Saturnalia(32)
An odd religious procession passed by, with much wailing and clashing of cymbals and tootling of flutes. It might have been a wedding or a funeral or a premature celebration of the coming solstice. Rome is full of foreign religions and strange little cults.
Everywhere people were working late into the night decorating their houses and public squares for Saturnalia, hanging wreaths, painting over the malediction graffiti on the walls, and replacing them with good-wish slogans, heaping small offerings before neighborhood shrines, even washing down the streets.
“That’s a marvel worth traveling all the way from Rhodes to see,” I commented.
“The decorations?” Hermes asked.
“No. Clean streets in Rome. I …” That was when I noticed we had followers.
“Well, it’s only for one day.” Back then, Saturnalia was celebrated for only a single day, not for three, as recently decreed by the First Citizen. “I’m looking forward to … what’s wrong?”
“Eyes front, keep on walking as you were,” I ordered him. “We’ve acquired some admirers.” My hand went inside my tunic and gripped my dagger. I chided myself for not carrying my caestus as well. A metal-reinforced punch is a great help in a street fight, and it is always unexpected.
The question was: What did these men want? I knew there were at least two. Did they want to rob me? Kill me? Or were they just out for some fun? All three were reasonable expectations. Any well-dressed man was a target for thieves, especially after dark. I was engaged in a rather murky investigation involving a number of people who seldom hesitated to kill anyone they found inconvenient. And there were always those amusement seekers who found the sight of blood and teeth on the street infinitely pleasing. Ordinarily, thieves and bullies were easily discouraged by the prospect of armed resistance. Hired killers might take more persuading.
“I see two,” I remarked. “Do you see any more?”
Furtively, Hermes glanced around. “Not much light. It’s the two behind us, isn’t it? The ones pretending to be drunk?”
“That’s right.” Somehow, sober men can seldom imitate drunks convincingly, unless they are trained mimes.
“No, I don’t see any others.”
“Good.” We were nearing my home. “When we get to the shrine of Ops on the corner, I want you to dash ahead and get the gate open. Be ready to shut and bar it behind me when I come through.”
“Right,” he said, relieved that I wasn’t asking him to stand and fight.
As we neared my house the two “drunks” behind us began to walk more quickly, losing their wobbly gait in the process. The moment we passed the corner shrine, Hermes broke into a sprint and I hurried after him, considerably hampered by my toga. I would have cast it aside, but a good toga is ruinously expensive. Besides, the cumbersome garment is not without its uses in a brawl. I almost made it to my gate before they caught up to me. When I sensed they were within arm’s reach, I whirled, unwilling to risk a knife in my back as I went through the gate.
My move was unexpected and they checked their pursuit, almost skidding on the cobbles. Even so, the one on the right barely escaped impaling himself on the dagger I held out at full extension. Both men had knives in their hands, short sicas curved like the tusk of a boar. While the two stood disconcerted, I whipped off my toga and whirled it, wrapping my left forearm with a thick pad and leaving a couple of feet of it dangling below.
“What will it be, citizens?” I asked. “Shall we play or would you rather walk away in one piece?” As usual, frustration and puzzlement had put me in just the right mood for a brawl. Sometimes I am amazed that I survived those days.
They hadn’t been expecting this, which meant they didn’t know my reputation. Both men wore short tunics, the exomis that leaves one shoulder and half the chest bare. Both had identical scrubby beards and pointed, brimmed felt caps. In a word: peasants.
“Leave off this snooping, Metellus,” said the one on the right, waving his blade at me.
“Get out of Rome and leave be,” said the other. They had an accent I had heard before but could not quite place. But then, every village in Latium, even those within a few miles of Rome, spoke its own distinctly accented brand of Latin.
“Who sent you?” I asked. The one on the left tried to slide in, but I snapped a corner of my toga at his eyes and took advantage of the distraction to cut the other one, nicking him lightly on the hand. The left-hand peasant got over his surprise and took a cut at me. He was creditably skillful but not quite fast enough. I blocked with my impromptu shield and punched him in the nose with my wool-wrapped fist. The other slashed toward my flank, but I jumped back and evaded the stroke. They weren’t as unskilled as their appearance suggested. If they got their attack coordinated, I knew, they would get to me soon.