Saturnalia

by Lindsey Davis

  I had calmed down. There was no way I would ever make Helena Justina a submissive partner who followed my rules. She knew how to handle a crisis. I myself would have tied Anacrites to the filthy underside of a manhole cover and left him to hang there in the dark with rat-bait in his boots. This way, he had put himself in the wrong, he must be scared that Helena or her father would complain to the Emperor—and he had failed to find the priestess even though he guessed I had her.

  Helena continued, still enjoying her narration: ‘After he apologised, I asked him about his headaches, implying I hoped they were unbearable. He’s going to that man Cleander, for some treatment. Marcus, you’ll be glad to hear it involves putting cups on him, with lighted herbs against his skin, and what sounds like quite a lot of blood-letting. ‘

  I said it was time to get dressed for dinner. Helena told me it was too soon yet. I let her know that I was planning on getting undressed first, and staying undressed for quite some time.

  Later, in a private part of the house, at an inappropriate moment:

  ‘There’s another thing, Marcus—we had a busy morning. Petronius popped in to discuss the flute-player. Scythax seems confused, and has left him a message, showing that he thinks he was brought in because the boy was killed on the streets like the vagrants. Petro said he has to speak to Scythax and straighten this out. He will talk to you about it when he can.’

  ‘Damn Petro. And damn talking…’

  Some time afterwards:

  ‘Sweetheart, I ought to tell you… Your mother wants to organise a formal deputation to Vespasian, headed up by her old Vestal Virgin, when you go to beg for clemency for Veleda.’

  Silence.

  Suddenly, one party sitting up abruptly:

  ‘Oh Juno and Minerva, you are not serious. I don’t have to plead for the priestess with my mother there?’

  ‘The crabby Virgin too, dear one. Plus, if they can force her to be so magnanimous, poor Claudia Rufina…’

  Startled party collapses and hides her head under the pillow. Other party lies prone, recovering, and thinking about the frightening power of mothers…

  ‘Claudia might just do it, Marcus. She really needs to win Quintus back. I haven’t told you yet why the sanctuary priests at Nemi were so unpleasant to us. We were pretending to seek fertility treatment but we were unmasked when they detected that Claudia was already pregnant. ‘

  I choked. ‘So the authorities at Nemi would say the treatment works!’

  ‘It’s ironic, because she was hoping to avoid this. Everyone wondered why she wouldn’t try to wean little Gaius. Poor Claudia had been told she would be safe, so long as she kept breast-feeding.’

  ‘Your sweet-looking brother doesn’t mess about. Their first is not yet a year old.’

  Slight embarrassed pause.

  ‘And Marcus darling, there is something I should tell you Olympus! What was this about? ‘I know it is not what we planned—’ Any fool could work this one out. ‘You mean, the priests were upset because neither of you needed the expensive ritual baths and the votive-sellers? You are both expecting?’

  ‘Yes. Me too, sweetheart.’

  I kissed Helena ruefully. ‘Life is getting expensive. If your deputation to the Emperor fails, I’ll have to drag Veleda to the Capitol and strangle her myself We’ll definitely need the mission fee.’

  Pause.

  ‘So are you pleased then, Marcus?’

  We already had two children. Like every father who knows what a pregnancy means in short-term and long-term trouble, I had learned from practice how to lie well. ‘Helena Justina, you do me an honour. I am delighted, of course.’

  The senator sent his carriage to fetch our large group to the Camillus party. Praetorian Guards, looking nervous, did a stop and search, but only found Helena and me, our two over-excited children, and Nux, who bit a Guardsman. The Guards pretended they had a routine road block to monitor all traffic on the A ventine embankment, but I guessed that the Spy had ordered them to check anyone who left my house. Too bad they never noticed that a carrying chair with Albia and Veleda had crept out via the back exit while they were occupied with us, and sneaked the other way up the Embankment under cover of a passing high-piled empty-amphora cart. (I can’t bear to think how much it had cost to bribe the driver of that cart.)

  We arrived first at the Capena Gate. We were able to witness, therefore, the moment when the priestess was greeted by Julia Justa. She looked Veleda up and down. It was a simple gesture, but killing. I don’t know how Veleda felt, but I had sweat crawling all over me.

  ‘Welcome to our house.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Claudia Rufina stood at her mother-in-law’s shoulder, holding the baby in her arms. ‘This is my son’s wife.’

  ‘We have met.’

  ‘Welcome to our house,’ repeated Claudia, making it sound like a death threat.

  As we moved to the interior, towards sounds of music and revelry, Helena squeezed my arm and whispered, ‘I’m starting to wonder if it was wise to bring Veleda for food and drink here!’

  ‘Don’t worry. Poisonings are my favourite kind of case. The descriptions of the death agony are always so colourful.’

  Veleda already sported a spine taut as a bow and a rictus, though it had nothing to do with anything fatal in her food bowl. Claudia, who had been wearing her legendary emerald parure, disappeared and rejoined us after adding extra gold bangles.

  Julia Justa ran a Saturnalia feast on surprisingly traditional lines. Her slaves were in charge. King for the Day was a terrified boot-boy with sticky-out ears and a regal display of pimples, who waved his mock sceptre bravely but never uttered a word. A battalion of slaves were lounging in the various dining rooms, including a few brave souls outside on the garden couches, where they were ceremonially served by the noblewomen of the family. The senator and I were deputed to be wine-waiters, with muttered instructions to make sure anything consumed was well watered. I joked with Decimus that more slaves were here than I realised they owned; he said he had never seen half of them before either. As soon as he could do it surreptitiously, he was planning the male householder’s traditional role at this festival: hiding by himself in his study, while the merrymakers got on with it. I said I might join him; he said I was welcome, but only if I helped him barricade the door. We set about choosing which wine to take with us.

  After a certain amount of enforced obedience to the slaves, who gave us impossible orders with a fine imperial manner, things relaxed (the slaves were now too busy eating their unaccustomed banquet to do much, and some were suffering biliousness because of the rich food). We managed to fill our own bowls from the laden comports. Julia and Favonia had learned their roles as inferiors and were scampering to and fro, delightedly trying to clean everybody’s shoes for them. Claudia was showing what a wonderful maternal type she was by allowing my insistent daughters to keep running back with squeals of laughter to buff her gold sandals. Veleda watched snootily. ‘I suppose even the girls among your tribes are so busy learning to be warriors, they have no childhood,’ sneered Claudia. ‘In Rome we would regard warmongering as a little unfeminine.’

  ‘Your women sound rather feeble!’ countered Veleda, venomously. ‘Oh we Baeticans know how to fight back.’

  ‘Surprising then, that you allowed your country to be overrun!’ Helena and Julia separated them.

  Great bowls of nuts were carried in by the senator. Then, as the almonds and hazelnuts began to fly, we were joined by an unintended visitor. The jollity was at its height, which made the sudden silence more dramatic. The happy slaves all settled back, thinking ‘Wey-hey! This is where the real party starts!’

  In a doorway stood Quintus Camillus Justinus. He looked like any family’s dopy son who had just come home and was slowly remembering that his mother had informed him three times that the Satumalia dinner was tonight. He lived here: the no-good son of the house—vague eyes, rumpled tunic that had not been changed for days, bristling chin left
unshaven for even longer, floppy hair uncombed, slouching and relaxed.

  From his expression I guessed that nobody had yet told him that Veleda would be here.

  Surprisingly, he appeared to be sober. Sadly, both Claudia and Veleda had drunk quite a lot of wine.

  LXII

  For a moment they all stood, in a stricken triangle. Justinus was horrified; the women took it better, naturally.

  Justinus straightened up. Veleda had last seen him dressed in a keenly-buffed tribune’s uniform, five years younger, and fresher in every way. Now she looked stunned by his casual domesticity. He addressed the priestess formally, as he had done once before, in the depths of her forest. Whatever he said was again lost on the rest of us, because he used her Celtic tongue.

  ‘I speak your language!’ Veleda inevitably rebuked him, with the same pride and the same contempt that she had used to our party then: the cosmopolitan barbarian, showing up the inglorious imperialists who could not even bother to communicate with those whose terrain they invaded. It was a good trick, but I was tired of this.

  He was staring at her, taking in that she looked so much more worn by time and life, and the despair of capture. Veleda’s eyes were hard. Pity was the last thing any woman needed from a handsome lover. Quintus must already have struggled to cope mentally with the fact that the love of his young life was doomed to ritual killing on the Capitol. Would he turn his back on the Roman world—and if so, would he do something really stupid? We could see it was a hard shock to find the priestess here in his home, swaying very slightly from Roman wine in the cup that she still gripped unknowingly—a small silver beaker that Justinus must have known since his childhood, from which he may have drunk numerous times himself. He had found her being entertained among his parents, his sister, his wife and young child. He was not to know—or not yet—just how strained relationships had been.

  In the silence, his baby son gurgled. ‘Yes, it’s Papa!’ crooned Claudia, nuzzling his soft little head. I wondered if anyone had told Quintus yet that a brother or sister was expected. The little boy stretched his arms out towards his father. The traditional gold bulla his uncle Aelianus had given him at birth swung against the soft wool of his tiny tunic. He was a delightful, highly attractive child.

  At once Quintus, the great sentimentalist, turned and smiled. Claudia thumped home the battering ram. ‘Let’s not bother Papa.

  Papa doesn’t want us, darling!’ Despite being tipsy, she produced one of her well-practised stalking exits, heading off for her kingdom, the nursery. Once there, some women would have burst into tears. Claudia Rufina had a sturdier spirit. I had talked her through past moments of decision and anxiety; I thought she would simply sit there by herself, quietly waiting to see whether Quintus came to her. If he did, she would be difficult—and who could blame her?—but as on previous occasions, Claudia would be open to negotiation.

  Veleda looked as though she knew now that Justinus was too inhibited to abandon his Roman heritage. It was clear what she thought of that. She tossed the silver cup on to the mosaic floor, then with a broody glare she too swept out to take refuge in another room.

  Quintus was left facing up to his tragedy. This was no longer an issue of whom would he choose? Neither of them wanted him. Suddenly he was looking like a boy himself, who had lost his precious spinning-top to rougher, ruder characters who would not give it back.

  When the doomed man went first to follow Veleda, nobody stopped him. I moved closer to the double door he had closed behind them, but did not interrupt. Quintus stayed in the room for a short time only. When he came out, he looked agonised. His face was drawn with misery, perhaps even tear-stained. He was grasping a small object tightly in one hand; I could not see it, but I recognised the dangling strings: she had given him back the soapstone amulet.

  When he reached me, he made an impatient movement, wanting me to step aside. I grasped him and embraced him anyway. Apart from Veleda, I was the only person present who had been with him in Germany, the only one who fully knew what she had meant to him. He had lost the love of his life not once, but twice. He had never got over it the first time; he probably imagined it would be even harder now. I knew better. He had had plenty of practice in bearing his loss. Grieving a second time is always easier.

  Camillus Justinus was a young man. Now he knew that his fabulous lover was an older woman, growing ever older than his treasured golden memories. Whatever he had said to her, from the short time she spoke with him it was clear to all of us that she had cut short any grand protestations. What was there to say? He could plead that his wife was young and needy, a mother; perhaps Claudia had told him she was again pregnant. Veleda would see the situation. Justinus had lost his innocence—not that starry night in the signal tower in the forest, but in the instant when he chose the Roman life he had been born into: when he turned and smiled instinctively at Claudia Rufina and his little boy.

  Perhaps Veleda had also noticed that when it came to women, Justinus was an idiot.

  He continued resisting contact. I released him. Without a word to anyone, Justinus began his lonely walk to find his wife and tell her the hard decision that maturity and good manners had now thrust upon him. None of us envied the couple their coming struggle to regain some kind of friendship. But he was by nature easygoing and she was bitterly determined; it was feasible. For now at least, the Baetican emerald set would stay in Rome. Justinus and Claudia would get back together, although like all their reunions it would be bittersweet.

  SATURNALIA, DAY SEVEN, THE FINAL DAY

  Ten days before the Kalends of January (23 December)

  LXIII

  I know the historians will not record how the priestess Veleda’s future came to be decided. I am debarred from revealing it, for the usual pretentious ‘security reasons’.

  What occurred in my own house is my own to reveal or conceal. In the circumstances, Helena said it was understandable that the priestess was bad-tempered at breakfast. She had been deeply withdrawn since the moment the previous evening when Helena kissed both of her parents gently, leaving them to oversee whatever transpired between her brother and Claudia. The senator and Julia were sympathetic in-laws. I myself was intending to suggest to Quintus that since Claudia did have so much money, it was time they acquired their own house where their tantrums—which would probably continue—could take their course, unobserved by relatives.

  We had gathered up the children, Albia and Veleda and come quietly home. Anacrites seemed to have called off his useless spies. This morning everyone rose promptly. The Vestal Virgin had sent word to Julia that she had arranged an appointment at the Palace. She had made it clear this had not been easy. Although Claudius Laeta had given me this day as my deadline, most imperial business was suspended during the festival.

  When it was time to leave, the Virgin sent a carpentum—the twowheeled formal carriage used only by empresses and Vestal Virgins, which can be out on the streets even during the wheeled traffic curfew. This unusual arrival caused a traffic jam on the Embankment as all my neighbours rushed to gawk. Julia Justa had already been collected; she leaned out and indicated, by that screwing of the face all women understand, that we were not to show amazement—but she had after all brought Claudia to take part in the deputation. This made it a squash, since the carpentum is not designed to carry three. Clad in black from head to foot, Helena pushed her way in anyway. We had a chair ready, with Veleda inside but heavily curtained, which then followed the carriage to the Palatine. It was flanked by Justinus and me, and escorted by Clemens and the remaining legionaries, all in burnished gear and, as far as I had been able to ensure, minus hangovers.

  We had left Lentullus at my house. Helena and I now knew why her brother had appeared at dinner: Marcus Rubella had finally kicked them out of the vigiles’ patrol house, so we had acquired the invalid. His condition was much improved, though he did have a setback when I had to tell him he would have to leave the army. Lentullus rallied, however, when he kne
w that ‘the tribune’ was offering him a home.

  So that Clemens did not return to Germany shorthanded, I had suggested that I should formally free the appalling Jacinthus (he would have to lie and say he was thirty), then we would take him before a recruiting officer (to lie again and say he was twenty), enrolling him in the legions. Jacinthus was thrilled. So was Galene, who had convinced Helena that she should be moved to the kitchen as replacement cook. Once again we would be lacking a nurse for the children, but we were used to that. Once again we would have a cook who couldn’t cook—but at least Galene would be interested in learning.

  All these issues had been debated and resolved that morning, while Helena and I tried not to disturb Veleda’s gloomy reverie. By the time the Vestal Virgin sent transport, we had been running out of bright ideas. Veleda had been dumped by Quintus and was returning to captivity. She hated all of us.

  At the Palace, the women stepped down from the carriage. Helena led her mother and Claudia in a stately procession, in through the great roofed Cryptoporticus, along many corridors, to an anteroom, where

  Julia Justa and her Vestal friend met and exchanged dry kisses. I noticed that Claudia had managed to wear quantities of jewels, which drew disapproval from the Vestal. Claudia tossed her head defiantly.

  We had brought the carrying chair indoors with us. Still guarding it, we men remained outside in a corridor. I kissed Helena. She shook out her skirts, straightened her stole, firmed up the pins holding her veil on her fine hair and led the formal deputation into a major receiving room. We had been told Vespasian was on his usual festival pilgrimage to his grandmother’s house at Cosa, where he had been brought up. We could have been lumbered with Domitian, but we were in luck: Titus was imperial caretaker, dealing with emergencies. They were a long time. I was sweating. Flunkeys were anxious to depart for lunch. It was clear that ours was the only business being thrust before Titus that morning. It might be dealt with briskly and casually. I cheered myself up thinking that if Berenice really had been sent packing to Judaea, Titus would have no calls on him during the festival and might welcome work.