The River God's Vengeance(48)
“What about Cicero? He loves to prosecute, and he’s always liked you.”
“Liking is a fieeting thing,” I pointed out. “I revere and admire Cicero, but he’s growing obsessive in his opposition to Caesar. He knows that Caesar, for whatever insane reason, values me. And I’m married to Caesar’s niece. Right now those things outweigh any lingering affection he feels for me. If I were to approach Cicero on this, he would suspect that Caesar was playing some subtle game, using me as a cat’spaw.”
“Then what about Cato?” Hermes asked, exasperated.
“Cato?” I barked. “I detest Cato!”
“So what? You need help, not love! He was a great tribune of the plebs. The whole population sings his praises as upright and incorruptible, the enemy of all corruption and impiety, and, best of all, he is absolutely fearless! He’s taken on the whole Senate more than once. He took Cicero’s part when people called for his exile if not execution. He’s turned down bribes that would have tempted a pharaoh, and he doesn’t even know how much you loathe him because he’s too thick-skinned to notice your insults!”
So much for Hermes’s ignorance of political affairs. I didn’t like even to contemplate going to Cato for help; then again, I didn’t like being in Caesar’s camp, either, but there I was. Everything Hermes said about the man was true. A great many Roman politicians made a public show of antique virtue and incorruptibility, contempt for greed and foreign luxury. They were all lying hypocrites, except for Cato. He meant every word, and he practiced as he preached. It didn’t make me like him any better. Reasonable laxity of character and a pleasing personality have always been more to my liking.
“Let me consider this,” I said. “We have the Libitinarii to question first. Then perhaps I can nerve myself up to talking with the glorious Marcus Porcius Cato.”
The Libitinarii of Rome had their district surrounding the Temple of Venus Libitina. We identify Venus with the Greek Aphrodite, but the pretty, mischievous Greek deity has no aspect as a death goddess. Our Libitina is different. We Romans see no contradiction in having one goddess to preside over both copulation and death, since you pretty much have to have the one before you can have the other.
Neither the Libitinarii nor their establishments are especially gloomy, since we are very fond of funerals. We figure that you are only going to get one funeral, and it is the last thing people will remember about you, so it might as well be gaudy. The Libitinarii, with their bizarre Etruscan trappings, are frightening figures; but that is mainly because they deal with corpses that are still in their dangerous, recently dead state. Romans have little fear of death or the dead, but we are horrified of the ritual contamination of death. Once the Libitinarii have carried out the lustrum that purifies the corpse, we are much easier about the whole business.
The establishments of the Libitinarii in this quarter were built, not like shops nor like factories, but rather like houses, with alterations suitable to their purpose. A little asking brought me to the business of Sextus Volturnus. Libitinarii favor Etruscan names, even if they are not of that ancestry. We have always associated the Etruscans with the underworld deities, since they are so fond of them.
This house looked little different from my own, except that the gate that opened onto the street featured a double door and was far taller. This was so that pallbearers carrying a corpse on a litter could pass through easily. It was almost twice a man’s height, since some people still preferred to be carried to the pyre sitting upright in a chair. The atrium was very large for the convenience of those who would lie in state at the funeral house instead of in their own homes. This allowed for more visitors than most houses could comfortably accommodate. All was painted in bright colors, with many fioral designs and frescoes of the open countryside, nothing to associate with death or the underworld.
The man who came forward as I entered the spacious atrium of the place wore the only symbol in sight of his profession: a black toga. This was not merely the dingy, brown toga most of us wore when in mourning, but a genuine, midnight black toga. Somehow, in the cheery surroundings, it looked all the more ominous. His expression, when he saw me, was stricken.
“A great Roman has died!” he intoned. “Alas!”
“Eh?” I said. “See here, I am the Aedile Metellus—”
He clasped his hands together, all but squeezing the blood from them. “The gods forbid it! Your father, the great censor, has left us! All Rome will weep! Sir, if you will leave all the arrangements to me, I shall be honored to—”