Caesar watched the horizon and the setting of the sun, as if he were personally responsible for it. Since the portico of the temple faced northeast, this was no easy task. When the last gleam disappeared from the gilded pediment of the Curia Hostilia, ancient meetinghouse of the Senate, he gestured again, and the sacrifice was brought forward.
Since Saturn is primarily a god of the netherworld, his rites take place in the evening. For the same reason, his sacrifice was a black bull instead of a white one. The beast led up the steps by the attendants was a magnificent animal, dark as the nighttime sky, his horns gilded, draped all over with garlands. The crowd watched anxiously, for if the animal balked or made loud noises, it would be a bad omen.
But the bull made it to the altar with perfect equanimity and stood patiently, waiting for the rest of the ceremony. The priest and his attendants came forth to stand by the bull with their various emblems of office, and the heart of the ritual commenced. One attendant held up the tablet bearing the written prayer, and the priest began to chant it in a loud voice. Like all such ancient prayers it is in language so archaic that nobody knows what it really means, but it must be recited precisely, hence the tablet. Behind him a flute player blasted away for all he was worth, so the priest would not be distracted by an unseemly sound like a sneeze or cough. Getting the entire population of Rome to stand still for the duration of a lengthy prayer without sneezing or coughing is a marvel in itself.
We all stood with our arms slightly extended, our hands at waist level, palms facing downward, as is proper when addressing a deity of the underworld. The prayer ended, the attendant swung his great hammer, and the bull collapsed to its knees without a sound, already dead when the priest cut its throat. Other attendants caught the gushing blood in golden bowls and carried it to the channel before the altar and poured it in, to drain away through a hole that led to the earth beneath the temple. For a sky god, the blood is poured over the altar.
Now the haruspices came forward in their Etruscan robes, chanting their Etruscan chants. They slit open the bull’s belly and the entrails tumbled out. They examined the intestines and lungs, then conferred for a while over the liver, turning it this way and that, inspecting its crevices, looking for lumps, malformations, discolorations, or other oddities to interpret, for each part of a liver has a specific significance concerning the will of the gods in particular matters. They said something to the priest, and he spoke to the chief of the Herald’s Guild, who stood beside him.
Solemnly and with great dignity, the head herald strode to the front of the portico and stood at the top step. He took a deep, deep breath. This man had, perhaps, the loudest voice in the world.
“IO SATURNALIA!” he bellowed, and was probably heard in Cisalpine Gaul.
With that the crowd erupted and the celebration was on. Cries of “Io Saturnalia!” went up from all directions. Every citizen, from consul to freedman, took off his toga, the garment that distinguishes the citizen from the slave and the foreigner. For the duration of the holiday, we were all equal. We pretended so, anyway.
Folding my toga and tucking it beneath my arm, I descended the steps to where the patricians were rapidly merging into the general populace. Amid the sea of bobbing heads it was difficult to find one small woman. But I was taller than most and not so difficult to locate.
“Io Saturnalia, Decius!” Julia cried, slamming into me like one galley ramming another, throwing her arms around me and giving me a resounding kiss. The license of the season allowed such an indelicacy, unthinkable at other times. Besides, we weren’t married yet.
“Io Saturnalia, Julia!” I said, when I could draw breath again. “Let’s find someplace less deafening where we can talk.”
As we pushed through the mob, I caught sight of Hermes. Without thinking, I held my toga out to him.
“Take this to my house!” I called out.
“Take it yourself, Decius,” he said, turning away. “Io Saturnalia!”
Julia laughed until tears ran down her face while, our arms around each others’ waists, we lurched around until we found a wine booth in front of the Basilica Sempronia, bought two rough clay cups full of even rougher wine, and sat on the base of a statue of Fabius Cunctator at the corner of the basilica steps. The old boy got his odd title, “the delayer,” from being so cautious about engaging Hannibal in combat. It was a rare case of a Roman leader being honored with a title for showing some plain good sense.
Twilight does not last long at that time of year. As the sky darkened, torches were kindled, braziers flamed with pine knots, and from them people lit the traditional wax tapers. There is an old story that, in ancient times, the god demanded heads for his sacrifice. Then somebody realized that the old word for “heads,” with a slightly different accent, meant “lights,” and we’ve been giving each other candles ever since.