Saturnalia s-5

by John Maddox Roberts

  I went to a booth next to the Curia and spoke with its proprietor long enough to establish that he was not Marsian and bought a loaf stuffed with grape leaves, olives, and tiny, salted fish, generously drenched with garum. To this I added just enough wine to settle my nerves and sat on the bottom step, wolfing it all down while the pseudocensors pronounced punishments for showing respect for one’s parents and forbidding senators to attend meetings when sober.

  I was gratified to note that my recent harrowing experiences had not affected my appetite. Come to think of it, nothing ever affected my appetite. I was finishing up the final crumbs when the last person in the world I expected to see hailed me.

  “Decius Caecilius! How good to see another man in Rome whom Clodius hates almost as much as he hates me.”

  “Marcus Tullius!” I cried, standing up to take his hand. We knew each other well enough to use this familiar form of address. Cicero had aged since I had seen him last, but few of us grow younger. It was odd to see him entirely alone, for he was usually attended by a crowd of friends and clients. No one was paying him any attention, and it is entirely possible that no one recognized the great and dignified orator dressed as he was in a dingy old tunic and cracked sandals, his bony knees and skinny legs exposed, his face unshaven, and with his hair untrimmed. He looked as mournful as I felt. Cicero’s military record was as undistinguished as my own, and in seeing him thus the reason was plain. He could never look like anything but a lawyer and a scholar.

  “Surely all your friends have not forsaken you?” I asked.

  “No, I just wanted to be able to wander around alone for a change, so I dismissed all my followers. This is the one day of the year when I am probably safe from attack. Not that Clodius is likely to try violence now. He wants the glory of driving me into exile as tribune. He’ll have it, too. Next year is his year, and even I am not inclined to fight it.”

  “Go somewhere peaceful and get some studying and writing done,” I advised. “You’ll be recalled as soon as he’s out of power. For what it’s worth, I know that you had no choice in ordering those executions. Even Cato is on your side, and Jupiter knows he’s a stickler for the legalities.”

  “I appreciate your support, Decius,” he said kindly, as if I were important enough for my support to mean something.

  I waved up toward the forbidding crag of the Tarpeian Rock. “There are men walking free and safe today who deserved the rock for their part in that incident.”

  “I know whom you mean,” he said ruefully. “Calpurnius Bestia and a dozen others. Most of them escaped through Pompey’s protection and the rest were cronies of Caesar and Crassus. No chance of calling them to account now. Never mind, we’ll get them for something else another time.”

  It struck me that Cicero was a man I should consult. “Marcus Tullius, I wonder if I might beg a favor. I find myself in the midst of the strangest investigation of my career, and I am in need of your advice.”

  “I am at your service, Decius. I need something to take my mind off my own woes.” He looked around in annoyance. “But it is too noisy here. However, there is one place in Rome that is sure to be quiet this day, and it is only a few steps away. Come along.” He began to climb the broad stairway and I followed.

  The interior of the Curia was a scene of ghostly quiet. Not even a slave remained to sweep up. Even the state slaves had holiday. From these tiers of seats had come the decisions that had declared and directed our wars, settled treaties with foreign powers, determined the rights and obligations of the citizens, and proclaimed our laws to the world. Here had also been concocted most of our worst follies, as well as corruption and knavery beyond measure. But even our basest transactions had at least taken place in a setting of great dignity. The old Curia had the austere simplicity that had once characterized most of our public edifices. We descended the central stair and took our seats on the marble chairs reserved for the praetors, next to the long-vacant chair of the Flamen Dialis.

  “Now, my young friend, how may I help you?”

  I could see from the sharpness of his expression that he was indeed hoping for a brain-cracking puzzle to distract him from his formidable array of sorrows, and I wondered how I could broach the matter at hand without sounding demented.

  “Marcus Tullius, you are one of the most learned men of our age. Am I correct in believing that your knowledge of the gods is as deep as your scholarship in the law, in history, and in philosophy?”

  “First, let me say that no man can truly know the gods. I have studied extensively in what has been written and spoken of the gods.”

  “That is what I need. If I may dare so personal a question, may I ask what your own beliefs in the matter may be?”

  He paused for a moment. “Twenty years ago, I took an extended trip to Greece. I did this to study, to regain my failing health, and, incidentally, to escape Sulla’s notice. He was still dictator and had cause to dislike me. I studied with Antiochus, a most distinguished and learned man. At that time I also became an initiate in the Eleusinian mysteries. I had been a profound sceptic, but the mysteries provided a most illuminating and moving experience. It is of course forbidden to discuss them with one who is not an initiate, but suffice it to say that I have remained since convinced, not only of the possibility of a good life, but of the immortality, or at least the continuity, of the soul.”

  I had not been expecting anything quite so deep. “I see. And yet, most people, in most parts of the world, have their own gods, which they believe to regulate the cosmos. Have these any validity?”

  “What people have, for the most part, is fear,” Cicero said. “They fear the world in which they live. They fear that which they see and that which they cannot see. They fear their fellowmen. None of these fears, I hasten to point out, is unfounded. The world is indeed a dangerous and hostile place. People seek out the powers that control this world, and they seek to placate them.”

  “And can these powers exist as we envision them?” I asked.

  “Do you mean, is Jupiter a majestic, middle-aged man attended by eagles? Does Neptune have blue hair and a trident? Is Venus a voluptuous woman of infinite sexual allure?” He chuckled. “We got that from the Greeks, Decius. For our ancestors, the gods had no form. They were powers of nature. They were worshipped in the fields and in woods and at shrines. But it is difficult to imagine gods without form, and when we saw the images created by the Greeks to represent their gods we adopted them.”

  “But do we truly influence the gods, with our rituals and ceremonies and sacrifices?”

  “We influence ourselves. When we acknowledge these ineffable powers, we see ourselves in a proper perspective, which is one of humility. Our rituals reinforce the ordering of society, from the daily ceremonies conducted by the head of each household to the great rites of state. All are held communally and all emphasize the strict hierarchy of the state in subordination to the gods of the state. As for sacrifice, all men understand the principle of exchange. One gives something of value in exchange for something else. To the common people, sacrifice is just that-the exchange of material objects for less material but nonetheless palpable benefits from the gods. Educated people understand sacrifice as a symbolic act, which brings about the unity of our mortal selves and the higher powers whose supremacy we acknowledge.”

  “And human sacrifice?”

  He gave me a penetrating and half-exasperated look. “Decius, you spoke of an investigation. Might I know where all this is leading?”

  “Please bear with me, Marcus Tullius. I would like to hear your thoughts on the matter before I get down to specifics. All shall be made plain. As plain as I can make it, anyway.”

  “As you wish. Most people, we Romans included, have practiced human sacrifice. It was always the most extreme of offerings. Some societies have been notorious for it, most notably the Carthaginians. We have long since suppressed the practice, not only within Rome, but in all parts of the world where Rome holds sway. If I were a cynic, I
might say that this is because there are few things we value less than human life and so we cannot conceive that our gods would want so worthless a sacrifice.

  “However, the truth is somewhat different. In a human sacrifice, we offer to the gods that which most resembles ourselves. Identity is a most important factor in religion and in magic. We may despise our fellowman as an economic unit of less worth than a domestic animal, but we recognize the fact that he is a creature very much like ourselves. In fairness to the savage Carthaginians, I must acknowledge that they carried the principle not only of greatest value but of closest identity to its ultimate form, for in their most terrible ceremonies they sacrificed their own children. Toward the end of our last war with them they immolated hundreds to their gods, not that it did them any good.

  “Each of us dimly recognizes a life force shared by all of us, and it is the offering of this force that, it is hoped, will please the gods. But it must be done in the proper place, at the proper time, and with the proper ritual. Were it not for these factors, slaughter grounds and battlefields and arenas would be the holiest spots in the world. Now, Decius, why are you asking about human sacrifices?”

  I took a deep breath. “Because I witnessed one last night.”

  He gazed at me steadily. “I see. Please go on.”

  “The reason I am in Rome right now is that my family recalled me to look into the death of Metellus Celer. You are aware that many people think Clodia poisoned him?”

  “Of course. But that is just gossip.” He looked at me sharply. “It has been gossip until now, anyway. What did you find?”

  This was sticky. There were rumors, and I had reason to believe that they might have been true, that Cicero had at one time been involved with Clodia. He might still be, which could be delicate. Otherwise, he was just a part of the great Roman brotherhood of men Clodia had made use of then cast aside. The latter seemed most likely, as Clodia was interested mainly in men of current or potential political power, and Cicero’s sun looked to be setting at that time. Her only real loyalty was to her brother, anyway. That didn’t mean that Cicero wasn’t still infatuated with her.

  “The first question that arose was: Had Celer been poisoned at all? I consulted with Asklepiodes and he advised me that, in the absence of classic symptoms of well-known poisons, there was very little likelihood of a conclusive analysis.”

  “Quite logical,” Cicero said approvingly.

  “But the most likely source of poison, if poison was indeed involved, were the herb women who run a sizable medical and fortune-telling practice out by the Circus Flaminius, since the aediles drove them out of the City.”

  “A great Italian tradition,” he said dryly. “The state cults fail to satisfy some basic needs of the common people. They must forever be bothering the great cosmic powers for details about the future of their petty lives.”

  “While there I had a rather disturbing interview with a woman named Furia and heard the name Harmodia spoken. Further investigation revealed that this woman had been murdered. The murder had been briefly investigated by the aedile Licinius Murena, but some days later he took the report from the Temple of Ceres and it seems to have disappeared.”

  “A moment, please,” Cicero said sharply.

  “When you say ‘he took the report,’ do you mean that Murena did this personally?”

  That stopped me and I had to think about it. “No, now that you mention it, the slave boy at the temple said that a slave came from the court of the praetor urbanus and said that the aedile needed it.”

  “Very well. Go on.”

  “I went to the Flaminius and there I questioned the watchman who had discovered Harmodia’s body. He had little of importance to tell me concerning the incident, but she had been one of the herb women and he was most uneasy in speaking of the subject at all. He was afraid of their powers to curse and cast spells, and he said that the witches had a sacred place out on the Vatican field where there was a mundus. He said that the herb women held a great celebration there on the night before Saturnalia.”

  “That does not greatly surprise me,” Cicero said. “These witches, saga and striga and so forth, are for the most part remnants of the ancient earth cults that once dominated the whole Mediterranean littoral. They were there when the Dorians came down from the north to bring the sky gods to Greece, and they were in Italy when the ancestral Latins migrated here. We acknowledge the underworld gods by holding their rituals in the evening, after sunset. But these remnants of the archaic faith carry out their rites in the ancient fashion, in the dead of night. As for their mundus, any hole in the ground will do for a mundus, if one is of a frame of mind to believe in such things.

  “Everywhere one goes in the world, the greatest festivals are held at the same times of year: the vernal and autumnal equinoxes, and the summer and winter solstices. Saturnalia is our winter solstice celebration. It follows logically that the earth cults would hold their revels at night during those seasons.”

  Cicero could get pedantic at times.

  “So it seems. Anyway, last night I went out there to see for myself.” Then I told him what had happened in the grove. He listened with great attention and seriousness. When I came to the part about the patrician women I had recognized, he stopped me.

  “Fausta? Are you sure it was she?” He seemed alarmed.

  “She is a most striking lady. Even without her clothes there is no mistaking her.” Why, I wondered, was he disturbed about Fausta? Why not Clodia?

  “This is … upsetting,” Cicero said.

  “Not as upsetting as the next part,” I assured him. Then I told of the sacrifice. Unlike my father he made no superstitious gestures although his expression conveyed a mild distaste, probably more at the primitive proceedings than at the killing. No one got to high office in Rome back then without witnessing abundant bloodshed. When I told of how I had bested my captors and made it back to the city, he chuckled and clapped me on the shoulder.

  “My congratulations upon your heroic escape, Decius. I have never known a man like you for getting out of incredibly tight spots. You must be a descendant of Ulysses. Someday you must give me a full account of that business in Alexandria. I’ve had four wildly differing accounts from friends who were there at the time. They all say they don’t want to see you back.”

  Then he resumed his serious tone. “As to this disagreeable business on the Vatican field, it could prove a touchy matter to deal with.”

  “Why is that? Human sacrifice is specifically forbidden by law, is it not?”

  “It is, except under the most pressing circumstances, and it is never to be undertaken without the most solemn state sanction and performed by duly consecrated officials of the state cults. We consider it a remnant of our primitive past and always use a victim who has already been condemned to death for a civil offense.

  “But”-he held up a hand, fingers splayed in lawyer fashion while he counted off each objection, like an egg and a dolphin being taken down to mark each lap of a chariot race-“what you witnessed last night took place outside the walls of the City, across the river, in what used to be Tuscia. That alone will greatly reduce the indignation that might have been stirred had it happened within the walls, in some secluded house or garden.”

  “It’s no more than an hour’s walk away!” I protested.

  He shook his head. “We Romans all but own the world, but mentally we are still the inhabitants of a little city-state situated on one of Italy’s less important rivers. It is very difficult for a Roman to feel that something happening outside the walls actually involves him.” Another finger went down. “Have you any witnesses?”

  “Well, yes, but they were all dancing around the fire and participating.”

  “In other words, unlikely to support your testimony. You accuse three women from very powerful families.” Another finger went down. “Granted, they are women of considerable notoriety, but can you imagine the woe they can bring upon your head? You have Clodius’s sister
and his betrothed, and you have the betrothed of your good friend Milo, and she is a Cornelia, the daughter of a dictator and the ward of Lucullus, who is still a man of great power and influence. If we were dealing merely with a pack of peasant women and villagers it would be different.

  “Then there is the victim.” Another finger. “If he were a citizen, especially one of good family, mobs would assault the Curia to get something done. Did you recognize him?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “In all probability he was a foreign slave. Legally, they are expendable persons, mere property with no rights. The fact of the sacrifice may have been in contravention of the laws, but the victim was of no consequence.”

  He lowered his hands and placed them upon his spread knees. “But worst of all, Decius, is the time of year. None of the sitting praetors or aediles will want to institute proceedings just a few days before they leave office.”

  “There are still next year’s,” I said.

  “And which among them will want to take up such a dubious prosecution, one which must drag in the man who will be the uncrowned king of Rome next year?” Then, more gently, “Decius, do you think you can even find this place again?”

  I thought about it, trying to remember just where I had turned off the Via Aurelia onto the farm road, and where along the farm road I had heard the screech owl and followed its call to the sunken lane. And how far along the lane had that isolated copse stood?

  “I think so,” I said uncertainly. “The Vatican is a big area, but I think if I looked long enough …”

  “I thought so. Today being Saturnalia I will bet you my library against your sandals that you couldn’t find it by the end of the month. I’ll bet further that, even if you could find it, all evidence of the sacrifice is gone. You will find no bones, no sorcerous paraphernalia, no more than a scorched patch of ground. That is not enough to take to court.”

  “This is most discouraging,” I lamented.

  “I am sorry that I could not be of more comfort or aid.”