John Roberts: The River God

“Sounds like a battlefield after a fight,” Hermes said.

“It means there are more survivors than I’d expected. Maybe some of them can give us some answers.”

We climbed the steps, newly resurfaced with gleaming white marble, and passed between a pair of splendid braziers of shining bronze wrought in the shape of the god’s serpent-wound staff, topped with a bronze basket in which fire would burn on special occasions. These were also new.

We found the big fellow in a recovery room attended by a temple slave. The priests had taken my instructions for special treatment to heart, it seemed.

“How is he?” I asked.

“He hasn’t come around since I’ve been attending him,” the slave said. “He mumbles a little, but mostly he’s like this, completely unconscious.” The attendant was a young man wearing the livery of the temple, a white tunic embroidered on front and back with the caduceus. He rose. “I will fetch the attending priest.”

The comatose slave was as big as any Gaul or German; but washed free of dust and plaster, he proved to have the common features and coloration of southern Italy. He was olive skinned and black bearded, and I thought I detected something of Bruttium in the cast of his features. His eyes were open but unfocussed, and he mumbled continuously, although I could make out no words.

“I don’t think this one is going to be with us much longer,” Hermes opined. “Should I go get Asklepiodes?”

“I doubt he could do much. In any case, his specialty is wounds caused by weapons.”

Moments later the priest arrived. He was one I knew from previous visits to the temple, a slave named Harmodias. By ancient tradition, one-third of the priests of this temple are freeborn, one-third freedmen, and one-third slaves. The freedmen and slaves are the best consultants on injuries and treatable diseases. The freeborn priests confine themselves mainly to interpreting the dreams of ailing people brought in to sleep in the nave before the statue of Aesculapius.

“Will he be able to speak?” I asked him.

“He has suffered severe injuries to the skull and spine, Aedile. I’ve seen a good many cases like this, and I’ve never seen a complete recovery. Even partial recovery is rare.”

“I just want him to recover enough to talk,” I said.

“He may babble incoherently for a while, although periods of lucidity are not out of the question.”

“I can’t wait around for that. Have you a secretary who can take down any coherent statements he might make?”

“I could do it myself, but what sort of statement might be of interest?”

“This one seems to have been awake when the disaster occurred. He was dressed at any rate, and it looks as if he was on his feet when the fioor collapsed under him. Anything he can say about the events of last night could be of help. Also, we are having difficulty learning anything about the equestrian family to whom he belonged. The name Lucius Folius is all I’ve been able to find out. I want to know anything he can tell me, even if it’s just scurrilous slave gossip. I’d prefer, of course, to hear it personally. If he seems to come around, send a messenger to fetch me.”

“I shall do it without fail,” he promised. “Of course, this will detain me from other duties-” I snapped my fingers and Hermes passed me my money pouch. I gave Harmodias a couple of silver denarii, and he tucked them away, bowing. “I shall send for you the moment he begins to talk coherently, recording diligently anything he might say before you get here. If he dies, you shall likewise be notified.”

“Good. Tell him he’ll have a decent funeral. That may put him in a cooperative frame of mind.” Slaves usually were thrown into the Puticuli if nobody claimed them for burial.

I tried to question some of the other survivors, but, as I feared, they had nothing to tell me. All had been sound asleep at the time of the disaster. They had awakened to noise, pain, terror, and confusion. Many remembered nothing at all of that night, the shock having disordered their minds.

We left the temple and made our way back across the bridge, thence south along the river to the Temple of Ceres, where I had a cramped cubicle laughably termed an office. For centuries the temple had been the headquarters of the aediles, but in the early days the duties of that office had been far less comprehensive. Office space was as inadequate as everything else attached to the title.

Ceres is an imported Greek goddess, and therefore her worship is in the Greek fashion, overseen by patrician women, unlike the native Roman deities whose priests are all male. The high priestess at that time was a formidable Cornelia, a close kinswoman of the Dictator Sulla and as high-handed as most members of that family. She was waiting for me when I arrived.

“Aedile!” She stalked down the steps of the lovely tem ple and I could almost see thunderclouds gathering around her head. “Explain this outrage!” She pointed to the great heap of timber piled helter-skelter upon the pavement of the courtyard.

“And good morning to you, revered Cornelia,” I said. “Allow me to note that you are especially lovely today.”

“Don’t try to distract me. The aediles have their offices in the basement of the temple, not in the courtyard! Remove this trash at once!”

“Lovely, gracious Cornelia, this is evidence in an investigation into gross negligence in the building trades. If Rome had such a thing as a municipal wood yard, I would certainly send this evidence there. Alas, there is none. Someone must be prosecuted for using unfit timber for these- these-I think they are called ‘joists.’ And to do this, I must have the evidence, and this is the only place I have to store it. I promise it will only be for a few more days.” I gave her a conciliatory smile, to which she replied with a most unconciliatory glare. Cornelians were notoriously averse to being crossed in any way.

“In ten days,” she said, “we begin rehearsing for the Cerialia . If the wood is not gone by that time, it will make you an excellent funeral pyre.”

“You are too kind, splendid Cornelia,” I assured her.

“Too kind by half. I want every termite-chewed splinter of that heap off the courtyard and the fiagstones swept before we begin rehearsal or I will speak to the wife of the Pontifex Maximus and have you impeached before the Senate the minute you step down from office, do you understand?”

“Perfectly, glorious and pulchritudinous-” but she had already whirled about and stalked back up the steps, surrounded by a cloud of twittery eunuchs. Impeach me, would she? By law, the eunuchs were one part of the Ceres cult forbidden in Rome, and part of my job was to purge the City of degenerate, foreign religious practices. We’d just see about that. The Cerialia , the great annual festival of Ceres, would be just the occasion to confront her with it, too.

“Termite-chewed?” Hermes said. “I didn’t see any termite damage in the basement.”

“We never got a good look at the timber. Perhaps she spoke metaphorically. Go get some of the office slaves and go over every piece of wood in the pile. Mark the ones that look especially unfit. I have other duties to attend to for a while.”

He went off in search of some help as I walked toward the little terrace where the plebeian aediles conducted business in good weather. Other duties indeed. The insula disaster had cost me a full day I could ill afford to spare in the busiest of all Roman magistracies. Even as I drew near the terrace, I saw the mob of citizens, each of them with a demand that fell beneath the purview of my office.

Besides supervising compliance with the building codes, the aediles were in charge of the streets, drains, and sewers; upkeep of the City streets and public buildings; putting on the public Games; and the aforementioned oversight of foreign cults. Since the State funds allowed for these activities hadn’t changed since the days of Tarquin the Proud, the aediles had to pay for much of this work out of their own purses. No wonder so many men spent the rest of their careers using the higher offices to enrich themselves after the expenses they had incurred as aediles.