Solid Citizens

by David Wishart

  ‘You want to do this, pal?’ I whispered to Clarus. ‘It’s your house, and you’re Head of Household.’

  He was grinning. ‘No, that’s OK, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Carry on.’

  Fair enough. Like I said, I enjoy the Winter Festival, and the Sack is the best part. Everyone got a Festival doll, a wax candle and a little pouch of cash, which was traditional all over the empire – and as Head of Household Clarus had handed these out already – but the Sack was an extra.

  ‘OK, then let’s get started,’ I said, taking out the first present and looking at the tag and raising my voice. ‘Who’s got number six?’

  A hand went up: one of the stable lads.

  ‘Congratulations, pal,’ I said. ‘You’ve got a bottle of scent.’

  There were hoots from his mates, plus a couple of raspberries as he came up to collect it. He didn’t look too disappointed, mind, which was understandable: no doubt he could work a deal out later to their mutual satisfaction with one of the maids.

  ‘Next,’ I said. ‘Number eleven. Ex eye, ladies and gentlemen. Who’s got eleven?’

  That was better. The mouse-like kitchen skivvy crept back to her place proudly clutching a packet of Alexandrian honeyed dates.

  ‘Five. The big vee.’

  Five was a belt pouch with a couple of silver pieces in it. Always popular, that one. Euclidus the chef. I was glad it was him: the rest of the gang could enjoy their day off, but if we all wanted to eat then someone had to do the cooking.

  ‘Vultures over the Palatine, number twelve.’

  ‘That would be me, sir,’ Bathyllus said, coming forward.

  I grinned. Yeah, it would be: the little guy never did have much luck with raffles. ‘It’s, uh, a rather fetching little brush and comb set, Bathyllus.’ Hoots and catcalls again as the assembled throng caught sight of them. Still, it was the Winter Festival, and you could take a joke too far. ‘Never mind, pal. See me later and we’ll arrange something different. OK, moving on rapidly. Number nine. All the Muses, number nine. Who’s got nine?’ Silence. ‘Come on, people! Somebody must have it!’

  ‘I think that might be Phormio’s, sir,’ Bathyllus said. ‘He isn’t here, I’m afraid.’

  Yeah; now he came to mention it there wasn’t any sign of Mother’s lantern-jawed coconut-headed demon chef among the serried ranks. Currently speaking, the universe definitely had a Phormio-shaped hole in it. Not that we’d be grieving over this. Still, it was festival morning …

  ‘So where the hell is he?’ I said.

  Bathyllus coughed discreetly. ‘In the latrine, sir,’ he said. ‘Or so I’d imagine. He’s been spending most of his time there ever since the small hours of this morning. If you give his present to me or to Lupercus we’ll be very happy to pass it on when he re-emerges.’

  ‘The latrine, eh?’ I glanced at Clarus. ‘Your department, I think, pal. A bit of medical research.’ He nodded and went out. ‘OK, Bathyllus. Here it is: a new pair of sandals.’ Very appropriate, under the circumstances. ‘Right. Number fourteen. One of each, ex eye vee. Who’s got fourteen?’

  And so it went on. The Sack emptied and was put away for another year. Ah, well. The ladies went off to bring our own presents hidden in clothes-chests and under the beds – Perilla always gives me a new mantle; surprise, surprise – while the bought help dispersed to the general revelry below stairs.

  ‘Not you, sunshine,’ I said to Bathyllus. ‘Or you, Lupercus. Winter Festival or not, I want a word. Just twiddle your thumbs until Clarus gets back, will you?’

  They did, and he did, a few moments later.

  ‘You found him?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It’s nothing serious. Just a bad case of the runs. Something he ate. I’ve given him a suspension that’ll help, but he’ll be out of things for the rest of the day.’

  ‘Is that so, now?’ I said. ‘And I suppose this means that he won’t be up to cooking this extra-special super-duper beyond-the-spice-route gourmet Winter Festival meal that Mother was talking about, does it?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Clarus cleared his throat; I could see he was trying hard not to grin. ‘We’ll just have to fall back on Euclidus, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I was looking at Bathyllus and Lupercus and getting two blank-eyeballed stares in return. ‘Something he ate, right? And this would be last night, in the servants’ hall, presumably. Together with the rest of the staff.’

  ‘Probably,’ Clarus said.

  ‘Anyone else dumping his or her guts out downstairs in the small hours, Lupercus?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Not so much as a twinge?’

  ‘Ah … no, sir. Fortunately.’

  ‘And it couldn’t be self-inflicted, could it? The deal was that he was barred from doing any cheffing until the festival meal itself. Right, Bathyllus?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So it’s odd, isn’t it?’ No answer. I turned to Clarus. ‘Uh … absolutely apropos of nothing whatsoever, pal, have you checked the contents of your medicine cupboard recently? For, say, your supply of purgatives?’

  He’d twigged. He cleared his throat again. ‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not necessary, Corvinus. Lupercus here keeps the simple basics up to score. I’ve taught him how to prepare the non-harmful medicines I use a lot of, and I’m certain he’d make good any shortfall.’

  ‘Right. Right.’ I nodded. ‘Well, it’s a complete mystery, isn’t it? Mother will be disappointed. As will we all. Still, it can’t be helped. Never mind, better luck next year.’

  ‘Will there be anything more, sir?’ Bathyllus said. He was looking relieved.

  ‘No, little guy, I think that just about does it. It’s the festival: go and put your feet up, let your hair down or whatever. Oh, that reminds me –’ I reached into my belt pouch – ‘the replacement for that brush and comb set. I can’t think of anything suitable at present, so you’ll just have to make do with the cash equivalent.’ I gave him a gold piece, and handed another one to Lupercus. ‘Happy Winter Festival, pals. Don’t spend it all in the one shop.’

  They went to join what was no doubt by this time a staff knees-up in full swing. Minus, of course, Phormio, who wouldn’t want to stray too far from the hole in the floor.

  Ah, well. It was only once a year, and they deserved it.

  Author’s Note

  Solid Citizens is completely fictional, of course, but what was interesting for me was that, uniquely and purely coincidentally, it was set at exactly the time it was written, in the lead-up to what would’ve been the Roman Winter Festival (Saturnalia), a week before our Christmas. That was quite an eerie experience, since I found for a lot of the time that I was sitting down at my laptop in December 2012 and mentally shifting back to precisely the same date in AD39. Even the weather outside my living-room window was the same – unfortunately, given my twice-a-day dog-walking duties. So despite all the murder and mayhem, for me at least the book has a definite Christmassy feel.

  A word or two, for anyone who may be interested, concerning the Saturnalia itself. (I’ve already put some of this into the author’s note for Last Rites, but never mind.) It was dedicated to the god Saturn, which explains a lot about its character. Saturn occupied a very special place in the Roman psyche; he was a benign, grandfatherly figure, as opposed to his more authoritarian son Jupiter, and he had presided over the First Age of Man when life was much simpler and kinder. The festival began according to different accounts on 16 or 17 December, and originally lasted for three days, although this was extended to five and longer in the AD years. Through no coincidence whatsoever (early Christianity exhibiting the plagiaristic features that it did), it had a great deal in common with our Christmas, particularly in the latter’s mediaeval form: all public business was suspended, and the normal rigid social conventions – particularly those governing the relationship between slave and master – were relaxed or even reversed. It was a time for parties, when even the stuffiest Roman would let his hair down, swap his toga for a party m
antle or indulge in a bit of cross-dressing à la pantomime dame; also for exchanging presents, particularly – by tradition – wax candles and dolls/puppets, which served the same purpose as our Christmas cards. Not the Sack, though; that’s pure invention on my part, and just a bit of fun, because I thought it was something that Corvinus would enjoy, so I gave him his head at that point. As at the mediaeval Christmas, often an equivalent of the Lord of Misrule or King of the Bean was chosen by lot – slave or free – whose word for the duration was law.

  The poet Catullus calls the Saturnalia optimus dierum, ‘best of days’, which more or less sums the thing up. Very un-Roman, in many ways – at least, as we think of the Romans – but none the worse for that.

  A very merry Christmas to you, when it comes.