The River God's Vengeance(70)

Whatever the reason, the water that fiowed by below us was almost tranquil, while that in the center of the stream had grown turbulent. Light from the moon and the torches on the bridges revealed a good deal of wrack from the fiooding upstream. I saw no full-grown trees, but there was a fair amount of brush and what appeared to be drowned animals. Once, we saw a straw hut, such as shepherds use, fioat by, bottom up, like some bizarre boat.

You would have expected a great deal of noise to accompany such a spectacle, but that was not the case. Father Tiber worked to accomplish his mysterious purpose rather quietly. There was a mild, pleasant murmur of rushing water at the points of the breakwaters that protected the upstream sides of the bridges and an occasional scrape as a fioating log struck a bridge or embankment; otherwise, it was almost as quiet as a normal night.

It took us only a few minutes to walk the distance between the Sublician and Aemilian bridges, the whole way passing sightseers and fishermen who were still dragging their boats to safety. Ordinarily, the bulk of the population went to bed as soon as it was dark, but not on this night.

Past the Aemilian, the river took a sharp turn leftward, to the west. Here the two branches of the Tiber rejoined after splitting around the Island. It was a somewhat longer walk to the Cestian Bridge, which joined the Island to the west bank as the new Fabrician joined it to the eastern one. This stretch was lonelier, with little but open fields to our left, since that area had yet to be developed. Farmers still kept market gardens there.

The Island devoted to the God of Healing rode like an oversized ship in the middle of the fiood, and that is not just a fanciful simile. The gigantic retaining walls and breakwaters at the ends of its elliptical length were constructed in the shape of a galley, with the prow facing upstream. With the Tiber now foaming over its huge, marble ram, it gave the incredible impression of speeding away from us.

The uncanny sight seemed to fill Hermes with superstitious dread. “Should we go over there?”

“It’s just an illusion,” I assured him, a little unsettled myself. “That island’s not going anywhere. It was right in that spot before Romulus showed up, without all the fancy stonework, of course. If it were really moving, it would be tugging at the bridges, wouldn’t it?” I slapped a parapet, almost as much to reassure myself as him. “See? Perfectly solid. Now, come on.”

“I didn’t really think it was moving,” he muttered under his breath.

As we climbed the steps of the temple, I admired the fires blazing in the new, bronze braziers before the doors. I could tell from the brightness of the fiames and the thin smoke that they were burning high-quality wood. Even as we passed by, an elderly slave tossed a split log into one of them, sending a column of glittering sparks skyward.

Inside the temple, the statue of the benign god Aesculapius stood vigil over a small crowd of sufferers. Most of them lay on pallets spread on the fioor, although a few wealthy patients had brought proper beds with them and were attended by slaves. Others, unable to sleep, sat on their blankets, hunched into knots of abject misery. All these unfortunates would sleep before the god in hope that he would send them dreams indicating a cure for their ailments. The priests were expected to be expert in interpreting these dreams.

I found the high priest, Gavius, in consultation with some of the others before the statue. All wore their full vestments, as if for a nighttime ceremony. Aesculapius was a god associated with both the upper world through his father, Apollo, and with the lower through his tutelary serpent, so he was accorded both daytime and nighttime services and both white and black animals were sacrificed to him, usually cocks. All over the walls were hung models, usually clay, of hands, feet, eyes, and various other members and organs. These were dedicated to the god in thanks for cures to the represented parts. Every few years all this clutter had to be cleared out, and the offerings were cast into a special, sanctified pit.

“Aedile!” Gavius said, when he saw me. “We hardly expected to see you here at this hour.” He was a very dignified old man, whose obscure but patrician family had supplied priests for the temple since its founding. Even before Aesculapius arrived in Italy, they had been priests of an earlier healing god. “We were just consulting about what measures to take should the river rise high enough to swamp the Island.”

“Has that ever happened before?” I asked him.

“No, but who are we to tell Father Tiber how high he may rise?”

“That is very true.”

He shook his head sadly. “Many of us feel that we are overdue for a chastening from the gods, with so much sacrilege and uncleanness in the City. And what god is closer to Rome than Tiberinus? He was ancient when Romulus reared the first walls here. The other gods have many worshippers throughout Italy and the world. Father Tiber is ours alone.”