John Roberts - Saturnalia

Toga rippling in my self-made breeze, I ran all the way up to the temple and practically leapt down the stairs into the offices of the aediles. The aged freedman looked up in consternation.

“I need to borrow your boy!” I said.

“You’ll do no such thing!” the old man informed me. “He has work to do.”

“I am Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, son of Metellus the Censor. I am an important man, and I demand that you give me the use of that boy for an hour.”

“Bugger that,” the old man said. “I am a client of the state and in charge here, and you are just a senator with no stripe on your toga. Get elected aedile and you can order me around, not before.”

“All right,” I grumbled, rummaging around in my rapidly flattening purse. “How much?” We reached an accommodation.

Outside, the boy walked beside me, unhappy about the whole situation. “What do you want me for?”

“You said a slave came and requisitioned the report on the murder of Harmodia. Would you recognize that slave if you saw him again?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. He was just a state slave. They all look alike. I’m a temple slave.”

“There’s another silver denarius in it for you if you guide me to the right man.”

He brightened. “I’ll give it a try.”

We trudged around the basilicas, and the boy squinted at the slaves who stood around waiting for somebody to tell them what to do. Since the courts were not in session, this was not a great deal. That is one of the problems with Rome: too many slaves, not enough for them to do.

We started at the Basilica Opimia and the boy saw nobody he recognized. It was the same with the Basilica Sempronia. Finally, we went to the Basilica Aemilia and it looked as if that was going to be a dead end as well. I was beginning to doubt my new, god-bestowed vision when the boy tugged at my sleeve, pointing.

“There, that’s him!” The man indicated was short, balding, and middle-aged, dressed in a dark tunic like most slaves. He held a wax tablet and was taking notes, apparently enumerating some great rolls of heavy cloth at his feet, probably intended to make an awning for the outdoor courts.

“Are you sure?”

“I remember now. Come on.” We walked over to him, and the man looked up from his task.

“May I help you, Senator?”

“I hope so. Do you run errands for the law courts?”

“Nearly every day they are in session,” he said. “I’ve been doing it for twenty years.”

“Excellent. Around the Ides of November, did you go to the Temple of Ceres to fetch a report for the aedile Murena? It was for a report he was to make to one of the praetors, probably the urbanus.”

The slave tucked his stylus behind his ear and used the hand thus freed to scratch his hairless scalp. “I do so many things like that, and that’s awhile back. I don’t recall …”

“Sure you remember!” the temple boy urged. “You asked about the trials going on in the circus that day, and I told you the new Spanish horses the Blues had were the best ever seen in Rome and I’d been watching them all week. I remembered that when I saw you just now because I recognized that birthmark on your face.” There was a small, wine-colored patch just in front of the man’s left ear.

The state slave smiled a bit, the light dawning. “And you told me the two Blacks called Damian and Pythias were pulling trace and they were better than the Reds’ Lark and Sparrow. I won some money on that tip at the next races. Yes, I remember now.”

Trust a Roman, whatever his station in life, to remember the names of horses when he’s forgotten the names of his parents or the gods.

“Do you remember the report then?” I said, elated and at the same time wanting to throttle them both.

“Well, yes, but …” he tapered off as if something was impeding his rather limited powers of reasoning.

“But what?” I asked impatiently.

“Well, it wasn’t for the curule aedile Caius Licinius Murena, it was for the plebeian aedile Lucius Calpurnius Bestia.”

I could have kissed him. “So you delivered it to him, and he took it into the praetor’s court?”

“I delivered it all right, but he just took it and walked away, toward the cattle market. It was nothing to me. My job was to fetch it.”

I tipped them both and bade them be about their business. My soles barely touched the pavement as I walked, once again, back around the base of the Capitol, skirting the northern edge of the cattle market, until I was once again in the precincts of the Temple of Portunus, amid the dense smells of our wonderful but all too fragrant sewers.

For the second time that day I ascended the stairs with their medical symbols and, upon the terrace, found the freedman Narcissus seated at a small table, eating a late lunch or early dinner. He was surprised to see me.

“Good day, esteemed physician Narcissus,” I said, all good cheer.

“Senator! I did not expect to see you again so soon. Will you join me?”

“Are you certain it is no imposition?” I suddenly realized how long ago breakfast had been.

“A distinguished guest is never an imposition.” He turned to a slave. “A plate and goblet for the senator.” The man was back before I had arranged my toga to sit. For a few minutes we munched in silence, observing the proprieties; then I sat back as the slave refilled my cup.

“How went the operation?” I asked.

His face brightened. “It was perfect! Asklepiodes is the most marvelous physician. Marcus Celsius should make a complete recovery if infection does not set in. Asklepiodes actually lifted out the detached piece of bone and cleaned out clotted blood and some small bone splinters from the brain itself before replacing it and securing it with silver wire.”

“He is a god among healers,” I said, pouring a bit of wine onto the pavement as a libation so the gods should not take my words as a challenge and grow jealous of my friend Asklepiodes.

“And,” Narcissus said, leaning forward confidentially, “he actually did much of it with his own hands, instead of just directing his slaves. I only say this because I know you are his friend.”

“It will be our secret,” I assured him. “Now, my friend Narcissus, it occurred to me just now that I neglected to ask you something this morning touching upon the demise of your late patron.”

“What may I tell you?”

“I understand that he fell from a bridge and was drowned. Do you happen to know where the banquet was held where he imbibed too much?”

“Why, yes. He dined out most evenings, often at the house of someone distinguished. That afternoon, just before he left, he said, should he be needed for an emergency, by which he meant a sudden illness in a very rich and prominent family, he was to be found at the house of the aedile Lucius Calpurnius Bestia.”

“Calpurnius Bestia,” I said, all but purring.

“Yes,” he said, a little puzzled at my tone. He pointed to the south. “It’s up there someplace on the Aventine. He must have come down late, long after dark, and didn’t think to ask the aedile for a slave to accompany him. He was usually a moderate man, but most people drink too much at a banquet.”

“A common failing,” I noted.

“Yes. Well, when he came down onto the level area, instead of walking straight home, he must have accidentally turned left and not realized it until he found himself on the Sublician Bridge. It was a very dark night, I remember that. It is easy to lose one’s way, even near home. He probably went to the parapet to get his bearings, or perhaps he had to vomit. In any case, he leaned too far over and fell in, striking his head. He was found just a few paces downstream on the bank.”