Saturnalia(4)

“Do you think you are the only one to have thought of that?” He waved a hand dismissively. “It’s not your concern. Now that you’re back I will call a meeting of the family leaders. Be back here just before sundown this evening.” He returned his attention to his scrolls. That was all. I had been dismissed.

I was mystified, but I felt a profound relief. I had performed my primary duty in calling on my father. Now I could do what I wanted. So, naturally, I went to the Forum. A Roman separated from the Forum for too long suffers an illness of the spirit. He languishes and pines. He knows that, however important his work, however abandoned the pleasures of the locale, he is far from the center of the world. It felt wonderful to be approaching the spot all those hundreds of milestones had led me to.

Emerging from the warren of narrow streets and alleys into the Forum was like coming out of a narrow mountain pass onto a great plain. The vista opened up and I could see more than a narrow strip of sky overhead. The great basilicas, the monuments, the rostra, the Curia where the Senate met and which had not been burned down recently, and, most beloved of all, the temples. From the beautiful little round Temple of Vesta, they ascended to culminate in the glorious crown of the Capitol, seat of Jupiter Optimus Maximus.

But even more than the architecture, the population made the Forum. As usual it was thronged, even on a rather chilly December day. Citizens, freedmen and slaves, women, foreigners, and children of indistinguishable status, they bustled or lounged or played as the mood suited them. And the mood was one of excitement. To one closely attuned to the heartbeat of Rome, and I am one of these, the mood of the city may be sensed as a mother senses the mood of her child: frightened, sad, hilarious, indignant, angry, all are apparent to one who knows how to read the signs.

I knew it could not be simply the anticipation of Saturnalia, which was to commence in a few days. As much as Romans love the revelry of Saturnalia, there is something glum about the holiday, for it is the time when we have to pay our debts. No, this was something else, another intriguing little mystery to plumb.

I plunged into the crowd and began greeting old friends and making dinner appointments. For all its awesome power and glory, Rome is just an overgrown farm town and I could not look in any direction without seeing someone I knew. With Hermes dogging my heels, I slowly made my way through the Forum and up the Capitol, where I made a sacrifice in thanks for my safe return.

With the commencement of afternoon, I sent Hermes to my house for my bath things and relaxed amid steam and hot water while friends and acquaintances gossiped about charioteers, gladiators, scandalous women, and so forth. Nobody seemed to want to talk much about politics, and I found that strange. It was not as if they were fearful, as might be the case when a lunatic tyrant or a ruthless dictator held power, as it was during the last year of Marius or the proscriptions of Sulla. Rather, it was as if they were confused. The last thing a Roman wants to admit is that he doesn’t know what is going on.

So I made my next call the Egyptian embassy. Lisas, the ambassador, had been in Rome forever and collected all the gossip in the world, since he spent almost all his time entertaining and bribing the Roman government and all the other embassies. The fat old pervert received me hospitably as always. I noted with some dismay that beneath his heavy cosmetics, his face was spotted with a number of tiny lesions. Perhaps we would soon need a new Egyptian ambassador. That would sadden me, for the man, to use the term loosely, was an invaluable resource.

“Welcome, Senator, welcome,” the old man enthused. He clapped his hands and slaves came running to wash my hands and feet, even though I had just come from the bath. One took my toga, another thrust a beaker into my hand. Others fanned us vigorously. It wasn’t hot and there were no flies, but maybe the slaves just needed the exercise. We went into a small, circular dining room that was one of the many eccentric features of the Egyptian embassy, which followed no architectural convention I was ever able to discern.

“His Majesty informs me that you performed some signal favors for him last year. He is most grateful.” Even as he spoke, as if by magic, viands appeared on the table between us. It always amazed me that, no matter what hour I called upon Lisas, it was always dinnertime. Romans are punctilious about mealtimes, but not Lisas. Even for an impromptu courtesy call, he had not just the usual fruit and cheese and olives ready, but fresh-baked bread still hot from the oven and whole roast fowl with its skin still crisp.

While we ate we spoke of inconsequential things. I inquired about the health of Ptolemy’s latest son, who had been just a bump in his mother’s belly when I left Alexandria, and Lisas asked about my stay in Rhodes, hoping that I had been on some sort of secret mission. Alas, it was just one of my many unofficial exiles.