Saturnalia (2 page)

“You aren’t going to sell me?” Hermes asked, alarmed.

“Of course not, idiot, although the idea has its attractions. But if you’re going to be of any use to me, you’d better learn to defend yourself. You’re old enough to train now.” Hermes was about eighteen at the time, a handsome youth and accomplished in all sorts of criminal rascality. It was perfectly legal to train slaves to fight and as yet there were no laws forbidding a slave to bear arms, as long as he was outside the City and accompanying his master.

“The gladiator school, eh?” I could see that he liked the thought. He had no idea how rough the training would be. Like most young boys, he thought the gladiator’s life was exciting and glamorous, unaware that a few splendid moments in the arena, dressed in plumes and gilded armor, was the result of years of bone-crunching work beneath the beady eyes of brutal overseers who enforced discipline with whips and hot irons. Of course I had no intention of having him trained for the arena, but he had to learn enough to stay alive in the
sort of street fighting and midnight ambush that had become norms of Roman political life.

The Latina proved to be the wiser choice for the final stretch from Capua to Rome. Along the way we stayed at inns or at the villas of friends and relatives. Nine days of travel, with frequent changes of mounts, brought us, sore and bedraggled, within sight of the walls of Rome.

M
Y FATHER LOOKED UP FROM
the scrolls on the table before him. “What took you so long?” he demanded. It was his usual greeting.

“The weather, the sea, the time of year, a few balky horses, the usual. I rejoice to see you well, Father.” In fact he was carrying his age well. The scar that nearly bisected his face and nose looked deeper than ever, and he had more lines and less hair, but he seemed as vigorous and energetic as always. With the censorship he had achieved the pinnacle of Roman life, but that had not lulled him into retirement. He campaigned on behalf of other family members as aggressively as ever.

“Nonsense. Like all sons, you’re panting after your inheritance. Sit down.”

I sat. We were in the courtyard of Father’s town house. The walls kept out the wind, and the late morning sun made
it almost warm. “Why am I needed here? I’m far too late for Celer’s funeral.”

He brushed off the question. “Creticus wrote to me about that foolish business in Alexandria. You might have gotten yourself killed over matters of no importance to Rome.”

“It turned out to be of utmost importance to Rome!” I protested.

“But that isn’t why you got involved!” he said, slapping a palm down upon the table, making pens and ink pot jump. “It was your obnoxious love for snooping and, I don’t doubt, your weakness for the company of loose women.”

“Not women,” I murmured, “muses.”

“Eh? Stop vaporing. There is important business afoot, and for once you’ll be able to snoop to your heart’s content with the family’s blessing.”

This sounded promising. “What about Clodius?”

He shifted uneasily, not a common thing for him to do. “We’ve patched things up somewhat with Caesar, so as long as he’s in the city the little swine will probably leave you alone. But Caesar leaves Rome at the end of the year and so will you. Have you had word of Caesar’s proconsular command?”

“In Egypt we had word that he and Bibulus were getting the upkeep of the Italian goat paths and dung heaps, but in Rhodes word came that Vatinius had secured Cisalpine Gaul and Illyricum for Caesar.”

“That is true. Now the Senate has given him Transalpine Gaul as well, with his proconsulship to run for five years.”

My jaw dropped. “No one has ever had such a territory or such a period of office!” I said. “Everyone knows Gaul is about to erupt like a volcano. And they gave it all to
Caesar?”

“My thoughts exactly. Most of the Senate hopes he’ll disgrace
himself or get killed. At any rate, he’ll be out of Rome for five years.”

“That is foolish,” I said. “Caesar has more brains than the rest of the Senate combined. In five years he’ll build up a
clientela
bigger than Marius had and he’ll be powerful enough to march against Rome.”

“Do you think you are the only one to have thought of that?” He waved a hand dismissively. “It’s not your concern. Now that you’re back I will call a meeting of the family leaders. Be back here just before sundown this evening.” He returned his attention to his scrolls. That was all. I had been dismissed.

I was mystified, but I felt a profound relief. I had performed my primary duty in calling on my father. Now I could do what I wanted. So, naturally, I went to the Forum. A Roman separated from the Forum for too long suffers an illness of the spirit. He languishes and pines. He knows that, however important his work, however abandoned the pleasures of the locale, he is far from the center of the world. It felt wonderful to be approaching the spot all those hundreds of milestones had led me to.

Emerging from the warren of narrow streets and alleys into the Forum was like coming out of a narrow mountain pass onto a great plain. The vista opened up and I could see more than a narrow strip of sky overhead. The great basilicas, the monuments, the
rostra,
the Curia where the Senate met and which had not been burned down recently, and, most beloved of all, the temples. From the beautiful little round Temple of Vesta, they ascended to culminate in the glorious crown of the Capitol, seat of Jupiter Optimus Maximus.

But even more than the architecture, the population made the Forum. As usual it was thronged, even on a rather
chilly December day. Citizens, freedmen and slaves, women, foreigners, and children of indistinguishable status, they bustled or lounged or played as the mood suited them. And the mood was one of excitement. To one closely attuned to the heartbeat of Rome, and I am one of these, the mood of the city may be sensed as a mother senses the mood of her child: frightened, sad, hilarious, indignant, angry, all are apparent to one who knows how to read the signs.

I knew it could not be simply the anticipation of Saturnalia, which was to commence in a few days. As much as Romans love the revelry of Saturnalia, there is something glum about the holiday, for it is the time when we have to pay our debts. No, this was something else, another intriguing little mystery to plumb.

I plunged into the crowd and began greeting old friends and making dinner appointments. For all its awesome power and glory, Rome is just an overgrown farm town and I could not look in any direction without seeing someone I knew. With Hermes dogging my heels, I slowly made my way through the Forum and up the Capitol, where I made a sacrifice in thanks for my safe return.

With the commencement of afternoon, I sent Hermes to my house for my bath things and relaxed amid steam and hot water while friends and acquaintances gossiped about charioteers, gladiators, scandalous women, and so forth. Nobody seemed to want to talk much about politics, and I found that strange. It was not as if they were fearful, as might be the case when a lunatic tyrant or a ruthless dictator held power, as it was during the last year of Marius or the proscriptions of Sulla. Rather, it was as if they were confused. The last thing a Roman wants to admit is that he doesn’t know what is going on.

So I made my next call the Egyptian embassy. Lisas, the
ambassador, had been in Rome forever and collected all the gossip in the world, since he spent almost all his time entertaining and bribing the Roman government and all the other embassies. The fat old pervert received me hospitably as always. I noted with some dismay that beneath his heavy cosmetics, his face was spotted with a number of tiny lesions. Perhaps we would soon need a new Egyptian ambassador. That would sadden me, for the man, to use the term loosely, was an invaluable resource.

“Welcome, Senator, welcome,” the old man enthused. He clapped his hands and slaves came running to wash my hands and feet, even though I had just come from the bath. One took my toga, another thrust a beaker into my hand. Others fanned us vigorously. It wasn’t hot and there were no flies, but maybe the slaves just needed the exercise. We went into a small, circular dining room that was one of the many eccentric features of the Egyptian embassy, which followed no architectural convention I was ever able to discern.

“His Majesty informs me that you performed some signal favors for him last year. He is most grateful.” Even as he spoke, as if by magic, viands appeared on the table between us. It always amazed me that, no matter what hour I called upon Lisas, it was always dinnertime. Romans are punctilious about mealtimes, but not Lisas. Even for an impromptu courtesy call, he had not just the usual fruit and cheese and olives ready, but fresh-baked bread still hot from the oven and whole roast fowl with its skin still crisp.

While we ate we spoke of inconsequential things. I inquired about the health of Ptolemy’s latest son, who had been just a bump in his mother’s belly when I left Alexandria, and Lisas asked about my stay in Rhodes, hoping that I had been
on some sort of secret mission. Alas, it was just one of my many unofficial exiles.

“I’m a little puzzled about Rome’s political state,” I admitted, as a slave poured a sweet dessert wine. “I’ve been out of touch for a long time and my friends are unenlightening.”

“Hardly surprising,” Lisas said. “The events of recent months have been unprecedented. Caesar’s has been a most productive consulship.”

“Most consuls just sit out their term and hope for a rich province to govern afterward,” I said.

“Exactly. Not Caesar, though. Almost immediately he rammed through the settlement for Pompey’s veterans. Then he remitted a third of the contracts to Crassus’s friends, the tax farmers for Asia.”

I shrugged. “Campaign debts. The three of them are as tight as my maiden aunts. Caesar would never have been made consul without the help of the other two.”

“Quite possibly. Of course, it helps that he is acting as if he were sole consul.”

“How did that come about?” I asked. “Granted, Bibulus has the spine of a squid, but couldn’t he even try to overrule his colleague?”

“Indeed, he did try.” Lisas spread his hands in an Egyptian gesture of futility. “But he was driven from the Forum by open threat of violence and took refuge in his house. There he announced that he was watching for omens.”

At this one I laughed aloud. “That one’s been tried before!” By ancient law all public business had to be suspended while an augur watched for auspicious omens. It was a common way for connivers to delay legislation, but it was rarely good for more than a day or two, certainly not for the duration of a consulship.

“Caesar ignored him and proceeded to act unilaterally. You have noticed that by now everyone has dropped the Caius and Julius and refer to him merely as Caesar? It disturbs some people.”

“As it should,” I said. “Only kings and slaves are called by a single name. Somehow I don’t see Caesar fancying himself a slave.”

“Just so. Most graciously, Caesar has also persuaded the Senate to ratify His Majesty’s position as king of Egypt and as friend and ally of the Roman people.” Lisas oozed contentment.

I forebore to ask what sort of bribe Ptolemy must have offered, knowing it had to be immense. But it was worth whatever he paid. From now on no foreigner could invade Egypt without going to war with Rome, and no usurper could do away with Ptolemy without giving Rome an excuse to annex Egypt. I went back to an earlier point.

“You say Bibulus was driven from the Forum by violence. Was Clodius by any chance involved?”

“Who else? His mob supports Caesar and the popular party.”

“What about Milo?”

“They brawl, but for the moment Clodius is in the ascendant. Milo is allied with Cicero, and Cicero is probably packing his belongings right now. When Clodius takes office as tribune, he will make it his first order of business to drive Cicero into exile, using the executions of the Catilinarian conspirators as an excuse.”

“It was necessary,” I said uncomfortably. I hadn’t liked the idea of the executions myself, but for once Cato and I were in agreement: It was folly to accord constitutional protection
to men who were in the very act of the violent overthrow of the Constitution.

“You needn’t convince me,” Lisas said. “It is only an excuse. Cicero fought Clodius’s transfer to the plebs with all the legal and political skill at his disposal, and that was considerable. Clodius does not forget.” He took a sip of his wine and set the cup aside. “But Caesar’s term of office draws to a close. Events in Gaul beckon.”

“I was there on an embassy with Creticus just before we went on our mission to Alexandria. The people there are very unhappy with us.”

“They are unenlightened barbarians. The allies of Rome are falling away and joining those who would resist Roman expansion into free Gallic territory.”

“Can’t really blame them for that. The free ones, I mean. We are sometimes a little nonchalant about helping ourselves to other people’s territory. That’s no reason for our allies to desert us though.”

“There is a new factor, however,” Lisas said, spinning it out for the sheer delight of keeping me after him for details.

“New factor? Not an invasion from that island up north, Britannia or whatever it’s called?”

“Oh, no. The eastern Gauls have been fighting among themselves for several years now.”

“I knew about that. One faction is led by the Aedui and the other by the Averni, I believe. The situation changes so fast there that it’s hard to keep track.”

“That is still the lineup. Anyway, word has it that the Averni were losing and so they decided, foolishly, that they needed, well … allies.”

I all but let my cup clatter to the floor. “Jove preserve us! You mean the Germans are across the Rhine again?”

“So it would seem. Only mercenaries so far, but they have a new and apparently ambitious king, one Ariovistus. Last I heard, the king was still east of the Rhine; but my sources say that there may be more than a hundred thousand German warriors on the western bank already, and the Germans have coveted the rich lands of Gaul for a long, long time.”