Saturnalia(52)
I had not been expecting anything quite so deep. “I see. And yet, most people, in most parts of the world, have their own gods, which they believe to regulate the cosmos. Have these any validity?”
“What people have, for the most part, is fear,” Cicero said. “They fear the world in which they live. They fear that which they see and that which they cannot see. They fear their fellowmen. None of these fears, I hasten to point out, is unfounded. The world is indeed a dangerous and hostile place. People seek out the powers that control this world, and they seek to placate them.”
“And can these powers exist as we envision them?” I asked.
“Do you mean, is Jupiter a majestic, middle-aged man attended by eagles? Does Neptune have blue hair and a trident? Is Venus a voluptuous woman of infinite sexual allure?” He chuckled. “We got that from the Greeks, Decius. For our ancestors, the gods had no form. They were powers of nature. They were worshipped in the fields and in woods and at shrines. But it is difficult to imagine gods without form, and when we saw the images created by the Greeks to represent their gods we adopted them.”
“But do we truly influence the gods, with our rituals and ceremonies and sacrifices?”
“We influence ourselves. When we acknowledge these ineffable powers, we see ourselves in a proper perspective, which is one of humility. Our rituals reinforce the ordering of society, from the daily ceremonies conducted by the head of each household to the great rites of state. All are held communally and all emphasize the strict hierarchy of the state in subordination to the gods of the state. As for sacrifice, all men understand the principle of exchange. One gives something of value in exchange for something else. To the common people, sacrifice is just that—the exchange of material objects for less material but nonetheless palpable benefits from the gods. Educated people understand sacrifice as a symbolic act, which brings about the unity of our mortal selves and the higher powers whose supremacy we acknowledge.”
“And human sacrifice?”
He gave me a penetrating and half-exasperated look. “Decius, you spoke of an investigation. Might I know where all this is leading?”
“Please bear with me, Marcus Tullius. I would like to hear your thoughts on the matter before I get down to specifics. All shall be made plain. As plain as I can make it, anyway.”
“As you wish. Most people, we Romans included, have practiced human sacrifice. It was always the most extreme of offerings. Some societies have been notorious for it, most notably the Carthaginians. We have long since suppressed the practice, not only within Rome, but in all parts of the world where Rome holds sway. If I were a cynic, I might say that this is because there are few things we value less than human life and so we cannot conceive that our gods would want so worthless a sacrifice.
“However, the truth is somewhat different. In a human sacrifice, we offer to the gods that which most resembles ourselves. Identity is a most important factor in religion and in magic. We may despise our fellowman as an economic unit of less worth than a domestic animal, but we recognize the fact that he is a creature very much like ourselves. In fairness to the savage Carthaginians, I must acknowledge that they carried the principle not only of greatest value but of closest identity to its ultimate form, for in their most terrible ceremonies they sacrificed their own children. Toward the end of our last war with them they immolated hundreds to their gods, not that it did them any good.
“Each of us dimly recognizes a life force shared by all of us, and it is the offering of this force that, it is hoped, will please the gods. But it must be done in the proper place, at the proper time, and with the proper ritual. Were it not for these factors, slaughter grounds and battlefields and arenas would be the holiest spots in the world. Now, Decius, why are you asking about human sacrifices?”
I took a deep breath. “Because I witnessed one last night.”
He gazed at me steadily. “I see. Please go on.”
“The reason I am in Rome right now is that my family recalled me to look into the death of Metellus Celer. You are aware that many people think Clodia poisoned him?”
“Of course. But that is just gossip.” He looked at me sharply. “It has been gossip until now, anyway. What did you find?”
This was sticky. There were rumors, and I had reason to believe that they might have been true, that Cicero had at one time been involved with Clodia. He might still be, which could be delicate. Otherwise, he was just a part of the great Roman brotherhood of men Clodia had made use of then cast aside. The latter seemed most likely, as Clodia was interested mainly in men of current or potential political power, and Cicero’s sun looked to be setting at that time. Her only real loyalty was to her brother, anyway. That didn’t mean that Cicero wasn’t still infatuated with her.