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  Saturnalia

  ( SPQR - 5 )

  John Maddox Roberts

  John Maddox Roberts

  Saturnalia

  SPQR

  Senatus Populus Que Romanus

  The Senate and People of Rome

  1

  I set foot in Italy once more on a filthy day in December. The wind blew cold rain in my face as the little naval cutter pulled up under oars to the dock at Tarentum. It was an evil time of year to be at sea, months past the good sailing season. Of course, as far as I am concerned, there is no such thing as a good sailing season. We had left Rhodes in similarly foul weather and hopped among the tedious string of islands, then up the ragged coast of Greece. From there we hopped across the strait that separates Greece from Italy, then around the southern cape and into the relatively sheltered waters of the Tarentine Gulf.

  I went up the gangplank and stepped ashore with my usual sense of profound relief. I didn’t quite get down on my knees and kiss the ground, but only from a sense of decorum. Immediately, my stomach began to settle. But it was still raining.

  “Land!” Hermes cried with intense, heartfelt relief. He was carrying the bundles of our belongings beneath both arms. He hated the sea even more than I did.

  “Enjoy it while you can,” I advised him. “You’re about to exchange a heaving stomach for sores on your backside.”

  “You mean we have to ride?” He disliked horses almost as much as he hated the sea.

  “Did you think we were going to walk to Rome?”

  “I think I could stand it. How far is it?”

  “Almost three hundred miles. Luckily, all of it is over first-class roads. We’ll take the Via Appia at least as far as Capua, then we’ll either continue on the Appia to Rome or take the Via Latina, depending on the conditions. About the same distance either way. The Latina may be a little drier this time of year.”

  “That far?” Hermes asked. As my slave he had traveled a good deal farther than most boys his age, but he was still a little hazy about geography. “But we’re in Italy!”

  “There’s more of Italy than you would think. Now go get the rest of our luggage.”

  He went back to the ship grumbling to fetch my chest and a few other belongings. As he did this, an official-looking man came down the pier, accompanied by a secretary.

  “Quintus Silanus,” he said, “Master of the Port. And you would be …?”

  “Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger,” I told him.

  “The Censor’s son, eh? We were told you might be landing here or at Brundisium. Welcome back to Italy, Senator. We’ve made provision to get you back to Rome as quickly as possible.”

  I was impressed. I had never before been considered that important. “Really? What sort of provision?”

  “Let’s get in out of this rain,” Silanus said. I followed him to an office just past the naval dock, where we ducked beneath the portico and shook the rain from our clothes. Then we went inside his office, a cramped cubicle, its walls honeycombed with cubbyholes for documents.

  “Here, have something to settle your stomach,” Silanus said. A slave poured me a cup of pale wine. It was a decent Bruttian, not excessively watered.

  “I have horses waiting for you at the municipal stable near the Appian Gate, and somewhere here I have requisition chits for you, so you can get stabling and fodder for them between here and Rome. Fresh horses, too, if you need them.” He rummaged around in the cubbyholes for a minute until the secretary smoothly brushed him aside and reached into one of them and came out with a leather sack full of little scrolls.

  “Who arranged for all this?” I asked.

  “The Censor,” Silanus said. “Weren’t you expecting it?”

  “Well, no,” I admitted. “I got his summons on Rhodes and jumped on the first ship headed for Italy, but I thought I’d have to make my own way to Rome. Ordinarily, when I come home my father doesn’t come running out the gate to greet me, arms open and toga flapping, if you know what I mean.”

  “Well, fathers are like that,” Silanus said, pouring himself a cup. “You can’t really expect them to behave like your old Sabine nurse.”

  “I suppose not. What’s the countryside like these days?”

  “Uncommonly quiet. You can leave your arms in your baggage for a change.”

  “What about the city?” I asked.

  “That I couldn’t say. I hear it’s been rough lately.”

  “Clodius?” This was the year Clodius was standing for tribune. In most ways it was the most powerful office in Rome at the time: and if Clodius was elected, he would for a year be both immensely powerful and sacrosanct, untouchable by the law or his fellow citizens. The very thought gave me stomach twinges. It was generally agreed that he would win his election easily. The Claudians were patricians, barred from the office, and Clodius had campaigned hard to get transferred to the plebs. Finally, with the influence of Caesar and Pompey, he had achieved his wish through adoption by an obscure plebeian relative named Fonteius. Everyone who had fought against his transfer had much unpleasantness to look forward to in the coming year.

  “He’s Caesar’s dog,” Silanus said, “but word has it that the Consul doesn’t keep him on a tight leash.” Silanus, like everyone else, spoke of Caesar as if he were the only consul. His colleague in office, Bibulus, was such a nonentity that Romans ever since have referred to that year as “the consulship of Julius and Caesar.” I took my chits and gathered up my slave and my belongings, and I trudged through the rain to the Appian Hate.

  By general agreement, I wasn’t supposed to return to Rome until Clodius was safely out of office and, by preference, out of Rome. But then, Metellus Celer wasn’t supposed to die, either. My father’s summons had been peremptory, to say the least.

  Our kinsman, Quintus Caecilius Metellus Celer is dead: it is believed by poison. The family is convening for his obsequies. You are to return to Rome immediately.

  It seemed a bit extreme. Granted, Celer was the most distinguished Caecilian of the time, but ordinarily only his immediate family and any members of the gens who happened to be in Rome at the time of his death would attend his funeral and see to the other observances surrounding the passing of a prominent man. To call in Caecilians from as far away as Rhodes suggested that a political crisis was in the offing.

  We Metelli were political creatures down to our bones, but I was the one member of the whole family whose presence in Rome was considered to be a political liability. My knack for making enemies was remarkable in a man devoid of political ambition. People with things to hide were nervous around me.

  At the city gate Hermes and I picked up our horses and packed our skimpy belongings on a third beast. As we trotted away Hermes bounced on his saddle in a way that was painful to watch. Naturally, I laughed heartily at this. I rode passably well. When I was very small I rode gentle mares on our rural estates; and when I assumed my manhood toga, my father sent me to the circus to be trained by the riders who gallop alongside the chariots, urging on the four-horse teams. This practice served me well in Spain, for much of the guerilla chasing we engaged in among the hills was done by cavalry. Still, horses were never a passion with me, and I always preferred to see professionals doing the riding and driving from the ease of the stands. Still, it beat walking or sailing. Anything beat sailing.

  Like all our roads, the Appia was beautifully kept. It was the oldest of our major highways, the stretch between Capua and Rome having been begun by Appius Claudius Caecus nearly three hundred years before, and the rest of it almost as elderly, so that the poplars and cedars planted along its length were stately and mature. The tombs built by the side of the road were for the most part of a pleasingly simple design reflecting the taste of a byg
one era. Every thousand paces stood a milestone, inscribed with the distances to the nearest towns and, as always, the precise distance to the Golden Milestone in the Forum Romanum. That way, anywhere in our empire, a Roman citizen knows exactly how far it is to the center of Roman communal life. We find this comforting for some obscure reason. Perhaps it is because, when wandering among barbarians, we find it difficult to believe that Rome exists at all.

  There is no finer or more enduring testament to the power and genius of Rome than our roads. People gawk at the Pyramids, which have no purpose except to contain the corpses of long-dead pharaohs. People the world over can use Roman roads. Barbarians seldom bother to pave their roads. Those who do are satisfied with a thin layer of cut stone, perhaps laid over a thin layer of gravel. A Roman road is more like a buried wall, sometimes going down fifteen feet in alternating layers of rubble, cut stone, and gravel to rest solidly upon bedrock.

  The center of every Roman road is raised slightly to allow water to drain off. They span the world as straight as so many tight-stretched strings, crossing valleys and rivers upon bridges of prodigious ingenuity, tunneling through mountain spurs too large to be conveniently moved. What other people ever conceived of such roads? They are the pure expression of the uniqueness that is Rome.

  All right, we learned road building from the Etruscans, but we build them better than they ever did. We certainly build them in places the Etruscans never dreamed of.

  I was occupied with such pleasant thoughts as we rode toward Venusia. I had been too long among foreigners and I yearned to be in the great City again, even if Clodius was there.

  Three days of riding brought us to Capua. The beautiful city, finest in Campania, was situated amid the richest farmlands in all of Italy. As we drew near we could hear the clatter of Capua’s famed bronze works. There were foundries and smith’s shops all over the city, and the din of hammering was incessant. Everything crafted from bronze, from lamps to parade armor, was made in Capua.

  There was also a clatter of arms. This was not the result of war, but of training. Outside the walls of the city were a score or so of gladiator schools, for Campania was always the heartland of the sport. Romans were fond of gladiators, but in Campania they were something of a cult. As we rode past one of these, I think it was the school of Ampliatus, an idea came to me.

  “Remind me when we get to Rome to enroll you in the Statilian school.”

  “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.

  2

  My 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 ind
istinguishable 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.