The Death of Marcellus

by Dan Armstrong

  Portia paid no attention to his politicking. She had lost Marcellus to Hannibal years ago. She spent most of her time at the home in Rome, exploring the cult of Isis and planning for Marcus’ wedding. She arranged a tutoring session for Sempronia three days after the debate.

  The day of the lesson Edeco took Portia into Rome in the carriage. I accompanied them on Balius. We left the carriage outside Porta Carmentalis. I led Balius as we walked the rest of the way to the Claudian home.

  When we arrived, Portia went into the house to talk to Laelia. I took Balius to the water trough behind the stable. While Balius drank, I saw Rullo on his knees playing in the dirt outside the slaves’ quarters. Julia stood next to him in a worn tunic. It was the first time I had seen either of them in the daylight. Both of them had Laelia’s fair hair. I walked over to them.

  When I got close, I saw that Rullo had a pair of poorly made dice. He was picking them up and rolling them across the dirt over and over again. Julia noticed me first.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  Rullo looked up as if I were intruding. “Nothing.”

  “It looks like you’re playing dice to me. Do you know how to count the dots?’

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Can you count?”

  He frowned at my questions. “No.”

  “Want me to show you? It makes the game more fun.”

  He never said yes, but I got down on one knee next to him. I picked up one of the roughly cubic bones. “See how each side has a different number of spots on it?”

  Rullo looked at his sister then nodded.

  One by one, I went through the six sides of the die, counting the spots. Then I counted the numbers off again on my fingers. “One, two, three, four, five, six.”

  Rullo didn’t seem very interested, but when I left, I heard him try to explain the dice to Julia.

  That was when it struck me. Despite the blond hair, Rullo looked like Marcus. As I thought back, and put the pieces together, the timing was right. Could Marcus somehow not know?

  I ran into Ithius while stabling Balius. I couldn’t help myself. “Ithius,” I asked, “what do you know about Rullo?”

  I saw it in his eyes immediately. Ithius knew the whole story and saw that I did too.

  “Romans don’t acknowledge fathering a child born to a slave,” he said. “And it’s illegal to adopt such a child. They are slaves.”

  “I see,” was all I said. Marcus likely knew but didn’t care. It was sad. Rullo seemed quite sharp, and with all his nighttime wandering, also quite brave. Something told me this boy was truly a Claudian and would do something important with his life.

  Edeco accompanied Portia and me across the city. On the way, as we were skirting the edge of the Subura, Portia stopped twice to rub her amber amulet and inhale its wintergreen scent so that she could put up with the smell of human waste.

  Two rough-looking men emerged from an alley when we stopped the second time. One appraised me beside Portia and made a vulgar proposition to her. Portia slapped him. He grabbed her wrist. I took an uncertain step to intervene when Edeco appeared like a phantom between Portia and the thug. He grabbed the man by the throat with his right hand and squeezed. As Portia and I drew back, the second man went with both hands for Edeco’s throat. Edeco used his free hand to grab the second man by the bicep. His face went taut as he put all his effort into his two hands. The man he held by the throat turned blue and drooped to the ground. The other man screamed in agony as Edeco twisted his bicep into a knot. When Edeco let go, the man ran down the street, leaving his accomplice unconscious, possibly dead, in the street.

  Portia took it all in stride. She stepped over the man and went on her way.

  Sempronia’s father had been dead three months. The formal period of mourning was over. Dora greeted us at the door. Fulvia was coming from the atrium as we entered. Dora led me back to the peristyle while Fulvia and Portia took the opportunity to discuss the details of the wedding.

  Sempronia sat on one of the garden’s stone benches, framed by a stand of scarlet poppies mixed with violet bougainvillea. She had matured in the six months since I had seen her. In a pure white linen stola and her hair collected in a bun at the back of her head, she looked more like a young woman than a girl.

  She smiled at my approach and patted the bench where I should sit. “It’s been a long time, Timon,” she said, looking at me, her blue eyes barely three feet away.

  Ajax immediately parroted her with a screech. “Timon!”

  We both laughed, and Sempronia went over to cover the cage before Dora had the chance.

  “I missed these lessons,” I said.

  She sat down beside me. “So did I.”

  “I was sorry to hear about your father.”

  Sempronia looked off, then back to me. “Thank you for saying that. I wish he could be there for the wedding.”

  A moment of awkward silence followed, then Sempronia blurted out, “I memorized the multiplication table. Ask me any combination of numbers.”

  “I’m sure I don’t need to ask you anything. Knowing how good a student you are, you probably know multiplication as well as I do.”

  “Ask me.”

  I thought my heart would melt. Fully distracted by what couldn’t be, I gave in. “Eight times nine?”

  “Seventy-two. Another?”

  “Four times seven?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Six times ninety?”

  “Five hundred and forty!”

  I held up my hands. “Impressive, Sempronia. Do you recall the Pythagorean theorem?”

  “Of course.”

  There was a knock on the front door loud enough to hear in the peristyle. Dora stood up, took a look at us, then went to answer the door.

  “If I have a right triangle.” I scratched a triangle on the surface of my wax pad with the stylus. “And one side has a length of five.” I labeled the shortest side with the numeral five. “And another of thirteen.” I labeled the hypotenuse with the numerals one and three. “What is the length of the unlabeled side of the triangle?” I handed the pad and stylus to Sempronia.

  She gave me a confident look, then began scratching in the wax. While she worked, I could hear that someone had come to the door and left. Dora called to Fulvia.

  I didn’t think much of it and watched Sempronia fiddle with the numbers. She looked up at me and grinned.

  “The length of the side multiplied by itself must equal one hundred and sixty-nine minus twenty-five. That’s one hundred and forty-four.”

  She was so beautiful I wanted to touch her cheek, instead I nodded.

  “Twelve,” she said suddenly.

  “What can I say? Do you have a lesson to teach me?”

  We both broke into laughter. Behind our laughter, the women’s voices in the atrium rose. I heard Portia say, “Impossible. That can’t be!”

  Sempronia ignored it. “Is Marcus as nice as you?”

  She may as well have placed a knife in my heart. I bowed my head to gather myself, then said, “Much nicer, and a tribune in the army. You couldn’t do better.”

  Even though I said these words, some other message was transmitted between us, unspoken. We both looked down. Our hands were side by side on the bench. Simply touching her hand seemed like the most wonderful thing in the world to me—and a horrible betrayal of loyalty to Marcus.

  Fulvia came striding through the atrium into the garden, followed by Portia and Dora. Fulvia held a folded piece of papyrus in her right hand.

  I stood up as the women approached. Fulvia handed the papyrus to Sempronia. She unfolded it. After a moment, she looked up at her mother. “I don’t understand. I thought I was to be married in the spring.”

  Portia stood behind Fulvia, her face black with anger.

  “The pontifex maximus has chosen you to be a Vestal Virgin—as an honor to your late father.” Fulvia said this slowly as though she was both surprised and somewhat puzzled by Licinius
’ decision. “Do you remember the scandal of last spring?”

  Sempronia nodded.

  “Another girl has been chosen also. The ceremony for both of you will be after the elections.”

  Portia turned away and stomped out of the room. Fulvia looked at me. “There will be no more need for tutoring, Timon.” She motioned to Dora to escort me out.

  I dared one quick glance at Sempronia. Our eyes met ever so briefly. Something deeply personal passed between us—an understanding of mutual anguish.

  When we left the house, Portia exploded in a tirade against the pontifex maximus. “Licinius did this deliberately,” she stated like an oath against the gods. “He was as much a part of that silly spectacle in Circus Flaminius as Bibulus was. This is a personal act of retribution against Marcellus—and me!”

  “What about Marcus?” I asked. Edeco walked behind us.

  Portia didn’t seem to hear my question. “Our opportunity to marry into a patrician family. That’s what this is about. A statement from the privileged reminding us that they can give and take as they please.” She shook her fist and glared at me as though I were responsible.

  “Sempronia is already fourteen. That’s three or four years past the usual age of admission to the Vestals,” she continued, talking more to herself than me. “Messalina will hear about this. Licinius has a mark on Marcellus and our family—and that’s no way to choose a Vestal.”

  CHAPTER 75

  Marcus took the news better than I did. While my glowing reports of Sempronia had captured his interest, he had never seen her, and marriage meant less to him than his military career. Marcellus understood the insult and knew that it was political, but his focus was on the upcoming consular elections, political strategy, and Hannibal. The cancelation of the marriage was only a precursor to what he would have to face in the Senate.

  Portia was enraged. Fulvia was one of her closest friends and they had been talking about the wedding for years. The inclusion of a patrician name in the Claudian ancestry meant everything to Portia. Tiberius’ death had been a terrible setback to his family, but it also heightened the meaning and necessity of the marriage—a male child.

  Portia didn’t say much after her initial tirade. Sempronia’s addition to the Vestal Virgins would not be announced publicly for three more months. That gave Portia some time. A woman with all the right connections, she quietly put her effort into reversing Licinius’ affront. She would begin by taking her complaint to Messalina.

  The two women could hardly have been more different. Messalina was the senior sister to the six Vestal Virgins. Her entire purpose centered on the protection of the sacred flame and the chastity of the Vestals. Portia was a member of the most progressive women’s group in Rome, really a cult exploring women’s freedom—mind and body. I could not imagine what bargaining chip Portia could use for so significant a favor.

  CHAPTER 76

  I spent most of the next two months with Marcus preparing the Claudian farm for the spring. I thought about Sempronia every day. When I asked Marcus about the cancellation of the wedding, he acted as though it were the furthest thing from his mind. On the occasions when I saw Portia or Marcellus, Sempronia’s selection to the Vestals wasn’t mentioned. I feared I would never see Sempronia again.

  On the ides of February, Marcus woke me before dawn and chased me off the farm, demanding that I go into Rome to experience the Lupercalia. One of the most popular festivals in Rome, the Lupercalia was a celebration for the god Lupercus and for Lupa, the she-wolf that suckled the brothers Romulus and Remus, the mythical founders of Rome.

  Marcus had no intention of attending, but I needed a diversion. I rode Balius into Rome shortly after sunrise and stabled him at the Claudian residence.

  I stopped in long enough to say hello to Ithius, then hurried off to the Lupercal Cave on the south side of the Palatine Hill. This was where Lupa was said to have raised the infant brothers, and where the festivities began.

  Roman temples were not always buildings. Some were set in nature, secluded in the forest, often beside pools of water or small waterfalls. A likeness of the god or goddess would be the centerpiece of these grottos, which included an altar and a table for offerings. The cave on the Palatine Hill was one of these well-tended grottos. A statue of the god Lupercus stood inside the entrance to the cave. An altar was out front.

  I had no trouble finding the location. The entire city was out for the celebration. When I got there, people blanketed the hillside and swelled out into the nearby streets. I pushed and squeezed my way through the throng to get as close as I could to the ceremony. Peering through the eager mass of onlookers, I watched as one of the elder luperci priests stood up to the altar, accompanied by a train of lesser priests leading two male goats and a male dog. One by one, the elder priest cut the animals’ throats with a flint knife and bled them out as a sacrifice to Lupercus. The priest read the entrails and announced Lupercus’ blessing to begin the festivities. The enthusiastic crowd roared their approval.

  Those up close to the ceremony whispered and tittered as the priest meticulously used a piece of wool, soaked in milk, to wipe the blood off his knife. He raised the piece of wool in the air so all could see, then beckoned to two young priests to come up to the altar. The luperci wiped the cloth across the priests’ foreheads, thus anointing them with the goats’ and dog’s blood. This initiated an all-day feast of drunkenness and excess so typical in Roman life.

  During the feast, the luperci removed the skins from the sacrificial animals and cut them into strips, called februa. These bloody strips were handed out to some twenty young men, all from patrician families, naked except for the slightest wolf-skin loincloths. On a signal from the priest and a howl of excitement from the crowd, the men took off at a run into the city, up and down streets and alleys, following a traditional route all the way around the Palatine Hill. While they ran, they slapped anyone they could with the bloody februa, particularly women, who would chase after them or deliberately stand in their way, because the blood from the februa was said to increase fertility and diminish pain in childbirth.

  As crazy as it was, it was equally hard to resist. I ran with the crowd, enjoying every moment of the wild and fun-filled celebration.

  Of course all of this excitement included street minstrels and jugglers, tumbling acrobats, monkeys on strings, and cart-pushing vendors, hawking religious trinkets or supposed vials of the sacrificial blood. As it got dark, prostitutes and pickpockets began to filter into the crowd, and the festival dissolved into the standard late-night Roman bawdiness and thievery.

  I had plenty of wine and stayed on the streets longer than I should have. When I realized that all of the noblemen and their families had left the celebration, I decided to go back to the Claudian residence to stay for the night. My route took me through the forum which was crowded with revelers.

  The moon was full and lit the temples and statues to a pale, luminous blue. I hurried through the plaza deliberately avoiding eye contact and steering clear of anyone who looked suspicious—which meant just about everyone. I bumped and jostled through the leftover party crowd, and had nearly reached the cattle market, when I felt a hand on my shoulder, pulling me around.

  Expecting a thug, I raised my hands to defend myself.

  Quintus Ennius, the self-professed Mayor of the Community of Miracles, put his hands on his hips, and clearly drunk, let out a high-pitched, hyena-like laugh.

  “My friend, Timon, are you afraid of me? On such a night as this?” He laughed again. “What might I do you out of?”

  “You may do me out of nothing,” I said, unimpressed by this silly street poet.

  “What about your tunic?” He flamboyantly swept his hands across the front of his own soiled toga. “It would look a lot better on me. What do you say? Mine for yours?”

  I wanted to get off the street, not banter with this madman. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’ll keep what I have on.”

  As I turned to
walk away, Ennius danced a little jig and spun in front of me. He extended his arms and bowed on one knee. “Could you spare a copper for a poem? To keep this artist from starving.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “You mean to keep an artist from going dry?”

  “Precisely. Drink is sustenance to the artist. A quadrans for a poem, kind sir?”

  “Rather than a poem, how about the answer to a question?” I asked, suddenly thinking of something that had been troubling me.

  “A question? A poem? Why not? What wisdom do you seek?”

  “When I first met you in the Community of Miracles, I’d been sent there by a woman.” I reached into the pocket of my tunic and withdrew one of the five quadrans I had with me. “I’m curious, with all the knowledge of Rome’s underside that your community possesses, do you recognize the name Paculla Annia?”

  Ennius attempted to snatch the coin from my hand, but I was too quick. I closed my fist and held my hand behind my back. “If you can’t help me, fine,” I said. “I’ll be gone.” I began to walk away.

  “Not so fast, my friend. That quadrans will soon belong to me. I do know the charlatan Paculla. She pretends to do mystical readings for her little cult of women, when in fact she comes to our community of crooks for everything she knows.”

  “Did she ever come to you asking about a slave named Arathia Arathenus?”

  Ennius lifted his head as though thinking. He squinted one eye and a little grin curled at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, she did. But none of us trust the woman. We lied to her. One of our collection of tomb robbers told her he’d seen the name in one of the tombs east of Rome. We didn’t tell her about the Arathia we knew. Arathia with the beautiful singing voice, who came to the community every now and then to play her lyre in our theater.”