to be had from resisting Rome, and much to be gained by cooperation. The bandit attack had embarrassed them and my act of calling in the troops had sobered them. As for Gelon, the trial would be on the morrow and all would be settled then. Besides, nothing should stand in the way of a good party.
In that spirit, we ate and imbibed and enjoyed the proceedings as if no dark cloud hung over us. Of course, a very palpable cloud did just that. Vesuvius was belching out a particularly profuse and noxious plume of smoke that day. Luckily, the prevailing wind kept the soot and ashes away from Baiae. Most of it seemed to be falling into the Bay of Neapolis, but an occasional shift of wind brought us a hot-iron odor laced with the stench of burning sulfur. It was rather like those aforementioned skeletons people use as decoration in banquet rooms, reminding all and sundry that death is always near and we might as well enjoy life while we can.
As if Baiaeans needed encouragement to enjoy life. During dinner famous Greek rhapsodes sang us the Odyssey, their Attic Greek so flawless, their renditions so filled with spirit and emotion that you could hear the oars creaking in the tholes and the splash of the great stones cast by Polyphemus at the fleeing ship of Odysseus (old Baios at the helm, no doubt.) Cognoscenti compared these performances with those of past years and, naturally, some claimed to have heard it done better. I never had.
When the festivities were over, Julia and I were entertained at the home of Publilius the jewel merchant. The last thing we needed was more food and wine, and by local standards this gathering was all but austere. Instead of another bout of gluttony, we were treated to an evening of that rarest and most delightful of diversions; sparkling conversation. Publilius had invited the wittiest and most eloquent men and women of the district, people noted for their skill at repartee. There were only two rules to observe: It was forbidden to talk about politics, and nobody was to talk too long about anything. Each of us was provided with a basket of buns, which we were to throw at anyone who waxed too loquacious.