Saturnalia

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.