The whole month of December is sacred to Saturn, so very little official business is transacted in that month. There are no Senate meetings unless there is an emergency; there are few trials or other judicial proceedings. The outgoing officials are wrapping up their affairs and preparing to be sued for their actions in office, and the incoming ones are preparing for a year of unrelenting toil. December is Rome’s breathing space. In the old days, it was a time of recovery from the sheer physical exhaustion of the harvest and the vintage. Now slaves do most of that work. At least they get a holiday on Saturnalia, although not for the whole month of December.
The Forum was filled with citizenry, many of them putting up decorations, the rest gawking at those doing the work. Everywhere there were sheaves of grain and quaint figures made of plaited corn stalks. Wreaths and garlands of vine leaves were draped from all of the Forum’s many points of attachment. Marquees, stalls, and booths were being set up, bright with dyed awnings and new paint. For the holiday, most restrictions on vending in the Forum were relaxed. Most of the booths would be hawking food, but many would sell masks, wreaths, and chaplets. Others sold the wax candles and the little earthenware figurines that were the traditional Saturnalia gifts.
“Hermes,” I said as we surveyed the preparations, “I plan to be in the archive for a while. I want you to wander among these vendors and keep your ears open. You remember how those two louts last night sounded?”
“I’m not likely to forget”
“Find out if there are many speakers of that Marsian dialect in town selling their wares. If you see those two, come running to get me.”
“The light wasn’t very good last night,” he said doubtfully. “I’m not sure I’d recognize them if I saw them. Peasants mostly look alike.”
“Do your best.” I went to the tabularium, trudging up the lower slope of the Capitoline, where the temples clustered thick on our most sacred ground. The state archive was housed in a huge, sprawling building graced with rows of imposing arches and columns and statues on the side overlooking the Forum. The rest of it was as undecorated, inside and out, as a warehouse.
And warehouse it was, after a fashion. In it reposed all the records of state that were not kept by ancient tradition in one of the temples. There were various religious explanations given why the treasury records were in the Temple of Saturn and the archive of the aediles was in the Temple of Ceres and so forth, but I think it was just so that we wouldn’t lose all our records in a single fire. The walls of the tabularium were lined with shelves and honeycombed with cubbyholes containing documents in every conceivable form: Scrolls predominated, but there were wooden tablets, parchments, even foreign treaties written on palm leaves. Those of a more grandiose frame of mind left tablets inscribed on sheets of lead, impressed on slabs of baked clay and carved in stone. Those wishing special magnificence for their documents had them carved on polished marble.
Much of this was an exercise in futility. Personally, I think the clay slabs will last the longest. Lead melts at a low temperature, and many people are unaware of how easily marble is damaged by fire. Not that much of the stuff cluttering the tabularium would be missed anyway, however it might perish.
On the second floor, on the airy side facing the Forum, was the Hall of Court Documents. Like the rest of the establishment, this division was presided over by state freedman and slaves. They were all experts in the sole task of storing and caring for the documents and memorizing where everything was. At the time the freedman in charge was one Ulpius, a man of dry and musty manner, no doubt absorbed from his surroundings.
“How may I help you, Senator?” he asked. His Latin had the faintest Spanish tinge, although he must have come to Rome as a child.
“My friend, I need information about one Harmodia.” I smiled at him benevolently. It is customary to be chummy with slaves and freedmen around Saturnalia.
He blinked, not buying it. “Harmodia? Is this a woman?”
“The form of the name makes this the logical conclusion,” I said. “I am looking for any court records concerning a woman named Harmodia.”
“I see. And you have no information concerning this woman save her name?”
“That is correct,” I told him happily.
“Hm. It might help to know if she is slave, freedwoman, or freeborn.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.”
“Living or dead, perhaps?”
“Wouldn’t have the foggiest.”
“Have you considered consulting the Cumaean sibyl?” Still dusty dry, but with a definite edge of sarcasm.