SPQR V: Saturnalia

by John Maddox Roberts

  Like the boy, only struggling, I was frog-marched into the clearing, and women, amazed and outraged, drew back from my defiling presence. Then, screeching, they attacked. I suffered a few nail scratches, but Furia beat them back with her wand and they quieted.

  “Look what we found, Priestess!” said one of the men who held me, in the by now familiar Marsian accent.

  “I think he wants to be sacrificed,” said another of the men. “Shall we take him to the mundus?” This one was Roman, and upper class to judge by his diction. Furia lashed him across his face mask with her wand and he yelped.

  “Fool! This one is ugly and scarred like a gladiator! The gods would be mortally offended if we offered them such a one!”

  I thought she was being a little rough on me. No artist had ever asked me to model for Apollo, but I had not judged myself to be truly repulsive. She was right about the scars, though. I had picked up a lot of them for a basically peaceable man. I was not going to argue with her, however. She tapped the tip of her wand against my cheek.

  “I told you not to look into these matters, Roman, and my two attendants warned you as well. If you had listened, we would not have to kill you now.”

  “You said I was going to live a long time!” I protested. “That makes you a pretty poor prophetess, if you ask me!”

  She actually chuckled. “A man may always will his own destruction, even if the gods are kindly disposed. You have brought this upon yourself.” Her hair was a snarled mare’s nest, and her eyes were wild. She was bloody and sweaty and she stank abominably from the flayed goat’s skin, but at that instant I felt a powerful lust for her, far surpassing anything I could have felt for the immaculate noblewomen. Some things are entirely beyond reason.

  She noticed. Stepping close to me she said in a low voice, “We celebrate here to propitiate our gods and bring peace to our dead. If this were a fertility rite, I might have made use of you.”

  Clodia stood next to me. “You were always a man of peculiar tastes, Decius, but your timing is off. In the spring rites, randy he-goats like you are in some demand.”

  “He is on sacred ground in the presence of the gods, Patrician,” Furia said. “The powers of life and death are strong in all of us at such times.” She turned to the men who held me. “His blood cannot be shed on this holy ground. Take him outside the grove and kill him.”

  “Wait,” Clodia said. “He is a well-known eccentric, but his family is one of the most powerful in Rome. His death will not be passed over lightly.”

  “He is one of them!” said one of the Marsian men. “We should never have permitted these high-born Romans into our rites! You see how they stick together?”

  “Not me,” said the cultured Roman who held one of my arms. I was sure I knew the voice. He held my dagger up. “I will be more than happy to cut his throat, Priestess.”

  She paused for a moment, thinking. “Roman, I saw a long life for you, and I will not oppose the will of the gods in this.” Then she addressed the men. “Take him from the grove and put out his eyes. He will never be able to lead anyone back here.” She turned to Clodia. “Will that satisfy you, Patrician?”

  Clodia shrugged. “I suppose so. He is a troublemaker and no one will credit his ravings if he shows up blinded.” Then, to me, “Decius, you are like some creature out of Aesop. You are a living embodiment of human folly.” I thought her eyes were trying to tell me something else, but her tone was as nonchalant as always. Somehow I didn’t find her blood-speckled nudity as intriguing as that of Furia. But then I had seen Clodia naked before. Besides, I was about to get my eyes poked out with my own dagger.

  “Take him away,” Furia ordered. As I was dragged off, we passed close by Fausta.

  “Wait until Milo hears about this!” I hissed at her. She laughed loudly. Typical Cornelian.

  When we were among the trees, the Roman waggled the blade of my dagger before my face.

  “You’re always poking that long Metellan nose of yours where it doesn’t belong,” he said. “I think I’ll cut it off for you, after I take out your eyes.” This man was simply not in the spirit of Saturnalia. He held my right arm with his free hand while the other was held by one of the Marsians. I could not tell how many more were behind me, but I could hear at least one. I wanted to say something biting and sarcastic, but I was doing my best to seem stunned and fatalistic.

  “This is far enough,” said the Roman, as we cleared the trees.

  “I don’t know,” said a Marsian. “I think we should take him to the road. This is too close to the mundus.”

  “Oh, very well.” The Roman was impatient for my blood. We walked out onto the plowed ground. This suited me well as the new furrows made for uncertain footing. I had to make my move before we got to the road.

  The Marsian holding my left arm stumbled slightly on a ridge of plowed earth and I pretended to fall. The Roman cursed and braced himself, and in that instant I lurched against him with my shoulder and jerked my right arm loose.

  “That won’t save you!” he said, coming in with my dagger held low.

  Most men, having taken a weapon off me, fancy that I am unarmed. That is one reason I usually keep something in reserve. My hand went into my tunic and came out gripping my caestus. I swung at the Roman, trying to smash his jaw, but the spiked bronze bar glanced off his cheekbone. The blow put him down, and I whirled to my left. The Marsian, foolishly, tried to grip my arm more tightly instead of letting go, springing back, and going for his own knife. The spikes of my caestus sank into the thin bone of his temple and he collapsed, dead as the bull beneath the hammer of the flamen’s assistant.

  I sprang free and saw my dagger glittering in the slack hand of the supine Roman. I dived for it, caught it on the roll, and came up facing back toward the grove. I was about to cut the Roman’s throat, but there were three other masked men almost upon me. I managed to slash the arm of one; then I spun and ran.

  I could hear their feet slapping the soft earth behind me, but they weren’t slapping it as hard as I was. Terror lent me the winged heels of Mercury and I had trained as a runner, as much as I disliked exercise. The men behind me were plodding peasants, unused to a fast sprint. Besides, I was wearing a good pair of boots where they were barefoot or sandaled. Still, I was sweating ice at the thought that I could easily take a fall on this uneven earth in the dim light of the low-hanging moon.

  Then I was on the sunken lane and able to reach full speed. I could hear the men behind me still, but they were slowing. By the time I reached the paved road, I could not hear them at all. I went the rest of the way to the Via Aurelia at a steady lope and then I slowed to a walk. If the men were still behind me they would be awfully tired when they caught up. I wanted to get my breath back before I had to fight.

  In the event, I made it into the city without further violence. This was a good thing, because I wasn’t feeling up to anything really epic. My cut palm throbbed where the gripping bar of my caestus had transmitted the impact of the weapon’s blows. I was covered with scratches and bruises and minor cuts and was horrendously fatigued.

  As I walked I thought of the nightmarish scene I had just experienced. We regarded human sacrifice as uncivilized, and it was practiced by the state only in the most extraordinary circumstances. The casual use of humans, even worthless humans, as sacrificial animals we regarded as barbarous, a practice fit for Gauls and Carthaginians, but not for civilized people, but how long ago, I thought, had our Saturnalia offerings been genuine heads instead of “lights”? I thought of the thirty straw puppets we threw into the Tiber from the Sublician Bridge on the Ides of May. When had those been thirty war captives?

  As I crossed the Forum I thought of the man and woman who had been buried alive there to consecrate its founding. Their bones were still down there somewhere.

  These were the last coherent thoughts to pass through my mind that night. I have no memory of getting to my home, undressing, and falling into bed. The moon was still up as I crossed the
Forum, and the eastern sky was fully dark. It had been one of the longest days of my life.

  9

  “HEY, DECIUS, WAKE UP!” IT was Hermes. I felt around for my dagger. It was time to murder the boy. Then I remembered what day it was. He barged into my bedroom, all joy and cheer.

  “Io Saturnalia! How about some breakfast, Decius? Come on, get up!”

  Creakily, aching in every joint, I lurched up and sat on the edge of my bed. The light hurt my eyes, and I buried my face on my cupped palms.

  “Why didn’t I kill you yesterday when it was legal?” I groaned.

  “Too late,” he said cheerily. “You can’t even execute a traitor on Saturnalia. Go fetch me something to eat.” Then he saw what I looked like. “What were you doing all night? You must have been in the roughest lupanar in town.” He inspected some of my more egregious wounds. “I’ll bet it was one of those places where the madam chains you to a post and the girls work you over with whips. You should try being a slave; then you could live like that all the time.”

  I found my dagger and started for him, but he pointed at it with an odd expression and I held it up. There was brownish blood all over the blade.

  “I hope you didn’t kill anyone inside the City,” he said.

  I pondered the weapon. “I’ll have to wash this blood off or it’s going to rust the blade.”

  “You can do that in the kitchen,” Hermes suggested. “While you’re there, find me something to eat.”

  Wearily, I shuffled back toward the kitchen. From Cato and Cassandra’s room I heard the sound of snoring. At least I wouldn’t be fetching breakfast for them. I poured water from a jug into a basin and dipped my blade into it, scrubbing away the dry, flaky blood with a rough cloth and a sponge. When all the blood was gone, I inspected it. It was too late. The fine sheen of the Spanish steel was marred with tiny pits. Blood is the worst thing in the world for weapon steel. That is an oddity, when you think about it. I made a mental note to stop at a cutler’s and have it polished, when people were back at work again.

  I poked around until I found some bread and cheese and a few dried figs. I was sure my slaves had stocked up for the holiday, but I had no idea where they stored the provender and was in no mood to institute a detailed search of the kitchen. I found Hermes in the courtyard seated at his ease in the chair I usually employed. I began to sit in the chair opposite him, but he waggled an admonitory finger at me.

  “Ah-ah-ah. Not today, you don’t.”

  I sat down anyway. “Don’t overdo it. We’re not supposed to remember how you behave on Saturnalia, but we do anyway.” I grabbed some of the food and started to eat. “My clients will be here soon. Did Cato and Cassandra make up their gifts?”

  “They’re in the atrium,” he said, munching cheese. “Speaking of which, how about some money so I can celebrate properly?” Hermes was insolent at the best of times. On Saturnalia, he was insufferable. I went into my bedroom and opened a chest. I took out a pouch, first counting to make sure he hadn’t appropriated some of my money already.

  “There,” I said, dropping the pouch on the table in front of him. “Keep it out of sight. In the streets you like to frequent they’ll cut your throat for that much money. Don’t come home with any exotic diseases, and I don’t want you so hung over that you’ll be of no use to me tomorrow. I’m in the middle of something very bad and I expect to be busy.”

  “Who wants to kill you this time?” he asked, taking a swig of watered wine.

  Before I could answer him my clients began to arrive. There was the usual round of greetings. They gave me presents. Since they were mostly poor men, these consisted mainly of the traditional candles. By custom, my own gifts to them had to be more valuable, although my own circumstances were modest. I gave Burrus a new sword for his son who was with the Tenth Legion, soon to be in the thick of the fighting against the Gauls and the Germans, winning glory for Caesar.

  From my house we all trooped off to my father’s. His mob of clients spilled out onto the street outside and had to make their way through in shifts. When I finally got in, I found Father talking with a couple of distinguished-looking men, although their rank was hard to guess since they wore plain tunics. I made my formal obeisance, and Father introduced the two as Titus Ampius Balbus and Lucius Appuleius Saturninus, two of the praetors of the year. Balbus was to govern Asia in the next year, and Saturninus was to have Macedonia. Clearly, Father thought I should be currying favor with these two, who were up-and-comers in a position to offer me fine appointments, but I needed to confer with him privately.

  “What do you want?” he asked impatiently, when we were a little separated from the others. “You know that official business is forbidden today.”

  “And you know that I am acting in a highly unofficial capacity. I’ve come upon something important and I need to know a few things. Was Celer engaged in suppressing or expelling forbidden cults within Rome and its environs?”

  “What kind of idiot question is that? He was a praetor, not a censor. And when no censors hold office, that is the province of the aediles, along with public morals.”

  “You and Hortensius Hortalus were our most recent censors,” I pressed on. “Did you take action concerning such cults?”

  He frowned. But then, he always frowned. “Hortalus and I conduced the census, we completed the lustrum, and we purged the Senate of some very unsavory members. Beyond that, we oversaw the letting of the public contracts. I turned in my insignia of office last year, and the subject of obscene foreign cults never came up.”

  “Not foreign cults, Father. Domestic cults. Native Italian cults operating within and just outside of Rome. Cults numbering among their members some very highly placed Romans.”

  “Explain yourself,” he said. So I gave him a succinct rendition of my experiences of the previous two days, leaving out nothing. Well, leaving out very little, anyway. When I got to the part about the sacrifice, he muttered, “Infamous!” and made a complex gesture to ward off the evil eye, one he must have learned in childhood from a Sabine nurse.

  “A cult of witches, eh?” he said when I was finished. “Human sacrifice. A hidden mundus. And noble Romans involved?” Absently, he rubbed a hand across the scar that divided his face, a characteristic gesture meaning he was plotting evil against his enemies. “This is a chance to rid Rome of its three very worst women. Exiled, at the very least. After this they could never return.”

  “Don’t forget the man who wanted to poke my eyes out,” I reminded him.

  “Oh, him. Yes, it’s too bad you didn’t get a look at his face.” This was for the sake of form. If you wanted to get rid of murderous men, the best way would have been to block up the doors of the Senate house during a meeting and set fire to the place. Murder was a popular pastime among the male gentry. It was the scandalous women who outraged men like my father.

  He put a hand on my shoulder. “Look, we can’t stay closeted like this. People will suspect we are doing something official. I’ll manage to get the aediles aside sometime today to discuss this.”

  “I am not sure that would be a good idea. I am not satisfied with Murena’s handling of the murder of the woman Harmodia. For some reason he took the official record of the case and hid or destroyed it. He is either concealing something or protecting somebody.”

  “You are making too much of the matter. The slave who was sent to fetch the document probably stopped at a tavern on the way to court, got drunk, and lost it. It happens all the time. It was just another murder of another nobody.

  “But if it will set your mind at ease, I’ll avoid Murena and confer only with Visellius Varro and Calpurnius Bestia and the others. I should speak with Caesar as well, although he is probably too busy preparing for his Gallic campaign to take much of an interest. Still, as pontifex maximus it’s his duty to make a pronouncement upon the danger of a corrupting, nonstate religion. In the meantime, you should go to your gangster friend Milo and get him to assign you some protection. Sinc
e they didn’t kill or blind you, they may be looking for you now.”

  “I can’t go to Milo!” I said. “He is going to marry Fausta and he’s entirely irrational about her. He might kill me if I threaten to have her exposed!”

  Father shrugged. “Then go to Statilius Taurus and borrow some of his gladiators. Now, come along. We must make our rounds.”

  I accompanied him to a few more houses, but my heart simply wasn’t in the spirit of the season. He was also being unrealistic. What use would hired thugs be to me when the people I was dealing with specialized in spells and poisons? I wasn’t worried about any bumpkin daggermen as long as I was armed and on familiar ground. It was depressing to have to watch everything I ate or drank though. Luckily, for the duration of the holiday, food stalls were everywhere. They would have to poison the whole city to get me.

  About spells I was not so sure. Like most rational, educated men I was extremely dubious of the efficacy, even the reality, of magical spells. On the other hand, recent events were causing my rationality to flake away like dandruff. Witches were supposed to be able to strike their enemies down with ailments of the heart, liver, lungs, and sundry other organs. They could cause blindness and impotence. But if they could do all that, I wondered, how did it come about that they had any enemies at all?

  By late morning I managed to break away from my father and his crowd, but as I wandered through the streets the gaiety of the season transformed itself before my eyes to the menacing and the sinister. Why did so many people wear masks if not to take on the personae of demons? What was the reason for the whole hilarious occasion but a primitive midwinter fear that, if we didn’t jolly the gods along a bit, they wouldn’t give us springtime next year?