Steven Saylor - A murder on the Appian way

The next day was the forty-first of our captivity, according to Eco's reckoning. I decided to calculate the exact date, but the imposition of the leap-month of Intercalarius complicated the matter. I knew that Februarius was past — we had been captured two days after the Ides, which in Februarius fell on the thirteenth — and I knew that all of Intercalarius had come and gone, so we were somewhere in early Martius.

"Of course, the leap-month of Intercalarius doesn't always have the same number of days," I said. "It's only inserted into the calendar every other year, and even then not always, and each time the priests adjust it according to however many days are needed to fill out the year properly."

Eco frowned. "So how many days are in the leap-month this year?"

"Twenty-seven, I think."

Eco shook his head dubiously. "That just doesn't sound right to me. I thought Intercalarius always had the same number of days as Februarius."

"No."

"But-"

"Besides, this year Februarius had only twenty-four days." "Not twenty-eight?"

"No. This year Januarius had twenty-nine days, as always, Februarius had twenty-four, Intercalarius had twenty-seven, and Martius will have the customary thirty-one. Eco, this information has only been posted on scrolls in the Forum every day since the new year began. How can you not have seen it?"

"I never pay attention to such things, Papa. I have enough garbage in my head already."

"But how do you keep up with which days the Senate is meeting, and when the holidays fall, and when the banks are open?"

"I ask Menenia. Women always know these things. They have an instinct for it. They know which markets are open on which days, and which are closed, and when you have to buy extra food because there’s to be a holiday, and so on."

"Do you always ask Menenia when you need to know the date?"

"Yes."

"Say you're writing an important letter, and you need to know the day of the month — " "I ask Menenia!" "And she knows?"

"Always. Doesn't Bethesda always know the date?" "Now that you mention it…" "Try it. Next time you need to know, ask her." "You mean, instead of following the postings in the Forum, and making my own calculations-" "Just ask Bethesda."

"It can't be that simple. When I think of all the hours and the days I've wasted over the years — " We both laughed.;

I regrouped my thoughts. "So, if this is indeed day forty-one — "

"How on earth do the priests calculate how many days to put into Intercalarius, anyway? And why don't they leave Februarius alone?"

"Not 'how on earth', Eco, but 'how in the heavens?' It all has to do with the movement of the stars and the phases of the moon and the length of the seasons and so on. The years go round and round, each pretty much like the last, but not exactly. Some cycles have more days in them than others, and there's no perfect system to account for the discrepancy. So the calendar has to be adjusted every two years."

"Except when it's not."

"Other people have other sorts of calendars, you know — " "Just as other countries have kings." "Which Rome shall never have again — " "Unless it does."

"Be quiet! The Roman calendar is the most perfect yet devised. It has twelve months."

"Except when it has thirteen, as this year."

"And all of these months have either thirty-one or twenty-nine days."

"Except for Februarius, which has twenty-eight Only this year, according to you, it has only twenty-four." "It works out in the end."

"Or does it? I mean, the calendar is so permanently out of joint now that sometimes the seasons don't match the traditional holidays."

"Yes, and I've seen it get progressively worse in my lifetime. I suppose it would be even worse without snipping away at Februarius and inserting Intercalarius as needed."

"That's another thing, Papa — 'as needed'. The priests always seem to decide to insert the leap-month at the last moment. Can't they tell a year in advance whether they'll need it?"

"Apparently not"

"I'd say the Roman calendar needs serious reforming."

"It's interesting that you say that. Your brother recently mentioned in a letter that Caesar thinks the same thing. It's one of his pet projects. When he has time, in between slaughtering Gauls and dictating his memoirs on horseback, the general likes to fiddle with ways of fixing the calendar."

"A new calendar for Rome? It would take a king to force a change like that."

He meant for me to laugh, but I frowned instead. "You shouldn't talk that way, Eco. You shouldn't even joke about it" "Sorry, Papa."

"Anyway," I said, "if Caesar can fix the calendar, surely you and ' I can at least figure out what day this is."

"Without Menenia and Bethesda to tell us?"

"Entirely on our own! Now, if it's been — "

I sucked in a breath as I heard the familiar rattle of the door swing open and shut in the room above. I let out a low moan and slumped down against the wall, bowing my head and clutching my stomach.

The hatch in the grate creaked open. A rope slithered and I knew that a basket of fresh bread was being lowered to us. Eco unhooked it and attached the empty basket from yesterday.

I moaned again, trying to make it sound as if I were stifling the sound instead of forcing it. A proud citizen does not like to show weakness to the slave of his enemy.

"What's wrong with him?" asked a voice from above.

"What do you care?" said Eco.

I kept my head lowered, resisting an urge to look up. I could never make out much of our captors' faces, anyway. Due to the dim light and the distance, they were nothing more than hulking silhouettes.

"Would you empty the bucket?" said Eco.

"Again? I emptied it just yesterday."

"Please?"

The man made a grunt of disgust. "Oh, all right. Here's the rope."

Eco attached the bucket. There was a faint sloshing noise as the man pulled it up, fist over fist. As he walked away, I heard him mumble, "What's this?" There was a pause, and I imagined him squinting, grinding his jaw, wrinkling his nose as he studied the watery contents. Then he resumed his walk to the door and pulled it open. From somewhere farther away I heard the ghost of a hushed conversation and then a distant splash as they emptied the contents.

A little later the man returned and lowered the bucket back into the pit. "Is he all right?" he said.

I stifled a moan and pulled my hands from my stomach.

"Just go away," said Eco coldly.

Footsteps departed. The door opened and shut.

After a while I said to Eco, "How do you think it went?" "You seemed convincing to me."

I nodded. We both looked towards the little mound of earth which covered the body of the rat Eco had killed that morning, whose blood we had copiously added to our own urine in the bucket.

"Do you think we'll be able to catch another rat as easily?" I said.

"In broad daylight if we have to," Eco assured me.

I opened my eyes to pitch darkness. The air was cold and clammy, stale and foul-smelling.

Where was I? The pit, of course. Now I remembered. Where every day was like the last, where nothing ever changed — except that something was different. We were not alone.

I felt it, sensed it. How? Not with my eyes, certainly. Was it a noise? The sound of another breath, besides Eco's? Or a feint movement? Or a smell…?

Yes: the smell of garlic, sweated from pores, exhaled on the breath. Another stench added to the miasma that settled in the pit at night, pressed down by the dank evening air. My head reeled from it.

Who eats garlic? Gladiators. They claim it gives them stamina. Lets them knock down an opponent with a single breath, runs the tired joke. I broke into a sweat, despite the chill. Perspiration poured off my forehead in such a torrent that I had to wipe it away with my sleeve, the filthy sleeve of a tunic worn for forty-odd days in a row. I could hear them breathing now, even above the sudden booming of my heart. Who, or what, was in the pit with us?