“But”—he held up a hand, fingers splayed in lawyer fashion while he counted off each objection, like an egg and a dolphin being taken down to mark each lap of a chariot race—“what you witnessed last night took place outside the walls of the City, across the river, in what used to be Tuscia. That alone will greatly reduce the indignation that might have been stirred had it happened within the walls, in some secluded house or garden.”
“It’s no more than an hour’s walk away!” I protested.
He shook his head. “We Romans all but own the world, but mentally we are still the inhabitants of a little city-state situated on one of Italy’s less important rivers. It is very difficult for a Roman to feel that something happening outside the walls actually involves him.” Another finger went down. “Have you any witnesses?”
“Well, yes, but they were all dancing around the fire and participating.”
“In other words, unlikely to support your testimony. You accuse three women from very powerful families.” Another finger went down. “Granted, they are women of considerable notoriety, but can you imagine the woe they can bring upon your head? You have Clodius’s sister and his betrothed, and you have the betrothed of your good friend Milo, and she is a Cornelia, the daughter of a dictator and the ward of Lucullus, who is still a man of great power and influence. If we were dealing merely with a pack of peasant women and villagers it would be different.
“Then there is the victim.” Another finger. “If he were a citizen, especially one of good family, mobs would assault the Curia to get something done. Did you recognize him?”
“No,” I admitted.
“In all probability he was a foreign slave. Legally, they are expendable persons, mere property with no rights. The fact of the sacrifice may have been in contravention of the laws, but the victim was of no consequence.”
He lowered his hands and placed them upon his spread knees. “But worst of all, Decius, is the time of year. None of the sitting praetors or aediles will want to institute proceedings just a few days before they leave office.”
“There are still next year’s,” I said.
“And which among them will want to take up such a dubious prosecution, one which must drag in the man who will be the uncrowned king of Rome next year?” Then, more gently, “Decius, do you think you can even find this place again?”
I thought about it, trying to remember just where I had turned off the Via Aurelia onto the farm road, and where along the farm road I had heard the screech owl and followed its call to the sunken lane. And how far along the lane had that isolated copse stood?
“I think so,” I said uncertainly. “The Vatican is a big area, but I think if I looked long enough …”
“I thought so. Today being Saturnalia I will bet you my library against your sandals that you couldn’t find it by the end of the month. I’ll bet further that, even if you could find it, all evidence of the sacrifice is gone. You will find no bones, no sorcerous paraphernalia, no more than a scorched patch of ground. That is not enough to take to court.”
“This is most discouraging,” I lamented.
“I am sorry that I could not be of more comfort or aid.”
“You have been a great help,” I protested hastily. “As always, you have clarified matters and put them into perspective. You may also have saved me from making a fool of myself.”
He grinned, a welcome expression on his mournful face. “What is life if we can’t make fools of ourselves from time to time? I make a regular practice of it. Is there any other way I may be of service?”
“Can you tell me what I should do now?”
“Continue your investigation of Celer’s death. Concentrate on the facts involved there and forget about the witches and their repulsive rites. What you have uncovered there is an ancient but deep-rooted cult that will never be fully eradicated and a pack of bored, thrill-seeking women who need something a little more lively than the state religion to get their blood stirring.” He stood. “And for now, I return to the festivities. Io Saturnalia, Decius.”
“Io Saturnalia, Marcus Tullius,” I said, as he climbed the stair.
When he was gone I sat pondering for a while. Unquestionably, he was right. To institute judicial proceedings at that moment would not only be futile, it would invite ridicule. I took some comfort in the thought that my father and his cronies would be seeking a way to turn my findings to account. Where strict legality failed, perhaps political malice would succeed.
Where to go next? I tried to think where I had been sidetracked and decided it was my interview with Furia. I had let her mountebank’s trickery distract me. In the midst of her sorcerous set-dressing, she had given me Harmodia. Forget about Harmodia being one of the witches; Harmodia had been an herb woman. She may have sold somebody the poison that killed Celer, and she had undoubtedly been killed to silence her. If Celer had been murdered because he was about to crack down on the witches, would they have killed one of their own?