Saturnalia (13 page)

We retraced my steps of the day before, across the cattle market, which was more crowded than ever, what with people buying supplies for the feasting to come and animals for sacrifice. The whole city, in fact, was filling up as people poured in from the countryside to celebrate the holiday.

The Campus Martius, in sharp contrast, was nearly deserted. I saw immediately that the previous day’s horde of tents, booths, stalls, and so forth had temporarily moved into the City proper, taking advantage of the relaxed market laws. I felt obscurely relieved, not having to pass by Furia’s booth.

A bit of asking and poking around turned up the watchman, one of several employed by the circus to keep thieves away from the expensive decorations and prevent indigents from kindling fires beneath the arches on cold nights and perhaps burning the place down. He lived in a tenement near the circus. In common with most of Rome’s
insulae,
his was a five-story building, its ground floor mostly let out for shops and its lower living quarters rented to the better-off classes. The upper floors, divided into small, waterless, and nearly airless rooms, were rented to the poor. The object of my search lived on the top floor, beneath the eaves.

Hermes and I toiled our way up four flights of stairs amid the noises of squalling infants and arguing children and adults. The smells of poverty were not pleasant, but I was so
familiar with them that I didn’t bother to wrinkle my nose. Most of my neighbors lived no better. When I found the door, Hermes pounded on it, hard. For a long time we heard nothing.

“Maybe he’s not in,” Hermes said.

“He’s in. He’s a watchman. He sleeps days.”

After repeated knocking we heard shuffling and scraping noises from inside. In time, the door opened fractionally and I got a vague impression of a bleary-eyed, unshaven face.

“What is it?” Then he recognized my senatorial insignia and the door swung wide. “Oh. Pardon me, Senator. How may I help you?” He seemed to be equal parts bewilderment and trepidation, unable to fathom what this strange visitation could portend. Also, he was still half-asleep.

“I am Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, and I am engaged upon an investigation. Are you Marcus Urgulus?”

“I am.” He nodded vigorously. He was a middle-aged man, once robust but running to fat, with more lines in his face than teeth in his mouth.

“Did you, on the ninth day of last month, discover the body of a murdered herb woman named Harmodia?”

“Yes, yes, I did.” He looked uncomfortable and embarrassed. “Ah, Senator, I hesitate to invite you into my crib. One reason I took the job of watchman was so I wouldn’t have to spend my nights here.”

I, too, had little eagerness to enter.

“Is there a tavern nearby? If so, I’ll stand you to a cup or two while I hear your report.”

“Just a moment, sir.” He went back in and I could hear water splashing into a basin. A minute later he reappeared. His eyes were clearer and his hair had been smoothed to a
semblance of order. “There’s a little dive at the corner of the
insula
next door,” he said, leading the way.

We descended and walked out of the tenement with a sense of relief. A walk to the corner and across a tiny street brought us to a low doorway, above which was carved a relief of a charioteer driving a
quadriga,
the four horses depicted in full gallop and painted in garish colors. The area around the Flaminius had for many years been the only developed part of the Campus Martius, and the building was an old one.

“This is the Charioteer,” Urgulus said. “It’s where most of the men who work at the Flaminius hang out.”

We ducked beneath the lintel and went inside. The shutters were propped open, lightening the gloom of the smoky interior. The smoke came from a number of charcoal braziers that warmed pots of spiced wine and pans of sausage. The smell hit my nostrils, and my stomach reminded me that I was neglecting it. I handed some coins to Hermes.

“Fetch us a pitcher of wine and something to eat,” I told him, making a mental note to count the change when he came back.

“There’s a good table back here where we can talk,” Urgulus said, walking back to the murkiest corner, where a square table was placed beneath a sign warning against loud arguing and disorderly dicing. We walked past the tavern’s half-dozen or so other patrons. If they were impressed by the presence of a senator in their midst, they didn’t show it. Circus people are a notably tough and aloof breed.

We took our seats and a minute later Hermes arrived with a pitcher, a platter of bread and sausage, and three cups. He was taking liberties, but I did not bother to upbraid him for his presumption. It was almost Saturnalia, after all. The wine was not bad at all, only lightly watered, with steam rising
from it and flecks of spices floating on its surface. I tasted clove and fennel as I drank, and the hot drink warmed my insides agreeably.

“Now,” I said, “tell me about your discovery.”

“It was just getting light,” Urgulus began, “and I went to the circus watchmen’s office to turn in my club and my keys. I’m in charge of the passageways and the gates on the second level, south side.” He rolled the cup between his hands and gazed as if into a great, far distance. “I left the circus and walked out from beneath the arches, and I hadn’t gone three steps before I tripped over the woman’s body.” He gave me a strained, sheepish grin. “I was already half asleep, and this side of the circus,” he nodded toward the hulking structure visible through the open door, “was still in deep shadow. I landed right in a big puddle of blood.”

“Did you recognize her?” I asked.

“Not just then. It was still too dark. I tell you, sir, I almost went home and didn’t report it. There I was with blood all over me, and I thought people might think I’d killed her. But I got over my first scare and realized the blood and the body were both plumb cold and the woman had gone stiff. She must have been lying there all night.

“So I went to the fountain and washed the worst of it off, and when I went back it was light enough to see that it was Harmodia.”

“You knew her?”

“Oh, yes. She’d had her stall beneath arch number nineteen for years. Can’t say I knew her well. I try to avoid those countrywomen unless I need some doctoring, like when I get the toothache or belly cramps.”

“Describe her,” I said. The man’s cup was empty and Hermes refilled it.

“She wasn’t really a big woman but built sort of stocky. About thirty years old, not bad-looking. She had brown hair and blue eyes and all her teeth. She talked with a Sabellian accent, you know … Marsian. A lot of the herb women are from there, or Tuscia.”

“How was she killed?”

“Throat cut,” he said, drawing his stiffened fingers across his neck in the universal gesture. “And cut good, right down to the spine. That’s why all the blood.”

“Any other wounds?”

“Not that I could see. Of course, her dress was soaked with blood and for all I know she was stabbed as well. When the other countrywomen came in to set up their stalls, they took charge of the body and I went to the aedile’s office to report what I’d found. The aedile Murena came back with me and talked to the people who knew her for a while, then he left. That’s all I know, Senator.”

“Who claimed the body?” I asked him.

“Some of the market women said they’d take her back to her home. I think it was up around Lake Fucinus somewhere.”

“Did no one come forward who had witnessed the murder?”

He gave a cynical laugh. “Do they ever?”

“Seldom. Have there been any rumors?”

“Not that I’ve heard, and I guess that says something in itself.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, there are
always
rumors, aren’t there? If no one’s talking, it probably means somebody important is involved.”

“And the other herb women have said nothing?”

“Like I said, Senator, I don’t have more to do with them than I have to.” He looked as if his wiser nature was telling
him to shut up, but the hot wine was warring with his wiser nature and in such a contest, wine always wins.

“Why is that?”

“Well,” he looked around, as if someone were trying to eavesdrop. The men at the other tables were rattling dice and knocking back wine, paying us no attention. “Well”—he went on—“they’re all witches, you know. They can put the evil eye on you, cast spells, all sorts of things.”

“But most are just harmless
saga,
surely?” I prodded.

“Not all of them,” he said, leaning forward, speaking low and earnestly. “Some are
striga,
and there’s no way of telling which are which until you get on the wrong side of them!” He sat back. “And people say they’re especially powerful right about this time, too.”

“Why should that be?”

He looked surprised. “Tonight’s one of their most important festivals, isn’t it? The eve of Saturnalia is when they dance and sacrifice and perform their rites, out on the Vatican field.”

This was the first I had heard of such a thing. “Why the Vatican?”

“There’s a plot of sacred ground out there,” he said. “It’s said to have a
mundus
and the witches can call up the dead through it or contact the gods of the underworld. Mark me, sir, at midnight tonight you won’t find a
striga
in the city. They’ll all be out there.”

“You’ve been very helpful, Marcus Urgulus,” I said, handing him a few denarii. “Here. Have a fine holiday.”

He thanked me and hurried off, leaving me to sit and ponder. Rome contains worlds within worlds. This world of the witches was a new one to me. It was a part of the world of the peasants and the small country towns, as the politics of
the Senate and the rites of the great temples were parts of my own world. Witches and spells and poisons; the thought made my cut palm throb.

“Why all this talk of witches and their rites?” Hermes asked, the hot wine working on him as well. He looked uncomfortable with the subject.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I thought this would be a straightforward murder investigation, just a simple poisoning for sound personal or political reasons. Now we’re off into the realms of the occult and the supernatural.”

Like most educated people I was sharply sceptical of all superstitions and persons claiming supernatural powers. On the other hand, I knew better than to take chances. And the woman Furia had unnerved me. I couldn’t help but wonder: Just what did they do out there on the Vatican field?

I just knew that my curiosity was leading me into something incredibly foolish.

T
HAT EVENING WE MADE PREPARATIONS
for the rites at the Temple of Saturn. My clients gathered in their best clothes, everyone merry, having dipped into the wine well in advance of the official holiday, which would not begin until after sundown and which took full effect only the next morning, with complete license for the slaves and the peculiar demands of dress and behavior belonging only to the day of Saturnalia.

I had my slaves bring out trays of refreshments to keep the mood going and mingled with the clients, saying all those inane expressions of goodwill that are demanded upon such occasions. Despite the pervasive air of jollity that had seized the city, I had both dagger and
caestus
stashed inside my tunic. Streets jammed with noisy, celebrating crowds make even better conditions for an ambush than those same streets, deserted in the black of night.

Leaving my house, we made our slow way down to the Subura Street and thence toward the Forum, our progress paralytically slow because every last inhabitant of Rome who was not on his deathbed was out in the streets, greeting and dancing and making noise. The wine sellers had clearly been doing a great business, and most of the flutes were being played by persons of no musical talent.

In time we merged with the crowd coming down the Via Sacra, then past the basilicas and porticoes until we all stood before the great Temple of Saturn. The lictors and the temple slaves were there in force, ushering people into their proper places. Here I left my clients and took my place with the rest of the Senate on the steps of the temple, where, as a very junior member of the body, I stood in the back row. Still, this gave me a vantage point, and I could see all the most important members of the state who were in Rome at the time.

In the places of highest honor, near the altar that stood before the entrance, were the vestals, including my Aunt Caecilia, the
flamines
(we had no
Flamen Dialis
that year), the
pontifices,
and all the serving magistrates. Among the aediles I saw Calpurnius Bestia, and I tried to figure out which of his colleagues was Murena, but without success. I saw Metellus Scipio among the tribunes and Clodius with the tribunes-elect. The consul Bibulus had finally come out of his house for this one ritual, which required all officials holding
imperium.
He looked like a man who had eaten too many green peaches.

Looking down and to my left, I saw the patrician families standing in the first ranks at the bottom of the steps. From my vantage point it was shockingly plain how thin were those lines. Once the great power in the state, the patricians had grown so few that there was no longer any particular advantage to belonging to one, save prestige. There were about fourteen
patrician families left at the time, and some of these, such as the Julii, were minuscule. Perhaps most numerous were the Cornelians, and even their numbers were much reduced.

Among them I saw Clodia, Fausta, and Fulvia standing in a group. Once I had spotted the Julii, it was easy to find Julia. She caught my eye and smiled broadly. I smiled back. But, then, everyone was smiling. We all get a little silly at Saturnalia.

Behind the patricians stood the order of the
equites,
far more numerous and collectively the most important of the classes, since it was property qualification, not birth, that gave an
eques
his status.

This rigid partitioning by rank was symbolic, for at the end of the ceremony all classes would mingle freely in memory of the Golden Age of Saturnus commemorated in this yearly rite. Unlike all other sacrificial ceremonies, no one, man or woman, slave or free, wore a head covering, for all such solemnity was banished from the happiest ritual of the year.