The Ides of April fam-1

by Lindsey Davis

  This was a deliciously intimate revelation about a ritual most people suppose to be sedate. I giggled, partly at his despair. "If it's that kind of wild party, I may join in myself."

  Tiberius sat up. He said that was the best idea anyone had had so far. He would be one of the group patrolling the area, and I could go with him. Then he could personally look out for my safety while I could lend my eyes to assist him.

  L

  It would go wrong, almost certainly. Set up a woman as bait for a man who had already sent too many bodies prematurely to the pyre? An invitation to disaster.

  I spent the rest of the day at home, supposedly resting. I had been taken back to Fountain Court by my vigiles escort, after the fool finally caught up with me. Later he delivered me to Prisca's baths. I enjoyed the amenities, but my real purpose was to proposition two people I thought could be helpful.

  Zoe and Chloe, the women who wanted to be gladiators, were bemused by my story. I told them the truth about Andronicus and the danger he posed, because I wanted to be fair. I explained that he was out to get me, and also one of the cult members who would be cavorting on the Aventine that night. I knew from Tiberius that to give Laia courage, she would be with her friend, Marcia Balbilla; I wanted them to have bodyguards.

  "The women will be in the chariot, because the chief priestess is too old. So we will always know where these two are, even if all the others are weaving about like escaped sheep. It's a women-only night, supposedly-well, participants-so we can't line the streets with soldiery; that would be out of place. But no one will object if the targets have two armed Amazons."

  "This chariot-" Chloe was the facetious one. "I've seen it other years. It's towed by big serpents, isn't it? Can't we dress up as the snakes?"

  "No. We shall have powerful men hidden inside the monster costumes. Strong enough to drag the chariot-or to help if the murderer is stupid enough to approach. If he does, we need you to be light on your feet. Keep him at arms' length, remember; don't let him strike you with a poisoned needle. Or the cult members while they are cuddling up together in the chariot," I felt obliged to add, having nothing against Marcia Balbilla.

  Zoe looked deeply suspicious of the whole affair. "Are these women lesbians?"

  "Of course not! One is married. The other had a husband once."

  "Could be a cover."

  "I really don't think so, Zoe. Marcia Balbilla has children, I believe." I could not believe I was having this conversation with two well-built girls who dressed up in breastplates and swords. "Look, the sisterhood is no big caboodlum anyway-what about you and Chloe?"

  Zoe was shocked. "We are just close friends." Very close, I reckoned.

  "So are Laia and Marcia. And if I'm wrong, they won't jump you, they are faithful to each other."

  "We don't want to be seen with Sapphists. We have to think of our reputations."

  "That never bothered you when you took up gladiating!"

  I dragged these coy Amazons to Marcia's house, where the cult women were preparing. They were dressing up in their folded-over white Greek gowns and fake wheat crowns, twittering like a wedding party. As had been insinuated by the runner, the devotional dames were well supplied with great silver bowls of some warm liquid that exuded a powerful aromatic smell. Not, believe me, thyme and rosemary.

  There, to my further amazement, I had a similar conversation with the two respectable matrons as I had had with Zoe and Chloe earlier.

  "Just don't show each other too much affection," I warned wickedly. "You don't want the Amazons to get the wrong idea about you.

  Myself, I really don't care what people get up to, but they are narrow-minded. No fondling!"

  Balbilla and Gratiana looked put out, yet as I left I overheard them in fits of nervous giggles.

  I went in a hired chair to the temple, my agreed rendezvous with Tiberius.

  The Temple of Ceres was thick with people tonight, but as I arrived, he peeled off from a group of men and came up. He had been barbered again and was in white, though carrying a dark cloak. To comply with the law, he had to be unarmed. If I had been him, I would have broken the law, but as the aediles man, I suppose he was stuck with compliance.

  I was in white myself. I only owned one proper white gown, which happened to be in delicate opaque material. Luckily it was long enough to cover my sturdy ankle boots, inappropriate accessories with silk-weave gauzes, but excellent for kicking. Not possessing a wheat crown, I had threaded a gold necklace through my hair; that had been put up professionally at Prisca's bathhouse where, since I had had time to spare, a girl had also given me an eyebrow tidy and face-paint job.

  This groomed effect made Tiberius gulp. "I see you are intending to stand out!"

  "Give me a torch and I'll look like one of the others."

  "None of them find it necessary to be in see-through."

  I had a perfectly thick undertunic (though a little short because I had run out of long ones) making the filmy dress decent. "Oh shut up. I'm not fourteen and you are not my mother."

  I let the prude stare. We had discussed the white dress plan; it meant I could blend in with the cult women.

  His disapproval was spoiling the mood for me. Since so much of my life was spent looking dowdy for work reasons, I did occasionally like to lash on the cosmetics and jewellery. I admit Mother would have said four necklaces was one too many, but too late: my neat belt-purse was already full, with emergency cash and a small but deadly weapon which I could pass off, if challenged, as a fruit knife.

  Every woman should own her own little decorative hunting dagger. You never know when you may need it.

  LI

  H ail, goddess, preserve this city in harmony and prosperity. Bring us all the products of the earth, feed our kine and cattle and flocks, donate the corn-ear, give us the harvest. Nurture also peace, so he that ploughed may also reap! Be gracious, 0 thrice-prayed for, great Queen of goddesses!"

  Laia Gratiana was having a tremendous time amidst the wreathing altar smoke. She was blonde Ceres for tonight. After solemn incantations at the temple, she had ascended an enormous chariot, pretending to shake the reins. Marcia Balbilla was in there behind her, relegated to the role of torch-bearer. As Laia leaned forwards, shrieking, in go-faster mode, two men inside large curly snake costumes heaved the vehicle along. It was a great, heavy, bucketing thing. The friendly-faced snakes towed the vehicle with hidden ropes attached to the wheels.

  Their task was to drive around the Aventine, stopping at every crossroads as the celebrants gave loud shouts in all directions. Tomorrow Proserpina would be returned to her mother from Pluto's underworld with her half-eaten pomegranate, which would be a much quieter re-enactment. Tonight, Ceres was letting the crops die in winter while she hunted for her child. Each cult woman grasped a long flaming torch, with which they ran about, lamenting. They had produced classical costumes, with varying degrees of success; most managed a peplos with a folded top, pinned on the shoulders with brooches, while the daring left the sides open. Fortunately for modesty, Greek dress is voluminous so if it was properly done, many folds hid the peeking-breast look. (Men at streetbar counters were hoping otherwise.) Some women wanted such authenticity they wore their hair loose and went barefoot, as a sign of ritual mourning, though any who had done this before on the Aventine streets knew better and at least wore sandals. Most Roman women possess a pair of suitably Greek-looking toe-posts. You never know, do you, whether you may have to gallop about your neighbourhood in the name of ancient religion?

  None of the women would have consulted a map beforehand; in the tangle of narrow, unnamed alleys they were liable to get separated and become fatally lost. Morellus had put vigiles out, ready to herd them back like sheepdogs.

  I made one last attempt to stop the fiasco. "This is too risky! Can't you just for once forego the play-acting?"

  "It is important," Tiberius argued. "Ceres brought us out of our barbarous condition, educated mankind, gave us civilisation. The point is to
relearn our history. In this way, we may come to live happily and die with greater hope."

  I laughed. "Someone has been reading up! You're defending your aedile."

  "Don't be snide, Albia. He has to manage the Games with care and reverence, reverence to the gods through acts of worship. The intention is to intercede for favour, make Ceres well disposed to Rome, in order to guarantee a good harvest for the well-being of the city."

  "Good luck!" I chortled.

  Tiberius, scowling, marched behind the chariot; I, not scowling, strolled beside him. Zoe and Chloe skipped either side. The men in scaly snake costumes guarded the front. Laia and Marcia had a degree of protection simply because their driving platform was high up. Other members of the cult were flowing around wherever the mood took them. They had the reckless air of women who might be tipsy, though I was surprised how controlled they stayed. Tiberius deigned to grin, and said plebeian princesses could hold their drink.

  On the uneven roads, the chariot was difficult to manoeuvre. It had an inbuilt axle flaw which made it lean to one side, another factor that slowed progress. The men hauling it had to skew themselves to force it in a straight line. If one of them miscalculated, sometimes their tall snake headdresses bashed together accidentally; the carnival beasts were beginning to look tattered and rakish. One had lost its forked red tongue.

  We veered across the Aventine, stopping frequently. Each time, the women yelled lustily. Eventually the pageant ground to a halt at a particularly smelly junction, where a large crowd had gathered in anticipation. A man pretending to be a lame old woman accosted Ceres with a stream of filthy jokes and insults. This was part of the ritual; it represented an ancient servant, Baubo, daughter of Pan and Echo, the one person who had made Ceres smile as the depressed goddess searched.

  Tiberius leant on a bar counter, signalling for drinks. "This will take some time… You will not believe, Albia, the stress in hiring an insult-giver. We even had a contract schedule, listing acceptable terms and how many times he is authorised to use the worst swear words. Faustus had to sit for hours, to audition actors telling him gutter jokes."

  "Managing the rites with care and reverence," I reminded him gravely. "I suppose if he wants it to be a memorable year, he needs to make it sensationally crude? Are you auditing the ribald script? If only I'd brought my note tablet, I could tally up the 'fucks' for you."

  "Flavia Albia, behave more demurely."

  "As you once said, I am not a nice young lady."

  "You are when you choose. Just be natural, can't you?"

  "Spoilsport!" I muttered, though there was no heart in it. I felt like a chastised dog, though with no intention of rolling over. If I was a dog, it was a strong-willed, stubborn Britannia terrier. Tiberius might not know them, but they can never be mastered. They make up their own minds whom they respect; choice once made, they show bloody-minded, unflinching loyalty. Thankfully, Tiberius and I were never going to be on those terms.

  ›He left his drink. What man does that?

  He abandoned me too, and it took me a moment to see why. The crowd was even heavier at this junction, lasciviously keen on the Baubo scenario. Even the actor playing the rude crone was clinging to a chariot wheel to avoid being dragged out of the goddess's earshot by the press of merrymakers, while Laia could almost certainly hear very little of the bawdry with those shell-like ears-from which dangled extremely expensive earrings, I noticed. She and Marcia were beginning to look concerned about the sheer number surrounding their vehicle, though I spotted that one group of men was facing outwards and pushing back onlookers-clearly the vigiles.

  They were preoccupied with crowd control, so had not noticed a worse danger: attempting to climb crablike up the opposite wheel from Baubo was someone with a familiar auburn head. Tiberius must have seen him and was working his way as best he could through the lively crush of bystanders. He was never going to make it. There was no point me trying to follow, so I climbed on the bar counter inelegantly, and stood up. I banged two metal jugs together above my head and shrieked at the top of my voice to alert the Amazon bodyguards.

  Chloe was nearest. The more manly of the couple, she was short, wide and fearless. Chloe hurled herself onto Andronicus. He hung onto the chariot. She clung to him. The beautifully decorated chariot of Ceres began rocking so violently that the two women in it squealed and peered over the gilded coachwork. All credit to Marcia Balbilla: she then took a firm grip on her long ritual torch and banged down the lower end on Andronicus like a laundry worker with a washing-dolly. I think she aimed for his face, which would have been perfect, but she only hit his shoulder. She did dislodge him; he fell to the ground with Chloe on top, squashing him. Marcia lost her nerve and began screaming hysterically. Laia proved her quality and slapped her out of it, belting Marcia so hard I feared she must have lost teeth. She lost her balance, and fell off the back of the chariot.

  Tiberius had reached the vehicle. He gestured furiously to the two snake-dressed hauliers. I heard him shouting, "Go! Go!" They took the strain. The chariot lurched forwards a few feet.

  Zoe appeared, to find Chloe gripping Andronicus in a headlock with one arm, while with the other she pulled Marcia Balbilla to her feet, dewy-eyed with admiration for her exploit with the torch. Marcia stumbled tipsily and fell against Chloe. Zoe took that wrongly. Always pugnacious, she cursed and flew at Chloe, who had the sense to give Marcia a shove well out of the way. As they battled with their wooden swords, to the hysterical delight of the crowd, Andronicus squeezed free.

  He made off and I tried to bawl for people to apprehend him. Useless. This was the Aventine. Any time you shout "Stop, thief!" strangers instinctively step in your way to prevent you catching the culprit, while he runs off laughing.

  I was pulled down off the bar by eager men who liked a woman dancing on a counter in a half-transparent dress. They were too blissed out to cause me serious anxiety. I slipped through their grasp and wriggled my way through delighted people towards the action scene.

  I saw Tiberius leap on the back of the chariot while the crowd surged forward and helped push it. This was so successful it shot ahead, rattling off at the fastest speed it had gone all night. Everyone tumbled along with it, except me. I was left, standing in a now dark and silent area, with Marcia Balbilla's dying torch. I picked it up and twirled it until the flame burned up. Holding it aloft, I set off steadily after the others, following the shadow I had spotted: someone who tailed the convoy, unobtrusively lurking at the back so nobody noticed him. I knew it was Andronicus.

  LII

  I lost him. He must have merged into the crowd.

  By the time I caught up myself, I could see Tiberius looking back anxiously from the chariot, as if he had glimpsed our quarry or some other risk. The vehicle jerked to a sudden stop again; the Baubo actor was once more trying to earn his fee. Being re-enacted now was a traditional scene where the old crone groaned as if in the desperate pangs of childbirth (helped by the crowd chorusing along with "Heave!"), then lifted up her skirts to reveal her privates (was that what amused Ceres? — she must be easily tickled). Baubo then produced a child of Ceres' own-represented tonight for extra comic effect by a swaddled piglet. The dialogue was as refined as the events. Laia Gratiana looked pained, but was encouraged to smile by raucous spectators who did not know she was too snooty.

  I had more to worry about. The mob had increased here, including a boy I recognised with horror. He had climbed halfway up a column on a fire porch for a better view and was hanging there by one arm. At least it meant I noticed him. Watching wide-eyed, with all his solemn, curious intelligence, was young Postumus. He was carefully absorbing every detail, taking in every obscenity. Dear gods, my terrible brother had a waxed tablet and stylus; despite his perilous position, he was writing down the jokes. Baubo had noticed and was looking furious at the breach of copyright.

  Someone else saw this too. Postumus had not spotted Andronicus, but Andronicus had fixed on him. I suddenly made out the archiv
ist, beginning to move purposely towards my brother.

  I was too far away. I tried shouting but there was too much general noise. I began to push through the crowd, assailed by smells and grabbing hands, using my torch to clear a space. There was little room to swing it but I stabbed a few feet and ribs in passing.

  I saw an arm grab Postumus from below. Sick with fear, I jumped up on a large pot outside a shop, only to see it was Tiberius, with Morellus close behind him. Postumus was pulled down, furiously wriggling as he lost his note tablet. Relief surged, as I watched my brother flung hand to hand like a victim being rescued from a blazing building, in the classic vigiles manoeuvre. Somewhere at the end of that line, Postumus would receive a dressing-down. If Morellus had told his men who Postumus was, he would be escorted home, in the hope of a moneybag from our grateful parents. If Papa had been happily organising his wine cellar, they might even get one.

  Andronicus had vanished again. I began pushing this way and that, searching. I heard Morellus call to some of his men, "Keep looking for Ginger!" and I reached Tiberius and Morellus. Frantic gestures indicated where Andronicus must be, so we butted our way in that direction. He must have leapt among the pavement paraphernalia outside a shop, kicking over a large jar of tallow for lamps. It smelt awful and as it spilled across the road, the cobbles had become slippery. People were also throwing nuts now, purposely trying to sting others with the hard little missiles.