In Numina: Urban Fantasy in Ancient Rome (Stories of Togas, Daggers, and Magic Book 2)

by Assaph Mehr

  He stared at me for a long moment, his face slack, before nodding.

  I hurried back out, limping as fast as my broken ankle would allow.

  Chapter XXXIV

  Suovetaurilia. A pig — sus, a sheep — ovis, and a bull — taurus, are sacrificed together in an act of purification, a lustratio. The public in Egretia is aware of the big spectacles, of the sacrifices to one of the main deities carried each five-year lustrum period, or when consecrating a new temple. But out in the country it is a common practice to purify a piece of land for good harvest, beseeching Mars — the protector of fields, not the warrior — for his favour.

  I had to adapt this to fit a personal scope in a city-scape and for the purposes we had in mind. But first things first. I needed someone to handle the beasts, as even baby animals are too much for a man with a broken ankle.

  I stepped outside and offered a large purse of coin for any slave or guard willing to assist me. Valerius, I was sure, would not mind the extra expense. They all looked away. I doubled the sum. The four who accepted first got in, the remainder I instructed to stay outside — not that they would have come in of their own will, but rather that they wouldn’t use the opportunity to make a hasty retreat back to Valerius.

  None of the ones who came with me knew how to drape a toga properly. They were kitchen slaves and guards, so, really, I shouldn’t have expected them to know. But with enough instruction, one of them managed to drape me in it till I was dressed as a free Egretian citizen. I pulled a fold of my toga over my head like the priests do. That was not a requirement to work the magia, but symbolism helps in concentration, I found.

  I placed the image of the dancing boy and his dog in the lararium, broke a bread bun, poured a drop of wine, and prayed briefly. I thus installed my own family lares into the house, further affirming my ownership and rights.

  Next, the actual purification ceremony, the suovetaurilia.

  And immediately I hit a snag. According to the manual of De Agricultura and the custom I had observed, the sacrificial animals should be led in a procession around the perimeter of the site — be it a farm or a temple. This was not possible in a house inside the town where inner walls touched the outer ones and gardens were on the inside, leaving no space to walk around the circumference. Instead, I led the slaves throughout the building, visiting all the rooms and ensuring we passed next to the outer walls as often as possible. We visited all parts of the domus — public, private, slave quarters, kitchens, storage. Everywhere were the signs of the bloody mayhem the lar wrought when it first awakened. Worst were the latrines, though. My stomach still revolts at the memory of what happened to the young scullery maid caught there.

  It took us a long while to complete the circuit. The house was large, its rooms many. I had to stop often for rest, as my ankle was wearing me down after the tiring day and night without sleep. The animals, at least, became subdued inside. As if sensing the ambient danger, all playfulness left them. They huddled close to the slaves who held their ropes tightly, themselves unsure and disturbed.

  As we walked, I kept repeating the charm

  Cum divis volentibus quodque bene eveniat, mando tibi, Mani, uti illace suovitaurilia fundum domum terramque meam quota ex parte sive circumagi sive circumferenda censeas, uti cures lustrare.

  That with the good help of the gods success may crown our work, I bid thee, Manius, to take care to purify my house, my land, my ground with this suovetaurilia, in whatever part thou thinkest best for them to be driven or carried around.

  Manius, for those unfamiliar with our rural colloquialisms, is a generic name for the Di Manes, the chthonic spirits of dead ancestors who could intercede with the gods on our behalf.

  Once the circuit was complete, we led the animals back through the central courtyard to the triclinium. The sun cast long shadows, Sol guiding his fiery chariot to its nightly hiding place behind Vergu.

  First came the offering to Ianus and Iovis Pater. Ianus, the god of beginnings and endings, of the old and the new, of transitions. Iovis Pater, best and greatest of the gods, the patron of our city, our people. Nothing could change without the blessings of these two. I offered them hard salt cakes and libations of wine.

  This was followed by the traditional prayer to Mars the Protector.

  Mars pater, te precor quaesoque uti sies volens propitius mihi domo familiaeque nostrae...

  Father Mars, I pray and beseech thee that thou be gracious and merciful to me, my house, and my household; to which intent I have bidden this suovetaurilia to be led around my land, my ground, my house; that thou keep away, ward off, and remove sickness, seen and unseen, barrenness and destruction, ruin and unseasonable influence; and that thou permit my business, my livelihood, my family, my standing to flourish and to come to good issue, preserve in health my progeny and my clients, and give good health and strength to me, my house, and my household. To this intent, to the intent of purifying my house, my land, my ground, and of making an expiation, as I have said, deign to accept the offering of these suckling victims.

  The original prayer is about harvests and plantations, but I fitted it to more mundane city business. Normally, when adapting such common practices into practical incantations I would strip them to their bare bones — often literally — and imbue them with proper magia. I would gather the forces around me and use the quintessential elements of the folk practices to give intent to my desired effect. Not this time. These forces were beyond my ability to control. I acted merely in priestly duties and left the incantations and manipulation of energy to Araxus and his superior knowledge.

  I could feel his work around me, manipulating the flows of magia. He did so with but a few muttered incantations, hardly audible. My skin tingled as though I was standing in a draughty room with light breezes buffeting me, constantly changing direction, temperature, scents. It made it hard to concentrate, but I did my best to let it flow through me and guide my actions.

  Then came the meat of the matter, so to speak. The sacrifice of the pig, the ram, and the bull. Or piglet, lamb, and calf, on this occasion. When Araxus nodded at me, I held my knife in one hand and took hold of the piglet. I had to almost lie on top of it as I could not hold the squirming animal and balance on a broken and weary leg. I held it down, said, “Father Mars, to this intent deign to accept the offering of this suckling victim,” and slit its throat.

  The blood spattered warm over my fingers, gushing out in spasms as the animal gave up its life. I felt, more than heard, Araxus enchant an incantation in tandem with my actions. The pig’s blood ran over the floor mosaics, draining from the little stones into the grooves between them. It ran in channels, spreading like tendrils out and away from us, up the walls, the columns, and onto the ceiling. When it reached the tabula defixionis, still lying where Icilia had dropped it, it hissed and bubbled and steamed. The mosaics around it blackened like a piece of paper marred by a fiery brand that failed to light it. I sensed the sacrifice take a tentative hold on the room and a certain calmness enclosed us inside that cocoon of fine spiderweb made of blood.

  The custom dictates that after each sacrifice we must look for signs of the gods’ approval. Normally, an augury of watching the skies for the flights of birds. We would step outside, mark an area in the sky, and observe which birds the gods sent, how they flew, in which direction, and a plethora of other signs. Such signs take their time to appear, and we just didn’t have the time this close to sundown. So, when the piglet ceased its spasms, I slit its belly and separated its liver from the rest of the organs.

  It’s ironic, given my chosen profession, that augury was my weakest subject at the Collegium. Many times since I began working as an investigator, I wished I had paid more attention to my tutors. While I was still trying to make sense of the bulges and splotches of colour on the bleeding liver, Araxus proclaimed in a deep and raspy voice, “The omens are good. Proceed.”

  The thought s
truck me that, as I had been cocky and rash throughout this case, I was here once more. If the sacrifice was not accepted, if the omens were bad, the instructions were to repeat it again, using a slightly different formula of prayer, or — in our case — of incantation. I could only hope Fortuna had had enough of toying with me.

  The lamb was bleating piteously when I took hold of it. It must have been a month old, still suckling, no doubt wishing to spend its life prancing in a sunny meadow rather than receiving the honour of showing human reverence to the gods. But just like we are in the thrall of the celestials, farm animals are here to serve us.

  I held the lamb tightly, repeated the incantation of “Father Mars, to this intent deign to accept the offering of this suckling victim,” and cut the animal’s throat in one swift motion. Yet again I could feel my skin buffeted by unseen flows of magia as Araxus was shaping them around the sacrifice and sending them into the house.

  The forces felt different now, though I could not say how or why. On the physical plane, the blood tendrils rushed out again. This time they elongated in thin rivulets. Two went to encircle the curse tablet, flowing in the spaces between the mosaics in tightening concentric circles. They managed to envelope the tablet, though the blood dried, cracked, and blackened almost immediately. The rest of the blood, rather than climb up the walls and ceiling as before, rushed out the door to spread into all corners of the house.

  When the time came and life left the lamb, I slit its belly open and laid its innards for Araxus to inspect.

  He was silent for long moments. He spoke, again his voice rasping, “The signs are ambiguous. Repeat with the second formula.”

  “I didn’t bring another lamb…”

  His green eye looked up at me and rolled in its socket in exasperation. He did not speak though, his voice and body taken over by his black aspect. I stared mutely at him. I was about to ask if I should go and procure another lamb, when he spoke again in that chthonic voice, “Sacrifice the calf, but beseech the wife, too, and your patroness.”

  An unorthodox sacrifice, to be sure, but none of what we were doing here appeared in the orthodoxy of the collective mos maiorum or the accumulated knowledge of the incantatores. I took the calf by the rope and led it closer. I prayed.

  Father Mars, if aught hath not pleased thee in the offering of those sucklings, I make atonement with this last victim; Lady Venus, I pray and beseech thee that thou intercede on our behalf with your husband, make my land, my ground, my house a place of hearth; Fortuna, she by whose will all endeavours rise or fail, I implore thee as thy faithful servant, to grant us success and clemency in this lustration.

  I cut the animal’s throat, letting the blood gush over my hand and out onto the floor. As Araxus pushed his incantation hard through the flow of blood, the poor calf nearly exploded, its body drained in a single heartbeat. The blood rushed out, not trickling into rivulets but spreading aggressively into the house. Where it met the curse tablet, it rose up like a wave in a storm and crashed over it, as if hitting a breakwater. It drained over and through it, filling the etchings in the soft lead. Then another such wave of blood crashed over the tablet, and a third. Where the blood ran through the symbols, it blurred and effaced them rather than pooling in the grooves.

  With the destruction of the tabella, it was as though someone closed a shuttered window to a busy street. A hum that had been present since last night suddenly dimmed. It was not extinguished, but muted, sleeping. I could feel the rest of the domus settling as well, like a ship moored at night in a calm berth.

  The calf’s carcass lay on its side. I gripped my knife, lest my anxiety make me botch the cut, then I sliced it open from groin to sternum. Its viscera flopped out, drained of blood. I let Araxus examine the liver in silence, holding my breath.

  At long last he proclaimed, “The omens are good. The sacrifice has been accepted. Now seal it by burning the offerings, partaking in the meat, and allowing the smoke to permeate the house.”

  And with that, Araxus keeled over and lay unmoving.

  ***

  His skin was a blueish-grey. I could not feel a pulse. Only when I put my ear to his face could I detect a faint, wheezing breath. The effort of sedating a newborn god had almost cost him his life. I snatched the flask of wine brought for libations and forced a bit into his mouth. I could feel his pulse then. Weak, erratic, but beating. His chest moved in slow, shallow breaths. I placed a discarded cushion from one of the dining couches under his head, tucked a cover over him, and made him comfortable. Even if he survived till morning, there was no telling what effect it would have on his mind, his curse.

  I couldn’t let Araxus’ sacrifice be in vain. The ceremony had some final tasks to be completed before sunset. I cut up a piece of meat from each of the sacrificial victims and gathered the offal as well, keeping it separate. Leading the slaves in yet another procession, we headed to the mansion’s kitchens. There we built up a fire, burned the offal completely and roasted the pieces of meat. I cut a bite of each meat, prayed, chewed, and swallowed. The slaves who accompanied me took a bite of each as well, as a representative feast by me and mine.

  The burned offal went with some live coals into metal bowls and I instructed the slaves to walk around the house and waft the smoke into every room before I made my way back to the triclinium to check on Araxus.

  His body was not there.

  I searched to no avail. He was no longer in the domus. Eventually I gave up, dismissed the slaves, and sent them back to Valerius with a hastily scrawled missive. My night would be spent sleeping in the house to further cement the ritual, to ensure that human ownership was restored. If things went amiss with the ceremony, if the gods did not accept my supplication, if Araxus failed in shaping the magia of the rampant lar — the slaves would not help me. There was no point in endangering them.

  It had been a day, a night, and a day without sleep, traipsing on a broken ankle and exerting myself, and still sleep did not come easy. I lay on the bed in the master’s cubicle, the bed on which Cornelia and I had spent pleasurable nights, and looked around in the dim light cast by my single candle. Though the house was nominally mine, her stamp was on everything from wall decorations to the boxes of unguents on a side table. Would the ceremony work? With all the adaptations and shortcuts Araxus and I took, would the gods be offended? This was no hedge wizardry, a modification of folk ritual with some minor incantation principles. No — this was the fabric of our religion, of our mutual relationship with our gods.

  And if it did work, come morning I would have to find an explanation for Cornelia and Valerius, something to put gossiping tongues to rest and assuage nosey neighbours calling on the rhones for protection.

  Chapter XXXV

  I don’t know at what hour I fell asleep, but when I woke up the sun was high in the sky. A lark was chirping happily. I clambered out of bed, my leg almost as sore as on the day Numicius broke it. I found my crutch and limped outside. Dappled shadows danced around the inner courtyard, cast from trees sighing in the gentle breeze. The sun-warmed flagstones were invitingly pleasant under my feet. A bird was splashing happily in a bubbling fountain. And yet, deeper in the shadows of the colonnades, I could still see broken furniture and bodies of dead men and women, reminders of the lar’s violent awakening.

  All around the house, an incongruent sense of peace lay over the wreckage. The ritual had worked, but earthly matters still needed attending to. I lit a taper from the embers in the hearth and limped to the atrium. At the lararium I lit incense, broke a salt-bread cake, and prayed to my ancestors and to every spirit that would listen.

  Valerius’ slaves with the sedan chair were waiting patiently for me outside on the street. I climbed in and they carried me the short distance to his house.

  Seated in the loggia and enjoying the view and the fine watered wine, I recounted the previous night’s events for Valerius, Cornelia, and Aemilia. Their rel
ief at the restoration of their domus was obvious. I cautioned about work that still needed to be done, such as clearing the home of all signs and remnants of the violence.

  Aquilius arrived just before midday and I had to retell the story. He quizzed me at length with his lawyer’s eye for detail. Snacks and wine were brought in, consumed, and cleared, before he satisfied himself that he knew everything pertinent to the trial.

  “What shall we tell inquisitive minds?” Valerius asked.

  “On the assumption that, as previously discussed, we will not be referring to this last curse in the case,” Aquilius nodded assent at my words, “we still cannot hide events — gossip will be rampant by now — and so, without sullying the good name of Cornelia, I would suggest we take the offence, and neatly lay the blame at the feet of this year’s rhones.”

  My suggestion was met by open stares.

  “Icilia was, like you, a devotee of the Magna Mater, am I correct?” I continued, and Cornelia hmm’ed an acknowledgement. “The very same goddess Numicius claims his mother was discomfited by and the reason he wants to erect a temple to the Bona Dea. Yet aren’t they both maternal goddesses? Caring and terrible at once, but, in essence, similar? We shall say that this occurrence is merely a failure of our priests, our rhones, our incantatores, and, indeed, of the senate itself. They failed to honour this new aspect of an old goddess. The Great Mother’s statue was imported to our city when our ancient enemy was at the gates, when the gods were sending stones from the skies as signs. Our women were the ones to pull her into the city, and still organise a yearly feast for her. Yet, clearly, she has not been fully accepted. I think it’s time for Valerius to stand up in the senate and deliver an impassioned speech about this. Whether we win or lose at the trial, he could allude to Numicius’ usage of illegal curses within city limits and the events which transpired at Cornelia’s house, and beseech the Senate and the collegia to lay their differences aside and take divine matters in a firmer state hand. We should accept all the gods who helped us, rather than let dissent about worship bring the wrath of the goddess down on us. After what we’ll expose at the trial, whatever the result, they’ll love taking a poke at Numicius.”