The Death of Marcellus

by Dan Armstrong

  The activity on the streets of Rome had increased since my earlier walk across the city. I got more beckoning looks from the women prostitutes and considerably more aggressive offers from the men. A young man and an older man followed me out of the Palatine neighborhood, talking loudly about the sexual preferences of Greeks. I lost them in the forum which was as crowded at night as it was by day, but the topics of the speakers had nothing to do with politics. Most were drunks speaking nonsense or asking for coins. A fair number were selling women or boys. Others offered health tonics, sex ointments, or aphrodisiacs. For all the prudery of the upper-class Romans, the lower class made up for it with their crude appeals to the basest of human motives. I saw one woman on her hands and knees, her stola up above her waist, shaking her rear and offering rides for a drink of wine.

  I hurried through the crowd, twice having to pull away from grasping hands. I all but ran through the cattle market, around the west end of Circus Maximus, to the Claudian residence.

  I went in through the back, only to discover that the house was locked and that there were no lights inside. I stood out in the yard for some time, unsure what to do. I went into the stable to confer with Balius.

  I stroked Balius’ muzzle and whispered, “Hey old boy, do you have any idea where the Community of Miracles is?”

  A little voice above me said, “If you are fool enough to ask a horse, you might be willing to listen to me.”

  I stood back and looked up into the loft. Rullo, as a silhouette, stared down at me.

  “Do you really know?”

  “Yes,” he said, climbing down from the loft. His sister didn’t seem to be with him.

  “What were you doing up there, Rullo?”

  “Sometimes I sleep in the loft,” he said, no more than a shadow in the dark stable. “So I can sneak out at night.”

  “And you’re not afraid?”

  “I know what I’m doing,” he said with more confidence than I would have expected.

  “So where’s the Community of Miracles?”

  “I’ll take you there for a quadrans.”

  I had to laugh. “Will that be all right with your mother?”

  “It will be fine if you don’t tell her.”

  I reached into my tunic. I gave him the one coin I had. “Show me the way.”

  Rullo tested the coin in his teeth, then dropped it into the pocket of his wool trousers. I followed him out of the stable into the street. A nearly full moon cast everything that wasn’t black with shadows a luminous blue-gray. We followed the base of the Aventine Hill around to its west side, then took a narrow dirt path up the hill.

  “Rullo, are you sure this is safe?”

  “I’m sure it’s not. Just keep quiet.”

  Clearly the boy was a creature of the streets. I took him at his word.

  The Temple of Minerva stood out in the moonlight at the top of the hill. The porch was wreathed in a pre-morning mist, as though the temple sat on a bed of clouds and really were the home of a goddess.

  A bearded beggar, supported by a crutch and but one leg, teetered past as we walked the length of the temple. “Beware if you’re going to the Community of Miracles,” he muttered when about ten feet behind us.

  “Why’s that?” I called back to him.

  The man cackled. “Everything’s a temptation, but nothing’s for sale.”

  Rullo led me to the entrance of an alley. I could see a courtyard illuminated by torches at the far end, full of dancing beggars, jugglers, and musicians.

  “There it is,” Rullo said, pointing. “The Community of Miracles takes place every night right here. It’s a favorite gathering spot for artists, crooks, and dice players.”

  I started down the alley, then realized that Rullo wasn’t following. “You’re not coming?”

  He shook his head no. “Everything is backwards there.”

  “What?”

  “It’s free to get in, but they’ll ask for something when you try to leave.”

  “Everything is backwards. What does that mean?”

  “Exactly that. Pure foolishness. Drunks are not funny to me. I’m going back to the house. Can you find your way home?”

  “Yes, if they’ll let me out. I don’t have another coin.”

  “Money’s not what they’ll ask for.”

  “What will they want?”

  “No telling.” He turned, and keeping to the shadows, scampered back the way we had come.

  “Thank you, Rullo!”

  “Thank me afterwards,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m not sure I’ve done you any favors.”

  Expecting the worst, I edged into the lurid street party taking place beneath the moon. With half-dressed men and women prancing about in carnival abandon, it seemed that I had entered a scene from the underworld, hardly a community of miracles. But the fun of it was infectious, and I continued deeper into the courtyard, still uncertain what I was looking for.

  On the far side of the courtyard was a makeshift stage, made from boards pulled from the surrounding tenement buildings and sailcloth. Actors traded lines to a hooting audience of comics and drunken critics. As I floated through the crowd, drawn to the stage, a young man in a soiled toga leapt in front of me. His eyes glowed with mischief. Hair stuck out from his head in tangled clumps, suggesting madness.

  “I give you the honor of meeting Homer,” he said with a bow. “For only one copper, I will recite the entire Iliad.”

  Two teenage girls came up to him from behind.

  “Here he is,” said one of them, wearing ragged clothing and missing more than half of her teeth. “I told you Homer wasn’t dead.”

  Bowing, the man took the giggling girl’s hand. “For you, I will read the entire Odyssey lying between your legs—and charge you not a quandrans.”

  Both girls broke into laughter. The second girl turned and lifted her dress revealing her bare rump, then ran off with the other girl, calling over her shoulder, “You’d have to sing the siren’s song, Homer, to have this pretty bottom.”

  The man, who was maybe ten years older than I and somewhat frail, turned back to me. “I’m sorry, sir. Those girls have no manners, nor does anyone else in this part of town—though few have such pretty bums.” He winked. “I am Quintus Ennius, Mayor of the Community of Miracles and Rome’s best playwright. The equal of Euripides if you trust my opinion. What may I do you out of?”

  “Well, I—I was looking...”

  “If it’s knowledge you want, we have ignorance aplenty. If it’s gold you want?” Ennius spun around once, stepping forward with one foot and extending his arm to scoop up a handful of air. “We’ll give you excrement and call it a king’s ransom.”

  “I-I-I was hoping for some information regarding...”

  “If it’s a miracle you seek,” continued the buffoon, clearly repeating the same banter he recited to all who happened by, “we have them in all varieties—the ordinary, the commonplace ordinary, and the especially commonplace ordinary. Like ignorance and excrement, we have them by the boatload. But information, hmmm.” He paused as if to think. “Information suggests to me.” He spun around again for the pure silliness of it. “Something criminal.”

  “I’m not certain if it’s criminal or not,” I replied. “It’s about something I lost.”

  “Ah, yes, stolen. Then it’s as I thought. Information like that can only come from my friend Caelius, King of the Crooks.”

  “King of the Crooks?”

  “Oh yes! There isn’t a thief in Italy who doesn’t come through Caelius’ court. If it’s been stolen, and it’s sold in Rome, he will know about it—because part of what it’s sold for goes to him. That’s why he’s King of the Crooks. Would you like to meet him? Would you? It will cost.”

  “I have no money to give.”

  “Caelius will be satisfied with something less vulgar than money. Might you part with your soul?”

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Ah, not quite sure,
hmmm? Here in the Community of Miracles, hesitation is the same as a yes. Come with me.”

  I reluctantly followed the street poet through the crazy crowd of clowns, loose women, and actors. We went past the little theater, around the left side of the stage, and into a curtained chamber lit by a single torch. A heavy-set man with a scruffy beard sat in a throne made from a wine barrel. He wore a crown of cat skulls and a robe of unbleached wool decorated with peacock feathers. Two clowns sat on the ground at his feet. Several darker individuals, men and women, were pressed in around him. They turned as one at our entry, their eyes full of suspicion, as though they had been plotting something.

  “Good evening, Caelius, sir, your Highness.” Ennius bowed deeply, extending one hand. “I hope you’re well this evening.”

  The man in the throne frowned. “This better be good, Ennius. Or I’ll plug your anus with this man’s cork.” He gave a kick to one of the clowns on the floor.

  “We need some information, your Majesty,” said Ennius, grinning like a monkey. “Something has been stolen from this man. He might have an anus to plug if you can tell him where to find it.”

  “No, no, no,” I stammered. “I’m looking for something I lost, but I-I don’t have anything I want plugged.”

  “You don’t have an anus?” queried the king.

  “He doesn’t have an anus?” echoed from someone so deep in the shadows I couldn’t see a face.

  “That kind of curiosity might be worth something,” said Caelius. “Come closer. Tell me what you seek, uh, uh—young man, whoever you are?”

  I approached the throne. The king leaned forward, as did all the others gathered around him. He squinted into the wavering light to get a better look, rolling his hands together, as if wondering what he might get from me.

  “My name is Timon. I lost two pieces of glass,” I said, deciding not to reveal as much to this man as I had to Paculla. “A crystal disk and a clear bead. Both were in a leather pouch that once hung around my neck.” I tugged at the collar of my tunic to show it wasn’t there. “It was a gift from a friend who’s now dead.”

  “Do you think it was stolen?”

  “It’s quite possible. Or I lost it.”

  Caelius turned to look into the faces of his cohorts. “Anyone see such a pouch?”

  They all shook their heads.

  “Where did you lose this pouch?”

  “Venusia.” I expected this to end the conversation.

  But the king merely nodded, very slowly, pondering my answer. He turned again to the collection of miscreants hovering around him, as though this were the most serious business they had ever considered. Again he got nothing but blank faces, until an old woman with a long nose and hair so thin she looked like a man leaned up to the king’s ear and whispered just loud enough for me to hear her last words—“in the possession of a friend.”

  Caelius lifted his head in thought. I noticed a rope burn around his neck. “Can you pay for information?”

  “I have no money with me, sir.”

  “And no anus either?”

  I hesitated. Ennius kicked me in the ankle. “And no anus,” I repeated.

  “Can you come back tomorrow night and display its absence for us?”

  More nonsense. I didn’t know what to say. Ennius gave me another kick.

  “Uh, yes, I can do that,” I said, thinking that yes was the same as no in a community where everything was backwards.

  “Imperfect then, Timon. I will tell you where not to find your pieces of glass.”

  The crowd around him giggled and laughed.

  “That would not be helpful,” I said, so confused I had no idea what I was saying.

  Caelius grinned, then nodded. “Very well. Since you don’t really seem to care, I will give you the information you seek in the form of a riddle.” He winked. “Solve the riddle and you will have the answer to your question.”

  “Of course,” I said, cursing Paculla, and wanting badly to get out of this crazy place.

  Caelius closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then said these lines: “That which is missing cannot be found. It’s not around your neck nor lying on the ground. You will find it in the least likely place it could possibly be—in the hand of a friend you might never see.”

  It was what the grizzled old woman had said. I had my doubts about what she could possibly know, but I bowed to the king and said thank you.

  Ennius poked me in the ribs.

  “And yes, I will be back tomorrow night to show you what I don’t have.”

  “Very good,” responded Caelius with nods all around from the collection of beggars and thieves.

  I backed out of the enclosure accompanied by Ennius.

  “There you have it, Timon,” he said as though he had done me a great favor. “And never come back again unless you really have no anus.” He laughed. “Otherwise someone might make use of it!”

  I took a deep breath, frustrated by all the foolishness and word games. “You never know, Homer, it might be you who has no anus.” I was already worrying about the trip down the hill. “With all of the crap that comes out of your mouth surely there can be no other outlet.” I turned to leave.

  “Ah, the young Greek has some wit after all,” he called after me. “Now I know I’ll never make it as a analist.”

  I hurried out of the courtyard, through the alley, past the Temple of Minerva, then back down the trail we had used to climb the hill. I stuck to the dark side of the street, figuring my best defense was not being seen.

  When I got back to the stable, I called out softly to Rullo, expecting him to be in the loft. I got no answer. Maybe he was still on the streets, but that wasn’t for me to worry about. He surely knew his way around. I piled up some hay and slept in the stable with Balius.

  I woke up early with the sun. Before leaving, I climbed the ladder for a look into the loft. Rullo was curled up in a ball, asleep like a cat.

  On my way back to the farm, I rethought all that had happened—the advice given to me by Ithius, the women in the candlelit triclinium, the smell and feel of the woman in the dark, the boy Rullo, and the insanity of the Community of Miracles. Had I learned anything about the lenses? Only that they had not been sold in Rome—if anything Caelius said could be judged true. Were they really in the hands of a friend? Only if Marcus had found them since I had left the camp. I wasn’t very hopeful. The whole thing seemed like a waste of time.

  CHAPTER 54

  Four days later I went into Rome with Marcellus. It was the day of Portia’s party and I had been invited to attend. Preparations were underway when we arrived. Ithius was roasting a pig in a pit behind the house. Meda, who had come into Rome the previous day with Edeco, and Laelia were in the kitchen organizing the rest of the food. It was only the second time I had seen Laelia since Marcus’ confession. I couldn’t help but think about his story whenever I saw her.

  Meda and Laelia often clashed when they worked together. Both were quiet women who prided themselves on their cooking and their management of the Claudian homes, but the older Meda struggled to be subordinate to the younger Laelia, especially when they were in Laelia’s kitchen. It didn’t help that Meda had taught Laelia everything she knew or that Laelia towered over the tiny Thracian.

  I spent the day in the house. I tried to stay out of the way, but while sitting in the peristyle planning lessons for Sempronia, I could see into the kitchen.

  “This bread needs more time to rise before going into the oven,” stated Laelia, standing by the hearth and staring down at three loaf-sized lumps of dough.

  “It should go in now,” countered Meda. “Otherwise it won’t be done in time.”

  “I know my oven, Meda.”

  Meda put her hands on her hips and stared upward. “Why in the world did I ever bother to teach a barbarian how to cook?”

  Hosting parties at the residence in Rome was a regular part of Marcellus’ and Portia’s social life. Marcellus cared little for such gatherings, but he u
nderstood that they were useful for building behind-the-scenes coalitions, something absolutely necessary for pursuing any agenda in Roman politics.

  The parties were to Portia what military life was to Marcellus. She loved the gossip and the opportunity to advance her place in the Roman aristocracy. Marcus’ arranged marriage and the little gathering of women she had introduced to Paculla Annia were part of her social climbing. The parties also gave Portia a chance to use her charm for political lobbying on behalf of Marcellus. His success was her success. In this regard, the otherwise distant couple was a team.

  Some fifty guests showed up late in the afternoon. Claudia and Publius were there. I recognized several senators in the group. Most of them came with their wives. Fabius attended, as did pontifex maximus Licinius Crassus Dives, Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, Tiberius Sempronius Longus—Sempronia’s father, and the new dictator, Quintus Fulvius Flaccus. Judging by the clothing and the noses in the air, this had to be the class of Roman society. I was free to roam and mingle. Mostly I observed and eavesdropped.

  I wondered who among the women in attendance were members of Portia’s group. They had worn veils both times I had attended and the light had been dim. I could have made an educated guess or two, but considering the peculiar nature of that gathering, their identities were not something I really wanted to know. Fulvia, of course, was there. Paculla Annia was not. That was no surprise. Her being Capuan was likely part of it.

  Just before the meal, but not before several amphorae of mulsum had made the rounds, Portia motioned for me to join her in the atrium. She stood with an older woman, perhaps sixty years of age, whom Portia referred to as one of her best friends. In the society of Rome, at a party like this, probably everyone was introduced as somebody’s best friend.