Saturnalia(47)
She actually chuckled. “A man may always will his own destruction, even if the gods are kindly disposed. You have brought this upon yourself.” Her hair was a snarled mare’s nest, and her eyes were wild. She was bloody and sweaty and she stank abominably from the flayed goat’s skin, but at that instant I felt a powerful lust for her, far surpassing anything I could have felt for the immaculate noblewomen. Some things are entirely beyond reason.
She noticed. Stepping close to me she said in a low voice, “We celebrate here to propitiate our gods and bring peace to our dead. If this were a fertility rite, I might have made use of you.”
Clodia stood next to me. “You were always a man of peculiar tastes, Decius, but your timing is off. In the spring rites, randy he-goats like you are in some demand.”
“He is on sacred ground in the presence of the gods, Patrician,” Furia said. “The powers of life and death are strong in all of us at such times.” She turned to the men who held me. “His blood cannot be shed on this holy ground. Take him outside the grove and kill him.”
“Wait,” Clodia said. “He is a well-known eccentric, but his family is one of the most powerful in Rome. His death will not be passed over lightly.”
“He is one of them!” said one of the Marsian men. “We should never have permitted these high-born Romans into our rites! You see how they stick together?”
“Not me,” said the cultured Roman who held one of my arms. I was sure I knew the voice. He held my dagger up. “I will be more than happy to cut his throat, Priestess.”
She paused for a moment, thinking. “Roman, I saw a long life for you, and I will not oppose the will of the gods in this.” Then she addressed the men. “Take him from the grove and put out his eyes. He will never be able to lead anyone back here.” She turned to Clodia. “Will that satisfy you, Patrician?”
Clodia shrugged. “I suppose so. He is a troublemaker and no one will credit his ravings if he shows up blinded.” Then, to me, “Decius, you are like some creature out of Aesop. You are a living embodiment of human folly.” I thought her eyes were trying to tell me something else, but her tone was as nonchalant as always. Somehow I didn’t find her blood-speckled nudity as intriguing as that of Furia. But then I had seen Clodia naked before. Besides, I was about to get my eyes poked out with my own dagger.
“Take him away,” Furia ordered. As I was dragged off, we passed close by Fausta.
“Wait until Milo hears about this!” I hissed at her. She laughed loudly. Typical Cornelian.
When we were among the trees, the Roman waggled the blade of my dagger before my face.
“You’re always poking that long Metellan nose of yours where it doesn’t belong,” he said. “I think I’ll cut it off for you, after I take out your eyes.” This man was simply not in the spirit of Saturnalia. He held my right arm with his free hand while the other was held by one of the Marsians. I could not tell how many more were behind me, but I could hear at least one. I wanted to say something biting and sarcastic, but I was doing my best to seem stunned and fatalistic.
“This is far enough,” said the Roman, as we cleared the trees.
“I don’t know,” said a Marsian. “I think we should take him to the road. This is too close to the mundus.”
“Oh, very well.” The Roman was impatient for my blood. We walked out onto the plowed ground. This suited me well as the new furrows made for uncertain footing. I had to make my move before we got to the road.
The Marsian holding my left arm stumbled slightly on a ridge of plowed earth and I pretended to fall. The Roman cursed and braced himself, and in that instant I lurched against him with my shoulder and jerked my right arm loose.
“That won’t save you!” he said, coming in with my dagger held low.
Most men, having taken a weapon off me, fancy that I am unarmed. That is one reason I usually keep something in reserve. My hand went into my tunic and came out gripping my caestus. I swung at the Roman, trying to smash his jaw, but the spiked bronze bar glanced off his cheekbone. The blow put him down, and I whirled to my left. The Marsian, foolishly, tried to grip my arm more tightly instead of letting go, springing back, and going for his own knife. The spikes of my caestus sank into the thin bone of his temple and he collapsed, dead as the bull beneath the hammer of the flamen’s assistant.
I sprang free and saw my dagger glittering in the slack hand of the supine Roman. I dived for it, caught it on the roll, and came up facing back toward the grove. I was about to cut the Roman’s throat, but there were three other masked men almost upon me. I managed to slash the arm of one; then I spun and ran.