by Jane Finnis
A couple of dozen pretty boys and girls carried in the appetisers, and delicious food aromas competed with the rose scent. But before they served us at our tables, there was a charming bit of festive play-acting, a typical example of how Clarus managed to honour the old Roman traditions while not letting them get in the way of his modern daily life. At a truly traditional Saturnalia dinner, the slaves should have been seated while their masters and mistresses waited on them. This wouldn’t have gone down at all well with important guests, and Clarus had arrived at a compromise which kept everyone happy. From the smooth way it was managed, it probably happened every year. Of course, being Clarus, he had to make a speech.
“Honoured guests! I’d like to welcome you all to my humble abode. At this season of convivial joy, we must not forget the old customs which have made Rome great. I shall have the pleasure of waiting on my servant here, my major-domo. Please come and be seated, Dimitrius.” He stood up and beckoned, and the man approached with a gravity and dignity that would have made a high priest envious.
“Thank you, my lord.” He sat carefully on Clarus’ own couch, but didn’t attempt to recline full-length like the rest of us. Sempronia, who was in the place of honour to the right of the host, looked on stonily as Clarus poured wine into a glass and offered it to his slave. Dimitrius drank the whole of it and held it out for a refill, which Clarus poured, smiling. “Thank you,” he said. “An excellent wine.” He looked round the guests and raised his glass. “May I propose a toast—to a happy and peaceful Saturnalia.” We all drank, then he rose and slipped back into his major-domo role, while Clarus resumed his position on the couch. It was very well done.
I was sharing with Horatius and Gemellus, one of our local Roman landowners. They were both good company, and when I told Horatius how Gemellus was winning an impressive reputation as an orator in court cases in Eburacum, the two of them became instant friends. Horatius wasn’t aware how easy it is to win an impressive reputation as an orator in a small place like Eburacum.
The food was wonderful. A touch showy, of course, but I can put up with that, as long as it’s also mouth-wateringly delicious. First there were oysters and snails, quails’ eggs and crabs, dormice, and lettuce—how had his gardeners managed lettuce in mid-winter?—all accompanied by fresh bread and warm wine. Then for the main course, four slaves carried in a whole roast sow. More servants brought smaller trays of roast piglets, which they arranged round the sow, and platters decorated like birds’ nests, containing chickens, ducks, geese, and doves. All this was set out on the central table in a wonderful display, before the carvers began to cut up and distribute the meat. I lost count of the different kinds of vegetables, and as for the choice of wines—but this isn’t the place for a complete menu. The sweet course is the only one that needs a detailed description.
As I ate and chatted to my two companions, I glanced around often, as if taking in the glittering scene, but in reality watching Plautius. He looked better than at any time since we’d first met, and was eating solid food, though sparingly. If you observed closely, you saw that he only ate from dishes that Timaeus fetched and sampled, but it was discreetly done. Timaeus was wearing a white tunic, like the table slaves. So was Quintus’ man Rufus, who was hurrying about among the tables, doing quite a creditable job as a waiter, and presumably keeping both eyes open for anything suspicious.
There was a longish pause between the appetisers and the main course. Some of the guests, like Gemellus, got up to walk about the room and chat to friends, but Horatius and I stayed put and watched the entertainment. Three bronze-skinned African girls, supple as snakes, bent their bodies into impossible shapes and did complicated acrobatic dances. They were accompanied by a girl drummer wearing nothing but a short leopard-skin kilt, and making enough noise to let me snatch a few private words with Horatius.
“You heard that Lord Plautius received an unusual message earlier today?”
He nodded. “A bit worrying, after we thought all that assassination business was finished with. What do you make of it?”
“I don’t know. All we can do is be on the alert.”
“He’s safe enough with all these people around him, isn’t he? It’s good to see him here.” He signalled to the wine slave to refill his glass. “Delicious, this white wine. Must be from Italia somewhere.”
“Yes, from near Neapolis.” I decided to venture a question that might sound rude if I asked Sempronia or Plautius directly. “Well, now that Decimus is found, I presume you’ll all be leaving to go home soon?”
“Don’t ask me, m’dear. I’ll be the last person to be told!” He looked across at Sempronia, who was eating with apparent enjoyment, and smiling as she talked with Clarus. “At least she’s in a better mood tonight. She’s done nothing but moan all day about how her slaves are all useless compared with Margarita. She misses her more than she expected.”
Serves her right, I wanted to remark, but said instead, “I saw Albia just briefly before she left. She said Decimus and his father had an argument.”
He gave a snorting laugh and took a long sip of wine. “Argument! That’s a good one! Full-scale battle, I’d call it. Old Gnaeus doesn’t often lose his temper, but by the gods, he did this time. I think he genuinely hoped he could persuade Decimus to give up this marriage. I could have told him the boy has made his mind up and won’t budge. He finished by storming out and yelling, ‘Goodbye, Father. I hope I never see you again. Remember, men are only mortal, but love goes on for ever!’”
Gemellus came back to his place just then. “It’s a good thing Silvanius serves a hearty first course,” he remarked. “This is likely to be a long interval. Apparently it’s chaos in the kitchen.”
Horatius shrugged. “It’s bound to happen at Saturnalia. The slaves are having high jinks, are they?”
“Yes. Only the usual sort of foolery, as far as I can make out. One of the junior cooks has been elected King of the Kitchen for the night, got himself drunk on the cooking wine, and started ordering everyone about. Most of them have had a few drinks more than they ought, seemingly. The chef’s having a tantrum and threatening to walk out.”
“I wish I’d a gold piece for every tantrum our cook has thrown!” I said, wondering what my own slaves were up to at the Oak Tree. “But how did you discover all this, Gemellus? Everything here looks so calm and efficient.”
“I heard Dimitrius apologising to Clarilla and Clarus. And I heard Clarus say that if anything goes wrong, Dimitrius will be in for a flogging.”
The second course, when it finally came, was worth the wait. If Gemellus hadn’t told us that the kitchen was in uproar, we wouldn’t have guessed. Perhaps some of the table slaves looked a little red in the face, and there was one small accident when a girl knocked over somebody’s glass, but nothing that doesn’t happen sometime at any party in the Empire. It was a triumph. Everyone sent compliments to the chef, and Clarus and Clarilla smiled and smiled, supremely happy.
Before the sweet course, there was a musical recital. A handsome eunuch with a clear, sweet voice sang love poetry which he accompanied on a lyre, and then two girls played flutes while two boys performed sinuous dances. Once again we had time to stretch our legs, and nearly everyone got up to stroll around, except Plautius and Sempronia, and the host and hostess. Several people disappeared briefly, presumably to relieve themselves, and the rest of us ambled about the room chatting to our friends. I even greeted Fabia as I passed her couch, and she replied with a sweet smile. Quintus smiled too. I approached Lord Plautius—slowly, in case he wasn’t wanting company—but he beckoned me closer. He looked well, if a little tired.
“Aurelia Marcella, thank you for arranging for my son to come here this afternoon. I’m sorry to say we couldn’t agree, but I was glad of the chance to talk to him. I wanted to give him a fair hearing.”
“I’m pleased if I was able to help. But you know, I’m sure, that he came back to the Oak Tree of his own free will, when he heard that Priscus and the ot
hers had been kidnapped. I don’t want to take the credit which should belong to him and his family loyalty.”
“Yes, so I understand.” He sighed. “I still haven’t completely decided what to do. Disinheriting my son is a very big step. Yet it’s what his mother wants. Well, we shall see.” He cleared his throat, indicating that the topic was closed. “A dreadful business, this kidnapping of innocent people. And I’m sorry that you were compelled to be involved in it.”
Gods, two apologies in one evening! Was he merely being polite, or was he feeling guilty about the instructions he’d given his messenger?
“I was lucky to escape with very little harm done. It’s a pity your trip to Brigantia has been spoilt by so much violence. You’ll be glad to get home, I daresay.”
He smiled. “I can’t deny it. We’ll be leaving tomorrow, if the weather permits. Silvanius’ sister is lending us her house in Eburacum for the first stage of our journey.”
There was no time for more. The flute-players brought their final piece to a triumphant conclusion, and the applause warned me I should return to my couch.
The slaves began to bring in the final course, a large and mouth-watering selection, mostly sweet. There were rich custards in individual bowls, and fruits to go with them, peaches and cherries in wine. Hazelnuts and walnuts, ready shelled, were brought round on silver trays, and I counted nine kinds of cheese, offered with fresh warm bread. I don’t know who had enough appetite left to do justice to those, but I regretfully realised that I hadn’t. However I couldn’t resist a few of the special almond-paste treats that the chef was famous for. They were shaped and coloured like miniature fruits—apples, pears, and peaches, and even, as a comic alternative, carrots and cabbages.
Last and sweetest of all, there were dates stuffed with almond paste, each one topped with a sliver of almond. Horatius’ eyes lit up when he saw these, and he told the boy to put half a dozen onto his plate. “I adore them,” he explained with his mouth full. “So do Sempronia and Plautius. I think a sweet tooth runs in our family. Look,” he dropped his voice, “she’s getting her own special supply of them. So’s Gnaeus. You’ll see, I won’t be the only one making a pig of myself.”
He was right. Diogenes had just brought in two oval silver dishes of the dates, and as soon as he placed one on Sempronia’s table, she began happily cramming them into her mouth. Greedy old sow, I hoped they’d give her a belly-ache later. Diogenes took the second dish to Plautius, who looked at it doubtfully. Sempronia leaned across from her couch and smiled, urging her husband to try them. I noticed Plautius’ dates were slightly different in their decoration from Sempronia’s, as if they’d been prepared specially for the old man.
Diogenes offered Plautius the dish, and the old man glanced at Timaeus. Gods, I thought, he’s certainly taking no chances about his food. Timaeus took a date, ate it, and smiled. This satisfied Plautius, and he ate three of the sweets in succession before waving the dish away. There was still a half-eaten custard on his table, but he lay back, wanting a rest now, and settled himself comfortably for an after-dinner snooze.
I wished I had the nerve to do the same. I knew that the next event of the evening would be a speech by our host. Clarus, despite his Roman education, had never managed to be more than a moderate public speaker. He had a good voice which he projected well, and his words were fluent, but his turn of phrase was unimaginative, ranging from slightly pompous to very very pompous. Well, it was a small price to pay for a superb meal. I picked up my glass and gazed round at the other guests.
People’s attentiveness for the next quarter-hour was in inverse ratio to their status. The table slaves were fully alert, making sure everyone had enough wine and food, and in between whiles listening carefully to their master’s speech. The freedmen at the far end of the room were wide awake, laughing at the jokes (I mean joke—there was only one, and it wasn’t very funny) and applauding whenever it seemed appropriate. The guests of medium importance, like Horatius and Gemellus, listened politely without nodding off or yawning. The same went for Priscus and Fabia. But Plautius lay dozing, and very soon Sempronia was sound asleep and snoring. The exceptions were Clarilla, who smiled encouragingly, and Quintus, who looked ready for anything, despite a casual pose. And I tried to be ready for anything too.
At long last Clarus drew to a close, and was rewarded with loud clapping. Well, it was his party. Now it was time for the final toast. Priscus glanced at his father, realised he was asleep, and rose to propose it himself. “My friends, I know you’ll all agree this has been a wonderful occasion, a most generous and delightful Saturnalia party. I thank our host and hostess on behalf of everyone. Please join me in drinking their good health. Hail, Silvanius and Clarilla!”
We drank the toast, and everyone tactfully refrained from noticing that Plautius and Sempronia weren’t joining in. Clarus and his sister rose, and she announced that there would be more wine, food, and entertainment in the sitting-room, and led the way out. The party began to break up as diners left their tables and moved slowly towards the wide double doors. Now, I thought, might be a dangerous time for Plautius, with everyone milling about in disorganised groups. I got up and began to make my way steadily through the press of people towards his couch, where Timaeus was bending over him, talking gently. He’d rolled over onto his stomach, and the physician reached out to turn him onto his side. At the neighbouring couch Priscus crouched down beside Sempronia, gently shaking her and murmuring “Wake up, Mother.”
Then Timaeus snatched away his hand and jerked upright, giving a small shrill cry. He stood up, and said distinctly, “Help, somebody, please. My lord is ill!” He seized Plautius’ left wrist in his fingers, for all the world as if he was feeling for a pulse.
I moved fast, and so did Quintus, and we reached Plautius at the same time. Quintus felt for a pulse at his neck, and I turned his head to see his face. It was a ghastly greyish-blue colour, and there were flecks of foam around his mouth.
Quintus muttered, “I can’t find a pulse. Can you, Timaeus?”
“No, I can’t. But he’s only asleep, surely. Just taking a nap after a good meal….” He began shaking Plautius, gently at first and then more roughly, murmuring, “My lord, wake up. Please, my lord!” But there was no reaction from the still figure.
The room was still half full, but had gone unnaturally quiet. Everyone heard Quintus’ next words. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid he’s dead.”
CHAPTER XXII
I don’t know how everyone stayed so calm. Well, yes, I do: the famous Roman virtue of self-discipline came into its own. At times of crisis you realise how Romans have come to be masters of the world.
Silvanius and his major-domo managed to clear the remaining diners from the room with speed and courtesy but no panic, which was a minor triumph in itself. Sempronia awoke, and Quintus went to her and told her quietly what had happened. She sat on her couch bolt upright, as white as marble, but didn’t speak or cry. Priscus seated himself beside her, holding one of her hands, and began to weep silently.
Fabia stared blankly and then began to tremble, and sat down on the nearest couch. Horatius went to stand next to her, still clutching his glass of wine. Timaeus was crying, and Diogenes began to wail loudly, and tore his tunic in the ritual gesture of grief. But his devotion to Plautius had been mainly for show, so perhaps this display was too. Clarus stood like a statue, his face a picture of astonishment, soon changing to alarm. Clarilla had tears in her eyes, but she controlled them with an effort and said she would go to the sitting-room to see to the other guests.
I stayed slightly apart from the rest, keeping silent because I didn’t know what to say, and feeling like an intruder in the family’s private grief. I looked round for Quintus and saw him talking urgently to Rufus, who nodded twice and then hurried from the room. To my relief Quintus came to stand beside me, but his first words were gloomy. “I’ve failed him, Aurelia. I promised I would protect him, and I haven’t.”
I briefly tou
ched his hand. “You did all you could. And it may be his illness that killed him. We don’t know for certain yet.”
“I do,” he muttered. “But you’re right, we must go through the formalities.” He turned to Clarus. “Clarus, you’re the senior magistrate in this area, and as you know, I carry the Governor’s authority to investigate anything unusual, such as a sudden death. I’ll help you in any way I can. Have I your permission to examine Plautius and establish how he died?”
Clarus nodded. “By all means, Antonius. But surely it was his illness? He’s been unwell ever since before he left Londinium to come north. That’s what has caused this tragedy, surely….” He trailed off, glancing quickly at Sempronia.
“It’s our duty to be certain,” Quintus answered. “Plautius was an important man, of senatorial rank, and the Governor will want to be assured that we checked everything properly. Now, I’d like to spare the ladies as much distress as I can. Clarus, perhaps you’d escort her ladyship and Fabia to one of your sitting-rooms, and find a maid to sit with them?”
“Willingly, yes. My lady—Miss Fabia—I think we should leave Antonius and Timaeus to do what must be done. Will you come with me please?”
They went quite meekly, glad to have someone to tell them what to do. Diogenes sniffed noisily. “I’ll go with my lady, in case I can be of service. There’s nothing I can do for my master now.” He followed them out.
“Spare the ladies?” I mouthed at Quintus, and then asked aloud, “Shall I go too?”
“No, stay, please, Aurelia. I had to get rid of her somehow, didn’t I?” he added in an undertone.
I nodded. The last thing we wanted was Sempronia watching our every move.
We sat down, and there was a depressed silence until Clarus returned. “Clarilla will look after them. All our other guests have left, or are leaving now. The snow has started again, so they were anxious not to delay.”