The Death of Marcellus

by Dan Armstrong

  Now Paculla spoke in Portia’s voice. “Yes, Timon, you’re doing fine. All is allowed during the Saturnalia. Relax.”

  Paculla’s hand was as seductive as a mouth. As I reached climax, she lifted my tunic so that she could milk me thoroughly and catch the semen in her palm.

  She released her grip on me and let my tunic fall. I continued to squeeze my eyes shut, hoping this was a dream from which I would soon awaken.

  “Open your eyes, Timon,” said Paculla in her own voice. “Isis reminds you there is no shame in what you have allowed.”

  I opened my eyes. Four of the women were focused on Paculla’s left hand, cradling a pool of my seed in her palm. Portia was staring at me. She turned away to watch Paculla tip her hand, allowing the semen to slide into the bowl.

  The priestess moved the candle so that it illuminated the surface of the dark fluid. My semen lay on top like a wad of phlegm. Paculla spoke. “Tell us, Isis, on this night for Saturn, what you know of Arathia.” She lifted the candle, and with the flame held over the fluid, stirred the air above in a circular motion. The white glob began to swirl, following the motion of the flame. It strung out in a spiral, broke apart, and reformed again.

  Paculla put the candle down beside the bowl. She studied the white design on the surface of the potion for a lengthening moment, then looked up to the women at the table. “Isis has spoken.”

  Paculla turned to me. “Your mother is not in Rome.” My stomach dropped. “In five days go exactly five Roman miles east of the city on Via Tusculana. That is where you’ll find her.”

  I didn’t know what to think. The directions were so specific I couldn’t help wondering if the reading might be true. “Thank you,” I said very confused. “It’s late. I must go now.” I turned away from the table and all but ran from the room.

  I heard Portia call after me. “You should stay here tonight, Timon.”

  After all that had occurred, I couldn’t possibly stay. I hurried out to the stable determined to ride back to the farm. I opened the stable door wide enough to let in the light of the moon and stars. As I drifted through the shadows trying to find Balius’ blankets and bridle, I heard a rustling in the loft where the hay was stored. I thought it might be rodents and peered up into the darkness. A pair of eyes glistened in the moonlight, then disappeared.

  “Who’s up there?” I called out, trying not to sound frightened.

  When there was no answer, I wondered if it could have been a fox. I stood on the railing to one of the stalls, and with a better angle, took another look into the loft. It was too dark, but something moved in the shadows, something larger than a fox.

  “Who’s there?” I called out again, not certain I wanted to know.

  A silhouette appeared in the darkness. The moon was just bright enough to light a young boy’s face.

  “Who are you?” I demanded, as a second, smaller child crawled up from behind the first.

  “We live here,” said the boy. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Timon,” I said, wondering if they might be Laelia’s children. “Come down from there.”

  The boy and a girl climbed down the loft ladder and stood before me. The boy wore a wool shirt and brown trousers. The girl had on a dirty tunic with no tie at the waist. Both were skinny, and despite the poor light, looked as though they lived in the street.

  “What are your names?”

  “I’m called Rullo.” The boy looked to his sister. “That’s Julia.”

  “Why were you hiding in the stable?”

  “It’s the Saturnalia. We wanted to see what was going on. We ran in here to hide when we saw you.”

  “It’s a bad night for children to be out. Is Laelia your mother?”

  The boy nodded.

  “She’s in the house. You should go back to your quarters.”

  They just stared at me.

  “Go!” I said. “It’s late.”

  “I can help you with your horse,” Rullo said with surprising confidence for a ten-year-old.

  “Then help me find the bridle and the blankets.”

  Rullo went right to them. He carried the tack out of the shadows and placed it on the ground before me. I backed Balius out of his stall and threw the leather blanket over him. Rullo quickly scrambled under the horse and cinched the strap, while I put the wool blanket in place. I slipped the bridle over Balius’ muzzle and led him out of the stable. The children followed me into the street.

  “Thank you for your help. Now go. Get back to you home.” I mounted Balius and settled onto his back. The children looked up at me with big moon-lit eyes. “Go. Now!”

  Rullo took his sister’s hand and reluctantly led her around the stable to the quarters behind the house. I watched them until they disappeared into the building.

  I rode through the crowded streets until Balius balked. I decided to dismount and lead him. Even this was difficult. More than once I had to dodge through rowdy crowds of drunks and buffoons. Aggressive sexual offers came at me from both men and women. After the unusual night with Paculla Annia, I just wanted to get out of the city as fast as I could.

  Once outside the gate, I mounted Balius and proceeded west on the road to Ostia, which would take us most of the way to the Claudian farm. With only the light of the stars and a partial moon, I rode slowly, and now that I was out in the night alone, with growing concern. But other things were on my mind, and when I wasn’t watching every shadow along the road, I thought about the peculiar ceremony and the message Paculla had given me. No matter how ugly a confidence game she might be playing, I would go to the location east of Rome in five days. I was familiar with the prevalence of charlatans in the world and their games to squeeze money out of anyone they could. Portia must have paid Paculla to do the reading because she really did want to help me. No matter how strange the ceremony, I convinced myself that Portia’s intentions had been honorable and within the bounds of propriety on the night of the Saturnalia.

  The road became darker as I got farther from the city and the tombs along the roadside gave way to forest. My uneasiness about the events of the evening transformed into fear of thugs. I would alternately urge Balius to go as fast as the darkness allowed, then slow him down because of something I imagined in the shadows.

  The road took a turn to the left. As Balius and I came out of the turn, two men leapt out of the forest right in front of us. The smaller of the two took hold of Balius’ bridle. The other, quite a large man, grabbed my arm and yanked me to the ground. The man kicked me in the back repeatedly, then kneeled on me, pinning me down. He quickly rifled my tunic pockets for the few coins I had.

  The man was so much stronger than I was and so rough, I expected to be murdered. Then I heard Balius snort and whinny. I turned my head in time to see him rise up on his hind legs and kick the man holding him. The man howled and fell to the ground. Balius went at him again, sending the man scurrying on hands and knees into the forest. The man wrestling with me stood up and immediately received a swift kick in the chest from Balius’ hind legs. The thug flew ten feet backward and tumbled to the ground. Balius, snorting and blowing, stood guard as I wobbled to my feet.

  The smaller man was gone and the other so badly injured he just rolled on the ground groaning. I climbed onto Balius, and he took off at a gallop, going so fast no one could possibly have stopped us. With the reins free and whipping in the wind, I wrapped my arms around his neck and hung on for dear life.

  Balius didn’t slow down until we reached the trail to the Claudian villa. He trotted the last little way to the stable. I slid off his back, badly beaten and nearly in tears. As I stood beside Balius, catching my breath, I suddenly panicked and patted my chest to see if the pouch containing the glass lenses had been lost in the tussle. I took a great heaving breath. The leather pouch was still there, hanging from the thong.

  I led Balius to the water trough. After he had taken a long drink, I took him into the stable. I removed the bridle and blankets and tied him into his stall
. I stayed with him long into the night, brushing him in the dark and stroking his forelock, talking to him like he could understand every word, touched by his courage and the fact that he had protected me.

  CHAPTER 14

  I didn’t sleep at all that night. Marcus and Marcellus were in the triclinium the next morning when I limped in with a bowl of wheat porridge.

  “Looks like you got into a fight last night,” said Marcellus. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded. My lower lip was split and swollen. Four long scratches ran down the left side of my face. My right knee had been twisted and my hip hurt.

  Marcus laughed. “I hope you got the better of him.”

  “I should have listened to you both,” I said, hanging my head. “Instead of staying in town, I rode home after dark. I got attacked about halfway here by a couple of thugs. They took all the money I had and seemed intent on killing me and taking Balius.”

  Marcus sobered.

  “Is the horse all right?” asked Marcellus.

  “Balius saved me,” I said, then told them the story.

  Marcus was aghast.

  “I’ve seen it before on the battlefield,” said Marcellus. “A horse protecting its fallen master. It’s rare, but horses can be as loyal as dogs. And a much greater ally if they choose to be.”

  “Balius has taken to you, Timon,” said Marcus. “I’m impressed. Must have been that nail you pulled from his hoof.”

  “I might have lost him, Marcus. I don’t know how I could have faced either of you if that had happened. I’m sorry. I should never have taken that chance.”

  Marcellus looked at me. “Might be time to start training you in combat. What do you think, Marcus? Could you make a soldier out of this skinny Greek?” He grinned in a rare moment of playfulness.

  “I don’t know, Father. Should I see how he fares with a gladius in his hand?”

  “You might want to take a look at Balius first. I hope he’s in better shape than his owner.”

  I’m sure my mouth fell open. I looked to Marcus and then back to Marcellus.

  “If that horse will risk his life for you, it makes sense that he should belong to you. Finish that gruel and get out there. Give him a good looking over.”

  “Thank you, sir. But you’ve rewarded me for my ignorance.”

  Marcellus nodded. “That’s all right. I think you learned something more important than geometry last night.”

  Four days later I told Marcus I was going to Rome to look for Sempronia and to search the city for my mother. Only half of that was a lie. For reasons I didn’t really understand, I had too many secrets—the lenses, Marcus’ history with Laelia, and my promise of silence to Portia, who, incidentally, had not been back to the farm since the Saturnalia.

  While work at the farm continued on that crisp winter day, I rode Balius to Rome. He had been scratched pretty badly during the incident. He was fine, but two long slices ran across his chest and would leave permanent scars in his coat.

  Since the attack, I treated Balius as though he understood everything I said. I had more faith in his intelligence than I did Paculla Annia’s magic. I told him about my mother as we rode and that we were off to find her. “I sure hope she’s there,” I said, as we detoured south around the city, following the contour of the walls to Via Tusculana. “I don’t believe in magic. Maybe horses do. But I think we’re on a wild goose chase. Please bear with your master.” I patted his side. “And friend.”

  We headed east on Via Tusculana. The tombs of wealthy Roman families lined both sides of the road. Some tombs were small, unassuming markers. Others were intricate subterranean catacombs or highly refined mausoleums with gardens and statuary, listing many hundred names, including the family slaves, going back two hundred years or more.

  As I rode east, counting the mile posts, getting closer to my destination, I could see that tombs stretched down the road as far as I could see, and certainly well past the five-mile mark where I was headed. A sobering thought began to form in my head.

  At the five-mile post, I climbed off Balius with tears rolling from my eyes. One particularly large and ornate tomb was on the north side of the road. It was a diminutive temple, about the size of a small house, with a peaked terracotta roof and columns circuiting all four sides. Stone benches were built into the porch for visitors to sit on. Small hand-made statuettes and terracotta offerings had been placed all around the portico.

  I tied up Balius and entered the tomb. Shelves of urns lined the walls. An embossed mural ran across the top of each wall. It told the story of the Aemilii, one of Rome’s oldest and most respected patrician families. Hesitantly I read the names and inscriptions on the urns. Purposely going slowly, I began with the oldest and moved around the room. The bottom four shelves contained the urns of the family’s slaves. Some had just a single name, others had the full family name. A few had inscriptions. I knelt on one knee to inspect the urns on the two lowest shelves. Despite the poor light, I saw her name on an urn on the second shelf. I went down on both knees. There was no date on the urn, but there was an inscription: Her gift was music. I knew it had to be my mother. I cried and cried.

  I was temped to take her urn, but decided to leave it there. She deserved this beautiful tomb, and I would always know where she was if I wanted to visit.

  I walked head down from the tomb and climbed onto Balius. I rode slowly back to the farm and didn’t go into Rome to look for Sempronia.

  I spoke to Balius the entire way back. I described my mother to him. I talked about her kindness and her singing. I told him about the beautiful lyre my father had given her, made from a polished tortoise shell. I also recounted Paculla’s reading and all that occurred the night of the Saturnalia. As I described it to Balius, it didn’t seem as awful as it had that night—probably because the ceremony had given me the information I had asked for.

  “I will have to tell Portia, Balius,” I said, stroking his neck. “I will have to tell her that the magic worked.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Marcus and Marcellus were working somewhere far from the villa when I returned to the farm. Edeco met me at the stable, which meant Portia had returned from Rome. I found her in the garden carding wool with Meda and two other slaves. I asked her if I could speak to her in private, and we went into the atrium.

  Portia wore her plain white stola and had her hair wound up in a bun on top of her head. I couldn’t help remembering the diaphanous gown she had worn at the reading. Her manner revealed nothing of the peculiar intimacy of that night. “What is it, Timon?”

  “I located my mother,” I said.

  “You mean, Paculla’s reading was accurate?” she said excitedly.

  I nodded, unable to say the words.

  “What is it? Did you bring her here?”

  Tears began to well in my eyes. “Paculla’s instructions led to the tomb of the Aemilii. My mother’s remains were there in an urn.” I struggled not to sob.

  Portia embraced me. “I’m sorry, Timon. But it was something you needed to know.”

  I nodded again, then sniffled. The tears began to flow freely. Portia held me while I cried.

  When Portia released me, I touched her hand. “Thank you, Portia. I could have spent the rest of my life looking for her and never have found anything.”

  She smiled as a mother might to a son.

  “I will need to tell Marcus,” I said. “What can I say that won’t cause suspicion?”

  Portia thought a moment. “Tell him that you told me about your search, and that I asked everyone I knew about your mother. Tell him I learned about her death from Aemilia. She’s one of the Aemilii and he will know her name. She’s a friend of mine, but not one I see very often.”

  “Could Paculla have known about the tomb before the reading?” I asked. “Did you tell her my mother’s name prior to my arrival that evening?”

  “I might have mentioned your name and her first name,” she said. “But when she asked you that night, I’m s
ure it was the first time she’d heard your mother’s entire name. There are many charlatans in Rome, but Paculla is not one of them. I would like to help her bring the cult of Isis to Rome, but for now it is illegal. You do understand you can’t tell anyone about this?”

  “She did me a great favor. I won’t say a word.”

  After the meal that evening, when Portia had left the table, I told both Marcus and Marcellus what I had learned. I didn’t like keeping secrets, especially from these two men, but it seemed that my life would always contain quiet promises, and the small lies I would have to tell to keep them.

  CHAPTER 16

  Despite the sadness of learning of my mother’s death, it gave me a measure of closure. My life became simpler and my trips into Rome less frequent. When I did go into the city, I went to look for Sempronia. Though I never observed a young girl in the house with the blue Janus, on two occasions I saw the pretty blonde who lived in the house next door. For reasons I can’t explain, I became entirely enamored with this young woman that no arrangement of fate could allow me to know except as a distant and unapproachable fantasy.

  The election for the coming year took place three days after the ides of February, and as that day grew near, discussion in the forum heated up with political lobbying. Senators made long speeches from the Senate floor or sometimes from the rostra, praising one man or another. Clients spent their days seeking out magistrates or tribal elders, hoping to prompt a nomination or undercut a rival’s. Marcellus never spoke on his own behalf in public. He left that to his son-in-law and the small army of clients he had put together.

  Marcus and I spent a few afternoons in the forum, but the acrimony was heavy and the lies plenty. Despite Marcus’ open nature, he had a temper and a penchant for fighting. Someone would say something about his father. Marcus would become angry. Shoving matches ensued, and I would have to drag him away, reminding him of the senselessness of these kinds of public confrontations.