Very long ago there was a king of the Romans called Tarquinius the Proud. One day a sorceress came up to Rome from her cave at Cumae and offered to Tarquinius nine books of occult knowledge. These books were made of palm leaves and were not bound as a scroll, so that the pages could be put in any order. This Tarquinius found very strange. They were also written in Greek, not Latin, but the sorceress claimed that the books foretold the entire future of Rome. Those who studied them, she said, would comprehend all those strange phenomena by which the gods make known their will on earth, as when geese are seen flying north in winter, or water ignites into flame, or cocks are heard crowing at noon.
Tarquinius considered her offer, but the sum of gold she demanded was too great. He sent her away, saying that King Numa a hundred years before had established the priesthoods, cults, and rituals of the Romans, and these institutions had always sufficed to discern the will of the gods.
That night three balls of fire were seen hovering above the horizon. The people were alarmed. Tarquinius called upon the priests to explain the phenomenon, but to their great chagrin no explanation could be found.
The next day the sorceress visited Tarquinius again, saying she had six books of knowledge for sale. She asked the same price she had asked for nine books the previous day. Tarquinius demanded
to know what had become of the other three books, and the witch said she had burned them during the night. Tarquinius, insulted that the sorceress demanded for six books what he had refused to pay for nine, sent her away.
That night three convoluted columns of smoke rose above the horizon, blown by the wind and illuminated by the moon so that they took on a grotesque and foreboding aspect. Again the people were alarmed, thinking it must be a sign from an angry god. Tarquinius summoned the priests. Again they were baffled.
The next day the sorceress came to visit the king again. She had burned three more books the night before, she said, and now offered him the remaining three, for the same price she had originally asked for all nine. Though it vexed him greatly, Tarquinius paid the woman the sum she demanded.
And so, because Tarquinius hesitated, the Sibylline Books were received in only fragmentary fashion. The future of Rome could be discerned only imperfectly, and the reading of auspices and auguries was not always precise. Tarquinius was both revered for obtaining the sacred texts and derided for not acquiring them all. The Sibyl of Cumae gained a legendary reputation for her wisdom. She was respected both as a great sorceress and a shrewd bargainer, having obtained the price of nine books for only three.
The Sibylline Books became objects of awesome veneration. They outlasted the kings of Rome and became the most sacred property of the Roman people. The Senate decreed that they should be kept in a stone chest deep underground in the temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill, above the Forum. The books were consulted in times of great calamities or when inexplicable omens appeared. Those priests who were specially charged to study the books were constrained under penalty of death to keep their contents secret, even from the Senate. One curious fact about the verses became commonly known, however. They were written in acrostic; together, the initial letters of each line spelled out the subject of each verse. Such cleverness as would have driven a mortal to distraction must have been child's play for the divine will.
Because the books remained so mysterious, very few persons know exactly what was lost when, ten years ago in the final convulsions of the civil wars, a great fire swept the Capitoline and consumed the Temple of Jupiter, penetrating the stone chest and reducing the Sibylline Books to ash. Sulla blamed his enemies for the fire, his enemies blamed Sulla; in any case it was not an auspicious beginning for the dictator's three-year reign. Without the Sibylline Books to foretell it, did Rome have a future? The Senate sent special envoys all over Greece and Asia to search for sacred texts to replace the lost Sibylline Books. Officially, this has been done to the full satisfaction of the priesthood and the Senate. For those respectful of divine will, but sceptical of human institutions, the opportunities for fraud and bamboozlement offered by such a scavenger hunt are too staggering to contemplate.
It is no small indication of the depths to which the Sibyl of Cumae has fallen in public esteem, at least in Rome, that no envoy was sent to her when the original books were lost. Surely it would make sense to go back to the source in order to replace the arcane books – or did the Senate balk at the prospect of losing face in a second bargain with the Sibyl of Cumae?
Around the Cup, the Sibyl is still venerated, especially by denizens of the old Greek towns, where the chlamys is worn instead of the toga and Greek is spoken more often than Latin, not only in the markets but in the temples and law courts as well. The Sibyl is an oracle in the Eastern sense; she, or more precisely it, is a mediating force between the human and divine, able to touch both worlds. When the Sibyl enters one of her priestesses, that priestess is able to speak with the voice of Apollo himself. Such oracles have existed since the dawn of time, from Persia to Greece and in the far-flung Greek colonies of old, like Cumae, but they have never been wholly embraced by the Romans, who prefer that inspired individuals should interpret the will of the gods by watching puffs of smoke or rattling beans in a gourd rather than uttering the divine message directly. The Sibyl of Cumae is still venerated by the local villagers, who bring her gifts of livestock and coins, but she is not favoured by the fashionable elite of Rome who inhabit the great seaside villas; they prefer to seek wisdom from visiting philosophers and to bestow their patronage on the respectable temples of Jupiter and Fortune in the forums of Puteoli, Neapolis, and Pompeii.
I was not surprised to find the temple of Apollo attached to the Sibyl's shrine to be in a state of some decay. It had never been a grandiose structure, notwithstanding tales of Daedalus and his golden embellishments. It was not even built of stone but of wood, with a bronze statue of Apollo upon a marble pedestal at the centre. Painted columns of red, green, and saffron were surmounted by a circular roof, the underside of which was segmented into triangles and painted with images of Apollo overseeing various acts in the tale of Theseus: the lusting of Pasiphae for a bull and the birth of the Minotaur of Crete; the casting of lots for the yearly sacrifice of seven Athenian sons to the beast; the construction of the great maze by Daedalus; the sorrow of Ariadne; the slaying of the monster by Theseus; the winged flight of Daedalus and his doomed son Icarus. Some of the paintings looked very old and were so faded that they could hardly be discerned; others had been recendy repainted and glowed with vivid colour. A restoration was in progress, and I suspected that I knew the woman responsible.
The temple was situated in a nook of land hemmed in on three sides by walls of jagged stone. It was the only flat surface on the steep hillside, which otherwise was strewn with boulders; the great stones seemed to have frozen in mid-avalanche and were overgrown with twisted trees that looked as if their nailing limbs were outstretched to save themselves from falling. The priestess walked ahead of us with a serene and unfailing sense of balance, never setting a foot wrong, while Eco and I followed, slipping and sliding after her, sending bits of gravel flying down the hill as we grabbed branches for support.
The spot was secluded from sight and protected from the wind. A quiet hush reigned over us. Above our heads the fog struggled to push itself over the hilltop and emerged in tatters, casting the place into a weird, dappled mixture of darkness and sunlight.
Within the temple the priestess turned to face us. Beneath her hood her features remained hidden in darkness. Her voice emerged as strange as before, the way that Aesop says that animals would speak if they could, forcing their inhuman throats to make human noises. 'Obviously,' she said, 'you didn't bring a cow.'
'No.'
'Nor a goat.' 'No.'
'Only your horses, which are not a suitable sacrifice to the god. You have money, then, to purchase a beast for sacrifice?' 'Yes.'
She named a sum that did not seem outrageous; the Sibyl of Cumae was apparently not the hard bargainer she once had been. I pulled the money from my purse and wondered if Crassus would accept the expense as an addendum to my fee.
I saw her right hand for just an instant as she accepted the coins from me. It was an old woman's hand, as I would have expected, with prominent bones and patches of discoloured flesh. No rings adorned her fingers, and there was no bracelet on her wrist. There was, however, a smudge of blue-green paint on her thumb, just such a hue as Iaia might have been using that morning to touch up a bit of her mosaic.
Perhaps she saw the smudge of paint herself. Either that or she was eager for the money, for she clutched the coins and snatched her hand away, hiding it again within the sleeves of her robe. I noticed also that the hems of her sleeves were a darker red than the rest of her garment, stained by blood.
'Damon!' she called. 'Fetch a lamb!'
From nowhere a child appeared, a little boy who thrust his head from between two columns and then as quickly vanished. A few moments later he reappeared carrying a bleating lamb over his shoulders. The beast was not farm stock, but a pampered temple animal fattened for ritual sacrifice, kept clean and carefully groomed and brushed. The boy swung it over his shoulders onto a short altar before the statue of Apollo. The creature bleated at the touch of cold marble, but the boy managed to calm it with soft strokes and whispers in its ear even as he deftly trussed its legs.
He ran swiftly away and then returned, bearing in his outstretched hands a long silver blade with a handle encrusted with lapis and garnets. The priestess took it from him and stood over the lamb with her back towards us, holding the blade aloft and muttering incantations. I expected a longer ceremony and perhaps a series of questions, as many oracles required from their supplicants, and so I was a little startled when the blade suddenly-flashed and descended.
The priestess possessed skill, and more strength than I would have thought. The blade must have gone straight to the heart of the beast, killing it instantly. There were a few convulsions and a spattering of blood, but not a sound, not even the least whimper of protest as it gave up its life to the god. Would the slaves down in Baiae die as easily? In that moment a chill descended upon the place, though the air was still. Eco felt it as well, for I saw him shiver beside me.
The priestess slit open the lamb's underside from its breast to its belly, then reached inside. I saw how the hems of her sleeves had become so dark with bloodstains. She searched for a moment, then found what she was seeking. She turned toward us, bearing in her hands the lamb's quivering heart and a portion of its entrails. We followed her a short distance to the side of the temple, where a rude brazier had been hewn from the stone wall. The boy had already prepared the fire.
The priestess cast the organs upon the hot stone. There was a loud sizzling and a small explosion of steam. The vapour issued outward and then was sucked back toward the rock wall, drawn into fissures in the stone like smoke pulled into a flue. The priestess stirred the hissing entrails with a stick. The smell of seared flesh reminded me that we had neglected to eat at midday. My stomach growled. She cast a handful of something onto the heated stone, producing another cloud of smoke. A strange, aromatic scent like burning hemp filled the air, making me dizzy. Beside me, Eco swayed so violently that I reached to hold him up, but when I gripped his shoulder he looked at me oddly, as if it were I who had stumbled. I saw a movement from the corner of my eye and looked at the great wall of stone above and before us, where peculiar faces had begun to appear amid the fissures and shadows.
Such apparitions are not unknown at sacred shrines. I had witnessed them before. Still, there is always a sudden stirring of dread and doubt in that instant when the world changes and the powers of the unseen begin to manifest themselves.
Though I could not see her shadowed face, I knew that the priestess was watching me. She saw that I was ready. Again we followed her up a steep, stony path that traversed the slope, then descended into a dark, ever deepening ravine. The way seemed very far. The path was so difficult that I found myself stooped over, scrambling on my hands and feet. I glanced behind to see that Eco did the same. Strangely, the priestess was able to walk upright, striding forward with perfectly measured steps.
We came to the mouth of a cave. As we stepped inside, a cold, clammy wind rushed over my face, carrying a strange smell like the breath of many flowers in decay. I looked up to see that the cave was not a tunnel but a high, airy chamber, pierced all about by tiny holes and jagged fissures. These openings admitted a twilight glimmer, and the rush of the wind sighing through them created an ever changing cacophony that was sometimes like music, sometimes like a great chorus of moaning. Sometimes a singular sound would rise above all the others and then fade away – a trilling of notes like a satyr playing his pipes, or the bellowing voice of a famous actor I heard once as a boy, or the sigh that Bethesda makes before she wakes in the morning.
We descended deeper into the cave, to a place where the walls narrowed. The darkness deepened and the chorus of voices receded. The priestess raised her arm to signal that we should stop. In the dimness her blood-red robe had become jet black, so dark that it seemed to be a gaping hole that moved about in the grey gloom. She stepped onto a low shelf of stone, like a stage, and for a moment I thought that she danced. The black robe spun and twisted and seemed to fold in on itself. There was a long, wailing shriek that made my hair stand on end. The contortions were not a dance but the convulsions of the priestess as her body was possessed by the Sibyl.
The black robe fluttered to the ground, becoming nothing more than a great lump of cloth. Eco stepped forward to touch it, but I restrained him. In the next instant the robe began to fill again and rise up. Before our eyes the Sibyl of Cumae began to take shape. She seemed taller than the priestess, larger than life. She lifted her hands and pushed the cowl from her head.
Her face was barely discernible in the darkness, and yet it seemed that I could make out her features with a kind of supernatural clarity. I chided myself for ever imagining that the priestess was Iaia. This was the face of an old woman, to be sure, and in some superficial regards it resembled Iaia; the mouth might have been the same, and the high, gaunt cheekbones, and the proud forehead – but no mortal voice ever uttered such noises, and no mortal woman ever possessed such eyes, flashing as brightly as the light through the fissures in the cave.
She began to speak, then clutched herself. Her breast heaved, and a rattling sound issued from her throat as the god began to breathe through her. A sudden wind blew up from behind us and scattered her hair like flailing tendrils. She struggled, not yet submissive to the god and trying to shake him from her brain, like a horse trying to unseat its rider. Her mouth foamed. Noises came from her throat like wind in a cavern, and then like the gurgling of water in a pipe. Little by little the god mastered her and then calmed her. She hid her face in her hands, then slowly drew herself erect.
'The god is with me,' she said, in a voice that was neither male nor female. The Sibyl seemed merely to mouth words that issued from some other source. I glanced at Eco. His forehead was beaded with sweat, his eyes were wide open, his nostrils were dilated. I clutched his hand to give him strength in the darkness.
'Why do you come?' the Sibyl asked.
I started to speak, but my throat was too thick. I swallowed and tried again. 'We were told… to come.' Even my own voice sounded unnatural to my ears.
'What do you seek?'
'We come… seeking knowledge… of certain events… in Baiae.'
She nodded. 'You come from the house of the dead man, Lucius Licinius.' 'Yes.'
'You seek the answer to a riddle.'
'We seek to know how he died… and by whose hand.' 'Not by the hand of those who stand accused,' said the Sibyl emphatically.
'And yet I have no proof of that. Unless I can show who murdered Licinius… every slave in the household will be put to death. The man who seeks to do this thinks only of his own advancement… not of justice. It will be a cruel tragedy. Can you tell me the name of the man who killed Licinius?'
The Sibyl was silent.
'Can you show me his face in a dream?'
The Sibyl set her eyes upon me. An icy shiver ran through my bones. She shook her head.
'But this is what I must know,' I protested. 'This is the knowledge I seek.'
Again the Sibyl shook her head. 'If a general came to me and asked me to strike his enemies dead, would I not refuse? If a physician came and asked me to heal his patient, would I not send him away? The oracle does not exist to do the work of men for them. Yet if these men came to me seeking only knowledge, I would give it. If it were the will of the god, I would tell the general where his hidden enemy lurked, and I would tell the doctor where he might find the herb that could save his patient. The rest would be up to them.
'What shall I do with you, then, Gordianus of Rome? To find knowledge is your work, but I will not do your work for you. If I give you the answer you seek, I will rob you of the very means by which you may achieve your end. If you go to Crassus with nothing but a name, he will merely laugh at you or punish you for false accusations. Unless you acquire it on your own, using your skills, the knowledge you seek will be meaningless. That which you assert you must be able to prove. It is the will of the god that I assist you, but I will not do your work for you.'
I shook my head. Of what use was the Sibyl if she refused to utter a simple name? Could it be that she did not know? I cringed at playing host to such impious thoughts, but at the same time it seemed that a veil was being slowly lifted from my eyes and the Sibyl once more began to look suspiciously like Iaia.
Eco touched my sleeve, demanding my attention. With one hand he held up two fingers, and with the other hand turned two fingers down, his sign for a man: two men. He wrapped one hand around the wrist of the other, symbolizing a shackle, his sign for a slave: two slaves.
I turned back to the Sibyl. The two missing slaves, Zeno and Alexandros – are they living or dead? Where can I find them?'
The Sibyl nodded in stern approval. 'You ask wisely. I will tell you that one of them is hidden, and the other is in plain sight.'
'Yes?'
'I will tell you that after they fled from Baiae, this was their first destination.'
'Here? They came to your cave?'
'They came to seek the guidance of the Sibyl. They came to me as innocent men, not guilty ones.' 'Where can I find them now?'
'The one who is hidden you may find in time. As for the one in plain sight, you will find him on your way back to Baiae.' 'In the woods?' 'Not in the woods.' 'Then where?'
'There is a stone shelf that overlooks Lake Avemus…' 'Olympias showed us the place.'
'On the left side of the precipice there is a narrow path that leads down to the lake. Cover your mouth and nose with your sleeve and descend to the very mouth of the pit. He will await you there.'
'What, the shade of a dead man escaping from Tartarus?'
'You will know him when you see him. He will greet you with open eyes.'
It would be a clever place to hide, granted, but what sort of man could pitch his camp on the very shores of Avernus, amid the sulphur and steam and the reeking phantoms of the dead? The stone shelf was as near as I had cared to venture to the place; to descend to its edge sent a shiver through me. I could tell from the way he clutched my arm that Eco disliked the idea as much as I did.
'The boy,' said the Sibyl crisply, 'why does he not speak for himself?'
'He is unable to speak.'
'You lie!'
'No, he cannot speak.' 'Was he born dumb?'
'No. When he was very small he was stricken by a fever. The same fever killed his father; from that day Eco never spoke again. So his mother told me before she abandoned him.'
'He could speak now if he tried.'
How could she say such a thing? I began to object, but she interrupted.
'Let him try. Say your name, boy!'
Eco looked at her fearfully, and then with an odd glimmer of hope in his eyes. It was another strange moment in a day of strange moments, and I almost believed that the impossible would come to pass there in the Sibyl's cave. Eco must have believed as well. He opened his mouth. His throat quivered and his cheeks grew taut.
'Say your name!' the Sibyl demanded.
Eco strained. His face darkened. His Lips trembled.
'Say it!'
Eco tried. But the sound that came from his throat was not human speech. It was a stifled, distorted noise, ugly and grating. I closed my eyes in shame for him, then felt him against my breast, shivering and weeping. I held him tighdy, and wondered why the Sibyl should demand such a cruel price – an innocent boy's humiliation – in return for so little. I drew a deep breath and filled my lungs with the scent of decaying flowers. I summoned my courage and opened my eyes, determined to reprimand her, vessel of the god or not, but the Sibyl was nowhere to be seen.
We left the Sibyl's cave. The cavern of echoes and voices no longer seemed quite so mysterious – a curious enclosure, to be sure, but not the awe-inspiring place it had been when we entered. The way back to the temple was strenuous and rocky, but it hardly required that we crawl; nor was it as long on the way back as it had been on the way to the Sibyl's cave. The whole world seemed to have awakened from a strange dream. Even the fitful fog had receded, and the hillside was bright with afternoon sunshine.
The fire had died in the brazier. The blackened entrails still sputtered and popped occasionally on the hot stone, startling the swarm of flies that circled overhead. The sight was unpleasant, but the smell of charred flesh reminded me again that we had not eaten in hours. In a small recess behind the temple, the boy Damon had strung up and skinned the carcass of the lamb and was carving it with surprising expertise.
We scrambled down the ravine and untethered our horses. Bright sunshine reflected off the maze of rocks, making it as baffling a place as before, if not quite so menacing. We made our way towards the coast. At the crest of a small rise, a glittering expanse opened before us, not the circumscribed sweep of the Cup, but the true sea, an unobstructed body of water extending all the way to Sardinia and beyond to the Pillars of Hercules in the west. The ancient village of Cumae was at our feet.
We rode in silence. On our journeys I usually kept up a running conversation, even if Eco could not answer with his own voice. Now I could think of nothing to say. The silence between us was heavy with an unspoken melancholy.
A wagon driver pointed us to the house of Iaia, which stood perched on a cliff at the far end of the village, overlooking the sea. It was not impressive as villas go, but it was probably the largest house in the village, with modest wings extending to the north and south and what appeared to be another storey stepping down towards the sea on the west. The wash of colours that decorated the facade was subtly original, a blending of saffron and ochre together with highlights of blue and green. The house at once stood out boldly against the backdrop of the sea, and yet seemed an essential part of the view. The hand and eye of Iaia turned everything to art.
The door slave informed us that Olympias had gone out but would return, and had left word that our needs should be attended to. He led us to a small terrace with a view of the sea, and brought food and drink. Presented with a bowl of steaming porridge, Eco began to seem more himself. He ate with relish, and I was heartened to see him shake off his sadness. After eating we rested, reclining on couches on the terrace and gazing at the sea, but I soon grew restless and began to question the slaves about Olympias's whereabouts. If they knew where she was, they would not tell. I left Eco dozing on his couch and wandered through the house.
Iaia had collected many beautiful things in the course of her career – finely crafted tables and chairs, small sculptures so delicately moulded and painted they seemed almost to breathe, precious objects made of glass, ivory figurines, and the paintings of other artists as well as her own. These things were displayed about the house with a great sense of harmony and an unfailing eye for beauty. No wonder she had been so disparaging of Lucius Licinius's taste in paintings and statues.
It was my nose that led me to the room where Iaia and Olympias created their pigments. I followed a strange medley of odours down a hallway until I came to a chamber cluttered with pots, braziers, mortars and pestles. Stacked all about the room were dozens of clay jars, some large, some small, all labelled in the same hand that had signed the portrait of Gelina. I opened the lids and examined the various dried plants and powdered minerals. Some of them I recognized – brown-red sinopis made from rusted Sinopean iron; Spanish cinnabar the colour of blood; dark purple sand from Puteoli; blue indigo made from a powder scraped off Egyptian reeds.
Other jars seemed to contain not pigments but medicinal herbs – black and white hellebore ground to a powder, poisonous but having many uses; the holosteon or 'all-bone' plant (perversely named by the Greeks because it is entirely soft, just as they call gall 'sweet') with its slender, hairlike roots, good for closing wounds and healing sprains; white lathyris seeds, good for curing dropsy and drawing away bile. I was just replacing the lid on a tiny jar full of aconitum, also called panther's-death, when someone cleared his throat behind me. The door slave watched me disapprovingly from the hallway.
'You should be careful before you stick your nose in the jars,' he said. 'Some of the things inside can be very poisonous.'
'Yes,' I agreed, 'like this stuff. Aconitum – they say it sprang from the mouth foam of Cerberus when Hercules pulled him up from the Underworld. That's why it grows near openings to the Underworld, like the Jaws of Hades. Good for killing panthers, I'm told… or people. I wonder why your mistress keeps it.'
'Scorpion stings,' the slave answered curtly. 'You mix it with wine to make a poultice.'
'Ah, your mistress must be very wise about such things.'
The slave crossed his arms and stared at me like a basilisk. I slowly replaced the jar on the shelf and left the room.
I decided to take a walk along the cliffs beyond the village. The afternoon sun was warm, the sky was crystal. A progression of clouds scudded along the blue horizon, and overhead gulls circled and shrieked. The fog that had blanketed the coast an hour before had vanished. The Sibyl of Cumae began to seem unreal, like the vapours that rose from Lake Avernus, as if all that had happened since we left Baiae that morning were a waking dream. I breathed deeply of the sea air and was suddenly weary of the villa in Baiae and its mysteries. I longed to be in Rome again, walking through the crowded streets of the Subura, watching the gangs of boys who play trigon in the squares. I longed for the secluded quiet of my own garden, the comfort of my own bed, and the smell of Bethesda's cooking.
Then I saw Olympias climbing up a narrow trail from the beach. In one hand she carried a small basket. She was still quite distant, but I could see that she was smiling – not the ambiguous smile that she wore in Gelina's villa, but a true smile, radiant and content. I also saw that the hem of her short riding stola was dark, as if she had been wading in water up to her knees.
I looked beyond her and tried to imagine where she had come from. The trail she was taking vanished from sight among a tumble of rocks, and I could see no beach at all at the water's edge. If she wanted to gather shells or sea creatures, there must surely be better and safer places in the vicinity of Cumae.
As she drew nearer I hid behind a stone. I circled behind it, trying to find a way to watch her without being seen, and noticed a movement from the corner of my eye. A hundred paces away I saw what might have been my mirror image, had I been wearing a dark hooded cloak and worn a long pointed beard. The philosopher Dionysius stood just as I did, poised behind a rock on the edge of the cliff, furtively watching Olympias climb up the hillside.
He did not see me. I moved slowly around the stone, concealing myself from Olympias and Dionysius both, and then scurried away from the cliff until I was out of sight. I hurried back to Iaia's house and rejoined Eco on the terrace.
Olympias arrived a few moments later. The door slave spoke to her in a hushed tone. Olympias stepped, into another room. When she reappeared some moments later, she had changed into a dry stola and no longer carried her basket.
'Was your visit to the Sibyl fruitful?' she asked, smiling pleasantly.
Eco frowned and averted his eyes. 'Perhaps,' I said. 'We'll find out on the way back to Baiae.'
Olympias looked puzzled, but nothing could dampen her buoyant mood. She walked about the terrace, caressing the flowers that bloomed in their pots. 'Shall we go back soon?' she asked.
'I think so. Eco and I still have work to do, and Gelina's house will no doubt be in much confusion, such as always occurs on the day before a great funeral.'
'Ah, yes, the funeral,' Olympias whispered gravely. She nodded thoughtfully, and the smile almost faded from her lovely Lips as she bowed her head to smell the flowers.
'The sea air agrees with you,' I said. She looked more beautiful than ever, with her eyes shining brighdy and her golden hair swept back by the wind. 'Did you take a walk along the beach?'
'A short walk, yes,' she said, averting her eyes.
'When you came in the door a moment ago, I thought I saw you carrying a basket. Gathering sea urchins?'
'No.'
'Shells?'
She looked uneasy. 'Actually, I didn't go to the beach.' The sparkle in her eyes became opaque. 'I walked along the ridge instead. I gathered some pretty stones, if you must know. Iaia uses them to decorate the garden.'
'I see.'
We left shortly thereafter. As we walked through the foyer towards the door, I saw that Olympias had not bothered to conceal her basket when she entered but had left it in plain sight in the corner opposite the door slave's stool. While Olympias stepped through the door into the sunlight, I lingered behind. I stepped towards the basket and lifted the cover with my foot. There were no stones within. Except for a small knife and a few crusts of bread, the basket was empty.
The passage through the stone maze and across the bald, windy hills seemed quite different in the bright sunshine, but when we began to enter the woods around Lake Avernus I sensed the same atmosphere of uncanny seclusion that I had felt before. I looked back occasionally, but if Dionysius followed he kept himself out of sight.
It was not until we came to the precipice that I told Olympias I wanted to stop. 'But I showed you the view already,' she protested. 'You can't want to see it again. Think what a beautiful day it must be down in Baiae.'
'But I do want to see it,' I insisted. While Eco found a place to tether the horses, I located the beginning of the path on the left side of the slab, just as the Sibyl had described. The opening was obscured by overgrown brush and old branches, and the path itself was faint and disused. There was no sign of fresh footsteps in the fog-dampened earth, not even the mark of a deer. I pushed through the brush with Eco behind me. Olympias protested but followed.
The path descended in sharp switchbacks over barren, rocky ground. The odour of sulphur grew ever stronger, borne on a wave of hot, rising air, until we were compelled to cover our faces with our sleeves. At last we found ourselves on a wide, shallow beach of yellow mud. The lake was not a uniform liquid surface, as it appeared from above, but a series of interconnected pools of sulphur overhung by clouds of vapour and separated by bridges of rock that might have been used to traverse to the other side, if a man cared to take the risk and could survive the heat and the smell. The stench of the bubbling pits was almost overpowering, but I thought I detected an even more unwelcome odour borne on the reek.
I looked up. We stood almost directly below the shelf of rock from which we had descended. In the face of the cliff I could see no cave or any other sign of shelter. I shook my head, more dubious than ever of the Sibyl's word.
'How can anyone possibly meet us here?' I grumbled to Eco. 'I'd sooner expect to see the Minotaur come strolling up this beach than one of Gelina's escaped slaves.' Eco gazed up and down the beach, as far as the obscuring mists allowed. Then he raised his eyebrows and pointed at something at the water's edge only a few feet away.
I had seen the thing already and had taken no notice of it, thinking it was only a piece of driftwood or some natural detritus thrown up by the lake. Now I looked at it more closely, and realized with a shock what it must be.
Eco and I stepped cautiously towards it, with Olympias following. At one time most of the thing had been submerged in the pit, where the greater part of it had been eaten away by the boiling, caustic sludge. The remains were drained of colour, spattered with mud, and rapidly beginning to decay. We looked at what was left of a human head attached to shoulders still covered by bits of discoloured cloth. The face was turned downward into the mud. On the back of the corpse's head a ring of grey hair swirled around a bald spot. Eco stepped back in fright and stared into the lake beyond, as if he thought the thing had emerged from the pit rather than fallen into it.
I found a stick and prodded at the shoulders to turn the thing over, at the same time keeping my nose covered. It was not easy; the flesh of the face seemed to have become melted somehow into the mud. When at last I succeeded, the sight was hard to bear, but enough of the features remained for Olympias to recognize him. She drew in a shuddering breath and wailed into her sleeve: 'Zeno!'
Before I could think of what to do with the thing, Olympias decided for me. With a piercing shriek she stooped, picked up the head by its remaining hair and cast it into the lake. It flew through the mists, causing them to furl and flutter in its wake, and landed not with a splash but with a slap. For an eerie moment time stopped and the head remained afloat on the bubbling cauldron. A hissing vent of steam opened beneath it. Through the vapour I thought I saw the eyes of the thing open and peer back at us, like a drowning man looking desperately to those on shore. Then it sank beneath the mud and vanished altogether.
'Now the Jaws of Hades claims him for good,' I whispered to no one, for Olympias was mnning headlong back to the path, tripping and weeping, and Eco was on his knees, vomiting on the beach.
Part Three
Death in a Cup