Saturnalia(60)

There was something wrong with what she was saying, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Most likely, I was distracted by my craving for something to eat and some wine to wash it down with.

“You are letting your dislike of her color your judgment.”

“I think you are trying to find her innocent when that is the most unlikely conclusion possible. So what now?”

“I must talk to a few people: the ex-tribune Furius, with whom Celer had so many colorful rows last year; and Ariston, the family physician who attended him at the time of his death. But I don’t think I’ll be able to find them today.”

When we reached the Forum, a man approached me. He was a dignified individual whom I recognized vaguely as a prominent lawyer and one of my father’s clients. He gave me the usual formal salutation.

“Decius, your father instructs you to attend the slave banquet in his house this evening. You may bring your own staff. He says there are important matters to discuss. He couldn’t send a slave to fetch you today so I’m the errand boy.”

“And a splendid job you’ve done, my friend. I thank you. Io Saturnalia.”

He walked off and I grimaced. “His house! I was hoping to have mine at home. Then I could get the disagreeable business over with early.”

“It’s the oldest tradition of the holiday,” Julia chided. “The rest of it is meaningless without the banquet.”

“It’s all pretty meaningless, if you ask me,” I groused. “All this Golden Age posturing and fake leveling of classes. Who can take it seriously?”

“The gods, one presumes. Now quit whining. Your father probably has some important men to confer with you. This could be useful. I shall be attending at the banquet in the house of the pontifex maximus so I may be able to pick something up.”

She kissed me and bade me good-bye, and I stood pondering amid the monuments and the riotous crowd. This business had begun with great promise, and now I was awash in a sea of irrelevancies and meaningless complications, with a terrible feeling that I would probably never be able to find out what had happened. In such circumstances I did the only thing possible. I went to look for a drink. When all the other gods fail you, there is always Bacchus.





10


WITH HERMES, CATO, AND CASSANDRA, I walked through the streets to my father’s house. The slaves were in a good humor because they knew my father was able to set a far better table than I. I was less eager because my father had a lot of slaves. That, I decided, was why he had insisted that I come. He wanted me to help out.

We found the house laid out with the tables and couches set up within the peristyle, since the triclinium was far too small to hold them all. To my great relief father had persuaded some of his freedmen to help out. Most of these were men and women recently manumitted who had no slaves of their own to tend to.

Hermes was already half-drunk and when he crawled onto the couch he wiggled his feet at me insolently until I took his sandals. Just wait, I thought to myself. I felt better about serving Cato and Cassandra. They had served my family all their lives and hadn’t all that much time left to them. They rated a little indulgence.

For the next couple of hours we brought in the platters, kept the wine cups filled, and generally behaved as slaves. The banqueters, in turn, behaved like aristocrats and ordered us around. They observed certain unspoken limits though, all too aware that they would be slaves again tomorrow.

It was almost worth the bother to see Father, sour-faced old paterfamilias that he was, hurrying about, bringing platters from the kitchen, mixing water and wine in the great bowl, keeping a wary eye on the silver lest it wander away.

At last the slaves were replete and betook themselves to the streets to take part in the night-long festivities. I dropped my napkin on the floor and searched among the wreckage for something to eat. I was famished. I was also thirsty and I dipped out a good-sized cup of wine. It was too heavily watered for my taste, but I did not feel like searching out a fresh jug.

“Don’t get drunk,” Father said. “You are to speak with some important men. They should be here soon.” Like me, he was loading a plate from the scattered remnants of the slave banquet. The freedmen were helping themselves as well. Somebody turned up an almost complete tunny fish, and we divided it. There were also some first-rate olives and no shortage of bread. The slaves had gone straight for the meats and exotic fruits, things they seldom got to eat during the rest of the year.

I took a seat and began to munch. “Father,” I asked, “do you know where Ariston of Lycia lives? He attended Celer when he died and I have a few questions I want to ask him.”