Saturnalia(39)

I just knew that my curiosity was leading me into something incredibly foolish.





8


THAT EVENING WE MADE PREPARATIONS for the rites at the Temple of Saturn. My clients gathered in their best clothes, everyone merry, having dipped into the wine well in advance of the official holiday, which would not begin until after sundown and which took full effect only the next morning, with complete license for the slaves and the peculiar demands of dress and behavior belonging only to the day of Saturnalia.

I had my slaves bring out trays of refreshments to keep the mood going and mingled with the clients, saying all those inane expressions of goodwill that are demanded upon such occasions. Despite the pervasive air of jollity that had seized the city, I had both dagger and caestus stashed inside my tunic. Streets jammed with noisy, celebrating crowds make even better conditions for an ambush than those same streets, deserted in the black of night.

Leaving my house, we made our slow way down to the Subura Street and thence toward the Forum, our progress paralytically slow because every last inhabitant of Rome who was not on his deathbed was out in the streets, greeting and dancing and making noise. The wine sellers had clearly been doing a great business, and most of the flutes were being played by persons of no musical talent.

In time we merged with the crowd coming down the Via Sacra, then past the basilicas and porticoes until we all stood before the great Temple of Saturn. The lictors and the temple slaves were there in force, ushering people into their proper places. Here I left my clients and took my place with the rest of the Senate on the steps of the temple, where, as a very junior member of the body, I stood in the back row. Still, this gave me a vantage point, and I could see all the most important members of the state who were in Rome at the time.

In the places of highest honor, near the altar that stood before the entrance, were the vestals, including my Aunt Caecilia, the flamines (we had no Flamen Dialis that year), the pontifices, and all the serving magistrates. Among the aediles I saw Calpurnius Bestia, and I tried to figure out which of his colleagues was Murena, but without success. I saw Metellus Scipio among the tribunes and Clodius with the tribunes-elect. The consul Bibulus had finally come out of his house for this one ritual, which required all officials holding imperium. He looked like a man who had eaten too many green peaches.

Looking down and to my left, I saw the patrician families standing in the first ranks at the bottom of the steps. From my vantage point it was shockingly plain how thin were those lines. Once the great power in the state, the patricians had grown so few that there was no longer any particular advantage to belonging to one, save prestige. There were about fourteen patrician families left at the time, and some of these, such as the Julii, were minuscule. Perhaps most numerous were the Cornelians, and even their numbers were much reduced.

Among them I saw Clodia, Fausta, and Fulvia standing in a group. Once I had spotted the Julii, it was easy to find Julia. She caught my eye and smiled broadly. I smiled back. But, then, everyone was smiling. We all get a little silly at Saturnalia.

Behind the patricians stood the order of the equites, far more numerous and collectively the most important of the classes, since it was property qualification, not birth, that gave an eques his status.

This rigid partitioning by rank was symbolic, for at the end of the ceremony all classes would mingle freely in memory of the Golden Age of Saturnus commemorated in this yearly rite. Unlike all other sacrificial ceremonies, no one, man or woman, slave or free, wore a head covering, for all such solemnity was banished from the happiest ritual of the year.

When all were assembled, the augurs came forward, standing near the altar, watching the sky for omens. Among them was Pompey, dressed like the others in a striped robe, holding in his right hand the crook-topped staff. The populace scarcely breathed for the next few minutes. The evening was a fine one and there was no thunder; no birds of ill omen appeared. They announced that the gods were favorable to continuing the ceremony.

Now Caesar made his grand entrance, striding from inside the temple through its great doorway. There was no ceremonial reason for a consul to arrive on the scene thus, but then, that was Caesar. Here he was doubly important; as consul and as pontifex maximus, the supreme arbiter of all matters touching the state religion. He halted by the altar and made a half-turn, gesturing grandly like the great actor he was.

Through the doorway we could just see the huge, ancient, age-blackened image of the god, his pruning knife in his hand. Ceremoniously, the priest and his attendants removed the bands of woolen cloth that wound around the god’s legs and lower body. In the dim past we had captured Saturn from a neighboring town, so his feet were bound to keep him from leaving Roman territory. Only on his festival was he loosed. A collective sigh came from the people as the last of the wrappings fell away.