The Death of Marcellus

by Dan Armstrong

  “The woman became wise with age and began to write a series of prophecies on oak leaves that she accumulated in her cave, and eventually collected into nine books. At the time of King Tarquin, prior to the formation of the Republic, this woman, known as a sibyl or prophetess, came to Rome and offered the king her books of prophecies for a sum of gold. The king laughed at her. She returned to her cave and burned three of the books.

  “Five years later, she came to King Tarquin again and offered him the six remaining books for the same sum she had asked for the original nine. Again the king laughed at her and sent her away. On returning to her cave, she burned three more books.

  “Five more years passed. The old witch came to Rome for a third time and offered the three remaining books to the king. This time the king had begun to doubt himself, and fearful that these books might hold real truths, bought the three for the price she’d once asked for all nine.”

  “And those are the books that Fabius consulted?”

  Marcus nodded. “They are kept in the cellar of the Temple of Jupiter. Whenever there are unexplained events or periods of great fear among the people, they are read for advice.”

  “It seems farfetched to me.”

  “But Timon, there are such wise women and wise men in the world, and their words are worth our attention.”

  “I won’t argue with that. But wisdom and prophecy are quite different. I can’t deny my doubts.”

  “You sound like my father.”

  We stared at each other for too long. I broke the spell with another question. “I recently heard of an upcoming festival for the god Saturn. Is that something special?”

  “Oh, yes. The Saturnalia is celebrated on the shortest day of the year. It’s two weeks away. Saturn is the God of Bounty. There’ll be a huge feast for the entire city. It’s also a day when all things are reversed. The slaves become the masters and the masters become the slaves. It’s a time of drunken revelry and public license of all kind. My father is not fond of what goes on in Rome, but we will honor Saturn here with a sacrifice and a day off for the slaves.”

  It reminded me of the Greek Festival of Artemis. I thought of that night in Syracuse when I had celebrated the festival with Moira. “Will you go into Rome for the festival?” I asked.

  “I’ve experienced that insanity many times, but this year I won’t. I enjoy the drinking too much, and with all the politics in the air, I could find myself the target of abuse. That could lead to trouble.”

  “Should I go into Rome for the festival?” I asked, though I already knew that I would. “Just to see what it’s like?”

  Marcus shrugged his shoulders. “You might enjoy it, but as my father has warned, Rome can be quite dangerous at night. The Saturnalia will only make that worse.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The celebration of the Festival of Saturn began at dawn on the Claudian farm with the sacrifice of two sheep. Edeco performed the sacrificial rites, and Marcus cooked the sheep on a spit over an open fire. The meal took place at noon. Switching roles for the day, the slaves sat at the table while Portia and Marcellus served the food. I played a song for everyone on the pan pipe that I had inherited from Archimedes.

  After the meal, Portia said she was going into Rome for a few days. Edeco pulled the family’s two-wheel carriage out of the stable and harnessed it to a horse. Portia climbed into the covered rear portion of the carriage and Edeco took the driver’s seat. Portia said nothing about my meeting her later in the day, and though everyone knew I was going into Rome for the festival, I was not asked to accompany the carriage.

  Midafternoon I told Marcus I was leaving. He told me to enjoy myself, but to be careful after dark and to stay at the house in Rome if it got too late.

  The festival had piqued my curiosity, but I was especially excited, and anxious, about what Portia might tell me about my mother. I put the bridle and blankets on Balius and set off for Rome.

  In the two months I had been riding Balius, I had become quite fond of the mild-mannered horse and had learned to enjoy riding. It seemed he had also gained some trust in me since I had removed the nail from his hoof. When riding, I would talk to him about anything that was on my mind.

  “I wonder why Portia has made this so secretive?” I asked him, reaching out and stroking him on the side of the neck. “I don’t like keeping any more secrets than I have to. The lenses are bad enough, but surreptitious trips into the city seem like going too far. I hope she’s actually got some information for me.”

  Balius assured me I had nothing to worry about. I was trying to find my mother, and if that involved taking some chances and keeping secrets, it was worth it.

  The festival was well underway by the time I reached the city. Revelers filled the streets. Drink was everywhere. I went straight to the Claudian residence to stable Balius.

  Ithius found me removing Balius’ bridle. “Have you come into Rome for the festival, Timon?”

  “I have. Will you join in?”

  “No, it’s not for old men, especially old Greeks.” Ithius must have been near seventy and showed his age with a bent back and a slight limp.

  “Is Portia here?”

  “I haven’t seen her, but she’s due sometime today. She’s hosting a gathering of her women friends. Do you need her for something?”

  “She knew I was coming in for the Saturnalia and told me to stop by tonight.”

  “That should be interesting. I’m not sure what she has planned with her wealthy friends, but I tend to stay in my quarters when they’re here.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I think they want their privacy. I’ve overheard enough of their conversations to understand they’re exploring ideas that are new to Roman women. My presence might inhibit them.”

  “I’ll take that as fair warning.”

  “How long were you with Archimedes, Timon?”

  “Three years. I copied his letters and got to know his work quite well.”

  “I learned some science when I was younger. If things had worked out differently, I would have continued my studies.”

  “You mean if you weren’t a slave?”

  He smiled at me through sad eyes. “That’s part of it.”

  “May I ask how you happen to be here?”

  “It goes back to Rome’s first war with Carthage. I was born in Greece, but grew up in Tarentum.”

  “I grew up in that same region—Croton.”

  “I liked it there, but I left Italy to fight in Sicily. That’s where I first encountered Marcellus.”

  “Then you must have known King Hiero?”

  “Only as any common soldier knows his general. The men loved him. At that time in the war, however, Hiero backed the Carthaginians, so I was fighting against the Romans. I was there in eastern Sicily when Marcellus saved the life of his step-brother Titus Otacilius. Has he told you about that?”

  “No, Marcellus rarely talks about himself. And Marcus hasn’t mentioned it.”

  “It was when Marcellus first gained recognition as a soldier. He was the same age Marcus is now—and just as handsome, but more dangerous with a gladius than any man I’ve ever seen. That’s how I noticed him. He was standing over another wounded soldier, Otacilius, protecting him with his gladius and fighting off one man after another with incredible ferocity. I thought I might show this younger man a thing or two and dared to challenge him. He quickly knocked me to the ground with a blow from his buckler. He put the tip of his gladius to my chest and told me I had two choices. Help him with his brother or die. I carried Otacilius off the battlefield and became a prisoner of war. Marcellus bought me. I’ve been a slave for the Claudii ever since. More than thirty years,” he concluded somewhat wistfully.

  Neither of us said anything for a short time, then he spoke. “Timon, you should be enjoying the festival, not talking to an old man about ancient history. I’ll take care of Balius. You get going. The forum is where the feast takes place. Go enjoy yourself.”

  I d
id as Ithius suggested and found myself taking part in a party as wild as the one I had witnessed in Syracuse the night Marcellus broke into the city. The reversal of roles provided for great fun. Everyone wore the goatskin hat of a freedman. No one wore a toga. A huge spread of food was laid out on tables in the forum, stretching from the tomb of Romulus to the Temple of Vesta. Wine flowed like water. Even women could be seen in the forum. Homosexual men and prostitutes walked the streets in daylight, making offers as freely as conversation.

  After a few cups of wine, I couldn’t resist going to the comitium to listen to the speakers. Drunks pushed and shoved to get to the rostra, shout out some nonsense, then stumble away.

  Several drunken plebs shouted toasts to Marcellus. It caught on and the crowd swelled with it. Young Cato suddenly appeared out of the masses and pushed his way to the rostra, looking far too sober. He harangued the crowd as though they were a collection of naughty children. He covered everything from Roman morality to Marcellus’ alleged quest to be king. He was a fine orator, even when I disagreed with what he said, but the crowd wanted none of his politics. They shouted him down and a trio of drunks took over the rostra.

  The usually modest Romans were half dressed and in some cases completely naked, frolicking and dancing in the street to whatever music anyone cared to play. The increased slave population generated by the war added to the frenetic nature of the celebration. Things were so crazy you would have thought the war had ended.

  I took the opportunity to go to the neighborhood on the east side of the Palatine Hill to look for Sempronia. I was surprised to see that the neighborhood was mostly empty. Apparently many of the patrician families went to their country villas during the Saturnalia to avoid mixing with the slaves on this day of reversals. I walked up and down the street several times, but it was a waste of time. No one was there.

  I took one last stroll through the forum at sunset. Food and wine were still being given away. I ate my fill and had another cup of wine. The festival would only gain momentum with nightfall, and the crowd already felt rowdy. Recalling Marcus’ warning, I was grateful to have a house to retreat to—even stay the night if necessary.

  I reached the Claudian residence just as dusk gave way to the dark of night. No one was in the stable. I entered the back of the house through the peristyle feeling quite anxious, wondering if my mother might be inside. I edged into the atrium where I could hear several women’s voices coming from one of the adjoining rooms. I called out to Portia rather than going directly in.

  “I’ll be right with you,” answered Portia.

  Portia came out to the atrium wearing a white, one shoulder gown. “Hello, Timon. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Portia, who dressed very simply at the farm, with her hair pinned up and often covered, wore her hair free and pushed back over her shoulders, hanging nearly to her waist. Though the only light in the atrium came from the night’s early stars and a waning moon, her white gown appeared to be nearly sheer. “Did you have a chance to enjoy the festival?” she asked.

  The overwhelming allure of her appearance caused me to look away and stammer. “I—I did, but my focus was on coming here. Have you learned anything about my mother?”

  Portia smiled easily. “We’ll get to that. Please join us. My friends and I have taken this evening of the Saturnalia to explore the Bacchanalian rites, some of which might be considered improper for women. Promise me that what happens here tonight is strictly between you and me. My son and husband wouldn’t understand.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, wondering what could possibly be ahead.

  “I have asked our teacher, Paculla Annia, to do a reading for you. It took some time to convince her and the others that this can be done without risk to our meetings. I said that as a Greek you will be more open-minded to what we do.”

  What had I agreed to? A reading? I didn’t believe in astrology or any of the other soothsaying arts.

  I followed Portia into the small room, mesmerized by the beauty of her long hair and the silhouette of her body beneath the thin gauze of her gown.

  Five women were seated at a table in the center of the room. A single candle provided the only light. The fluttering flame caused the room to waver with shadows and add to the mystery of the night.

  Four of the women wore pale diaphanous gowns like Portia’s, but had veils over their faces to protect their identities. The woman I had seen before, who had spoken of Isis, sat at the head of the table, dressed again in black. Instead of a veil, she wore a silver mask. Her hair hung over her shoulders like a curtain of black silk, but was cut short in bangs across her forehead.

  I had never been alone in the company of this many women and felt intimidated by their covered faces and revealing attire. It was the night of the Saturnalia, and as I understood it, no transgression short of murder was off limits. I gave serious thought to leaving.

  “This is Timon, my son’s tutor,” said Portia to her friends. “He has been separated from his mother for three years. He last saw her in Croton, yet has reason to believe she may be here in Rome, living as a slave. I’ve asked Paculla to do a reading for Timon so that he might learn something more.”

  Portia led me to the woman dressed in black, then took a seat.

  Paculla looked up at me through her mask. A ceramic bowl, half filled with what looked to be wine, and a small wooden box, engraved with unusual symbols and lettering, sat before her. “What is your mother’s name?” Her accent was heavy, but her Latin accurate.

  “Arathia Arathenus. She’s Etruscan and widowed to my father Nicoledes Leonidas.”

  “And what leads you to believe she’s in Rome?”

  “It’s what I was told by someone who was there the night she was kidnapped. It’s all I know.”

  Paculla nodded. “I will prepare a potion and use it to ask the goddess Isis if Arathia is here. Your permission to do this is necessary, as is your participation in the ceremony. Can you do this in good faith?”

  It wasn’t what I expected, but what did I have to lose? My search had already begun to feel futile. I had nowhere else to turn. “Nothing means more to me than information about my mother.”

  “Then we begin.”

  Paculla opened the wooden box and took out a small vial. She removed its cork and let a few drops of a thick, dark fluid fall into the bowl. “The goddess Isis is watching over us on this night given to Saturn. May this philter help us find Arathia Arathenus. We begin with a sip of tinctured wine.” She passed the bowl around the table. Each woman took a sip. When it came back to Paculla, she offered it to me. I took a sip and placed the bowl on the table.

  Paculla withdrew another vial from the box. “This, the blood of a lioness, represents the courage of Arathia.” She allowed a single drop to fall into the bowl.

  One by one, she removed various items from the box. She held each one up and named it, before adding it to her brew. “This eye of an eagle allows us to see all of Rome from above. This ear of a dog will let us hear all that goes on in the city. Three whiskers from a cat will allow us to know what only a cat can know.” She opened another vial and spilled some powder into the bowl. “The ground skin off the tail of a rat will give us access to every nook and cranny in which a slave could be hidden.”

  Paculla returned the vial to the box, closed the lid, and pushed the box aside. She used a wooden spoon to stir the horrible concoction, while uttering some phrases in a language I thought might be Egyptian. When the incantation ended, she looked up at me from behind her silver mask. “We need one more ingredient to make the magic work.” She peered into my face as though entering my mind with her eyes. “We need your seed.”

  I heard the words but didn’t understand what she was requesting.

  Paculla smiled. “Timon, we need your seed. Please lift your tunic.”

  Even a Greek has some modesty. I didn’t move. The other women were watching me from behind their veils. I noticed Laelia for the first time, standing in the shadows.
I couldn’t help but think of Marcus’ story about her.

  “Timon, this is a ceremony as old as time,” said Paculla. “With your seed we have the connective element necessary to reach your mother.” Her eyes turned to the others at the table. “Is it not the night of the Saturnalia?” The priestess looked back at me. “What you might consider improper on ordinary days, Timon, is not tonight. Tonight is a night of magic.”

  I still didn’t move. I couldn’t do what this woman was suggesting, particularly in front of Portia, the wife of a man I had vast respect for.

  Paculla’s smile grew thin. “Maybe I can help.” I felt her hand slip beneath my tunic. I wanted to back away, but she had a good hold of me before I had the chance. She sought my eyes with hers and began a slow easy massage.

  “Close your eyes, Timon.”

  I did as she asked more from embarrassment than her command.

  “Take your mind away from here, Timon,” she said softly. “Remember suckling at your mother’s breast. Remember the only girl you’ve ever known.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut as tightly as possible.

  “A dark-haired Sicilian girl.”

  How could she know this? screamed in my head. And still I couldn’t help remembering Moira, the girl who had broken my heart in Syracuse. Paculla’s voice seemed to change. I thought I heard Moira talking. “Don’t be frightened, Timon,” the voice said. “Let me help you find your mother.”

  Despite my anxiety and embarrassment, Paculla knew what she was doing. Even with my eyes closed, I saw the women around the table in their diaphanous gowns. I saw Portia from behind as she led me into this room, wearing little more than a splash of water. My penis swelled into Paculla’s right hand. Her left slid beneath my testicles.