Saturnalia Read online

  Now we moved. Unwilling to stand still in one place any longer, he began restlessly walking. I followed. He kept talking in torrents, as if his story needed to be told before he vanished from life altogether. He shifted about; perhaps movement eased his aches or made him forget the pangs of hunger.

  He told how he had found refuge in a public park. Two men who lived in a broken handcart under an oleander bush helped him recover and find a new tunic. I gathered they probably stole the tunic for him. Barefoot, he survived, but had lost his confidence, and came to live here outside the city, nervous that if he stayed anywhere in Rome he would be set upon while he slept. He had found occasional work hawking clothes-pegs or pies, but it was a poor living anyway, then the middleman who organised the street-tray sellers took most of the profits and, knowing their workers were desperate and outside the law, cheated them whenever possible. The refugee’s wild appearance and dirty clothes, such as they were, prevented him getting other work. When he had had a stroke of luck and found some money in the street, he bought stolen goods to sell on, but was even cheated by the thieves, who had shown him attractive vases but swapped them secretly and passed him worthless bundles instead, so he lost the cash he had found and felt betrayed.

  Out here, he slept up by day, then roamed in the city. At night, everywhere was more dangerous—above all, there was the risk of being arrested by the vigiles—but there was more rubbish to scavenge and less chance that some ‘respectable’ citizen would spot him and turn him in. Suspected runaways were hauled before the Prefect of

  Vigiles, their descriptions were circulated, and their old masters had the right to reclaim them. All options were bad. Once a runaway was restored to a bullying owner, harsh beatings and other cruel treatment were inevitable. If no one came forward, a runaway would become a public slave; that meant back-breaking construction work, cleaning latrines, or crawling into cramped, smoky hypocausts to clean out ashes. It could even lead to transportation to the mines. I knew about slavery in the mines. Few survived.

  This man was on a downward spiral. Starvation and cold were killing him, helped by lack of joy and loss of hope. He was thin. His complexion was grey. He had a bloody cough that would take him out in months. I told him to go to the Temple of AEsculapius, but he rejected that for some reason.

  ‘You know they look after slaves?’

  ‘Oh they come around and tend people on the streets.’ He spoke in an odd tone, as if he despised the temple’s staff. Clearly he had no trust in kindness. Whatever you think of architects, he must have been rational once to have done the job for his first master. Deprivation had stopped him thinking; he could no longer help himself It almost seemed as if he no longer wanted to.

  I gave him a little money. He hesitated, proudly, then snatched it and jabbered with gratitude embarrassingly; his thanks were so excessive, I suspected him of mocking me. Then I asked him if he had seen Veleda. He said no. I could not decide whether I believed him. He offered to take me to meet other people who might know something about her. I was heading into danger with him, but once again I had to accept the offer rather than have a wasted journey.

  So I let myself be taken away from the road, to rising ground where a crazy group of homeless outlaws existed in a secret world. A lolling signboard said the land belonged to owners called the Quintilii, but it was not used for farming and no buildings stood there. It was well placed to be developed into an out-of-town villa, but instead was a haven of lawlessness and destitution.

  The smell hit me first. It crept across the grass, but once it caught my nostrils I could not be rid of it. Even in the open air, the stink of a dedicated tramp stops your lungs. The only stench more clinging is that of a decomposing corpse.

  Men and women congregated here, though there was little to choose between them visually. They were dark, shapeless bundles, either half naked or wearing many impenetrable layers of clothing, with knotted ropes around their waists. Some were plainly mad, others purposely behaved like madmen, intending to terrifY. They skulked in filthy rags, one with a half-missing lopsided hat. Their eyes were dull, and either downcast to the ground, or staring so wildly I tried not to meet their manic gaze. One man had a pipe. He could only play one note, which he did in loathsome monotony for hours. A couple paraded in slave collars defiantly: metal neck-restraints which had been put on them to show the world that they were runaways. One dragged around a mighty bundle of clanking chains. A pair of perpetual inebriates, with loud, hoarse, raging voices, roared tuneless drinking songs to the waking stars.

  As my eyes grew accustomed to that haunt of lost souls, I realised that more figures lay around their circle, completely motionless. Some had constructed cocoons to sleep in, like burial mounds. There they lurked, never stirring, giving themselves up to complete exhaustion or drunkenness on the cold ground. Some were guarded by emaciated dogs, which looked equally far gone.

  My nameless companion made me sit apart on a log, while he took it upon himself to be my ambassador and went around the group, asking them about Veleda. I watched him at this task for a long time. While I sat there, trying to remain inconspicuous, from time to time someone stood up and shuffled off into the twilight. Impossible to tell whether it had anything to do with me. They could be ambling away on their own tragic business, or seeking reinforcements. I felt I was in a dreadful trap, yet I had to face it out. If Veleda really had been seen talking to one of these people, this was my only chance to find out about it.

  Eventually the man I had met first came back.

  ‘They want money.’

  ‘They can have what I have—if they tell me what I want to know.’ ‘They want the money first.’

  ‘And then they’ll run away.’ I made myself sound tolerant. ‘Look, I realise your situation. I understand the dangers you all face, especially if you let unknown people make overtures. I promise, I have no intention of turning you in to the vigiles. Have any of your friends seen the woman?’

  He tried a different ploy. ‘They are frightened to talk.’ ‘No harm will come to them.’

  ‘They know who you mean,’ he offered, tempting me. Something about the way he spoke made me sure now that he was unreliable. He had been persuaded to plot against me. I would learn nothing. I needed to escape.

  I stood up. ‘Which of them has seen her, then?’

  ‘I have to be the spokesman!’ returned the ex-architect quickly. His voice rasped from his sickness and now he openly had the liar’s attitude. However civilised he had once been in a previous life, he had given himself up to this circle. He lived by their rules, which were non-existent. He had lost any morals. I had no claim on the man. I never had. I had never reached him during our earlier conversation. I could not pressurise him; for that to work, people have to be afraid or covetous. This ragged creature was doomed and knew it. He possessed not the slightest shred of what makes an individual his own man. Only seeing himself as one with these other desperate souls, a faint bond indeed, gave his current existence any form. They were brutal; he, who had once fled an owner’s degrading behaviour, now shared their brutality.

  I sensed the others watching us. I sensed the undertow of threat.

  Then all at once someone rushed me. Before I could brace myself, fists laid into me violently. I felt indignant—then very angry. I hit out, gathering myself to fight back professionally, but was felled by a great blow across the neck and shoulders from a man wielding the log I had been sitting on.

  I knew they would batter me, but they had urgent business first. I lost my cloak, tunic, purse and belt before I had time to curl up and struggle. I kicked out—and that made them kick me. But my assailants were so intent on robbing me, it saved me from more serious damage. Those who did stamp or hit were hampered by others, struggling to drag the clothes off me and fighting one another for these treasures. Somebody pulled up my left arm in the air, wrenching painfully at the plain gold ring Helena bought me when I was raised to the middle classes. I clenched my fist and landed a le
ft hook on a face. People swarmed on my legs, trying to unstrap my boots. I bucked hopelessly and twisted like a netted fish.

  Abruptly the situation changed. Shouts came out of what was now darkness, over where the road must be. The whole crowd let go of me and ran, not to escape, but downhill towards the newcomers. Shrieking, they swooped off in one excited flock, like sightseers who heard a parade coming. Whoever had shouted could be heard hurriedly riding away.

  The moment I was left alone, I dragged myself upright and hobbled away from the clearing on trembling legs, with my unfastened boots flapping. There was no chance of catching up with Clemens and Sentius, or whoever had been on the road. But I hoped somehow to escape. If the runaways caught me again, I faced a fatal beating.

  I was alone now in this wild place. I stumbled to the road. There were no mausoleums near me. When I heard the vagrants swarming back towards me, I had only one option. I flattened myself in a shallow drainage ditch. My heart was pounding. Although it was now dark, with the complete blackness that envelops open country, I still felt convinced they would be able to see me here. Like wild creatures, they could probably sense their prey at night.

  Any moment they would find me and attack me. I would die in this ditch. I thought of my children. I thought briefly of Helena, though she was always with me anyway. I hid in the ditch, wondering how long death would take.

  XXVI

  I was so certain of discovery, I nearly leapt to my feet and prepared to go down fighting. But the vagrants astonished me. They shuffled past on the road, in ones and twos, obviously now all hobbling into Rome. It was their normal nightly migration. I had been sure I faced trauma and terror, but they had the attention span of sparrows. Starvation and drink had frayed their brains. Once I moved out of their vision, they had forgotten me.

  For a long while, I lay still. One last follower came along, running in odd starts, then pausing and muttering to himself His language was vile. He was full of hate; it was unclear why. Obscenities poured from him fluidly and so profusely they became meaningless. It was the man with the flute. He began to play his only note, over and over. I waited with my eyes closed, feeling that his monotonous serenade was aimed directly at me. I supposed I could deal with a single opponent if I had to fight him, but the energy he put into cursing, and then blowing, was fierce.

  I thought of that other flautist: the terrified young boy who discovered the body at the Quadrumatus house, the musician who would never raise his tibia to his lips again. Slaves don’t only run from beatings. The flautist was well treated there, yet a fright like that could yet make him flee from home as the vagrants here had done; he was too fragile to last in this environment. I hoped he stayed whimpering in his cell.

  Silence descended. Chilled and light-headed, after a terrible day with neither food nor drink, I ventured to sit up and with clumsy fingers strapped my boots properly. I felt stiff when I stood upright, but I was otherwise mobile and tree. Tentatively, I set off walking. Soon I stopped taking care, but walked at a steady pace along the Via Appia. Occasionally I misplaced the road in the dark and meandered off the edge of the paving, but on the whole I found the solid surface and by now the winter stars were faint above me, telling me the way to Rome.

  Eventually I thought I saw firelight. I would have made a detour to avoid a confrontation, but two things stopped me. By the light of the flames, I could see that whoever was having a picnic had set up their cauldron right next to the donkey I had left behind; he was still tethered exactly where I had positioned him as a marker for Clemens and Sentius. At this time of night on an open road any presence worried me. But I could hear women’s voices, so I took a risk.

  Any thought of controlling the situation collapsed as I reached the bonfire party. One of the figures seated on the ground reached out, threw something on the blaze, then the flames shot up several feet higher, turning a curious metallic shade of green. Dear gods. I had now stumbled across a pair of practising witches.

  Too late. They had spied me and were calling out a cheery greeting; escape was impossible. I didn’t believe in witches, but I knew how they operated. If I ran for it, they would change shape at once and soar after me on huge black wings, talons at the ready… I despised such lore, but by this stage I was so light-headed I was not prepared to test the truth of it.

  Well done, Falco. Up to your best standard. I just hoped the worst the old mothers were up to out here was collecting herbs. Somehow I thought otherwise. Cuddled between them, this quaintly dressed couple had what was quite obviously a bucket of old bones.

  The spell-mixing hags were wizened and wrinkled, though after the violence of the runaways they seemed less threatening. I apologised for disturbing them; I admitted I was unsure of coven etiquette. The old women were at once sociable and welcoming. ‘Sit down! Have a bite.’

  Although I was starving, nothing would make me accept a ladleful from their battered cauldron. Human ears and the testicles of unhygienic animals were not my favourite cuisine. But I sat down with them—rather abruptly; I was about to collapse. ‘I’m fine, thanks. The name’s Falco, by the way. I’m a private informer. What do I call you ladies?’

  ‘Our real names, or our professional ones?’ Without waiting for an answer they owned up to Dora and Delia. I didn’t ask whether those decent Greek appellations were their working pseudonyms. ‘We are witches,’ one boasted proudly.

  ‘He’s not an idiot, Delia. He can tell that byour equipment.’ The enormous battered spoon with which they were stirring their thick black mixture was tied with a fillet of purple ribbon. Lying on the ground in the firelight I could see feathers and odd wisps of wool. A wooden figure boded ill for someone. A tiny model clay puppy, with a squelchy substance stuffed in each hollow eye socket, seemed destined for the magic broth. They had a metal disk, which bore symbols I preferred not to have deciphered. Dora was clutching a square bag made of old sacking, in which I had no doubt she kept offensive ingredients.

  I forced myself to look impressed. ‘Shouldn’t there be three of you?’

  ‘Daphne couldn’t come out. She had to mind her grandchildren.’ ‘And what’s in the pot?’ I quavered.

  ‘Dung and little piggies’ do-dahs mainly. Marinaded for seven nights. Beetles and blood. A pinch of lizard never does any harm. We like to use a lot of mandrake root. You have to grind it very fresh. Pulling it up by moonlight can be a bit of a fiddle, but once you get the knack, it’s worth it on results.’

  ‘Scorpion? Mare’s urine? Toads?’ I quavered.

  ‘Oh yes. You can get a good smear up with toad-spawn.’

  The Emperor Augustus, that spoilsport busybody, had tried to eliminate witchcraft. Unusually, his method was to persuade court poets to portray witches behaving horrendously. Legislation by literature. Organisation by ode. Those imperial creeps, Horace and Virgil, both rushed to suck up to their emperor. Horace wrote a revolting poem about a boy who was buried up to his neck in the ground by filthy witches, beside a bowl of food he could not reach, and starved to death so his enlarged liver could be used in a love potion.

  ‘Got a girlfriend? We can knock you up a quick philtre while our main brew simmers,’ Dora offered.

  ‘I don’t go in for love potions. Why lure lovers by secret spells? I prefer women who fling themselves upon me out of heartfelt lust…’

  ‘Get a lot of that, do you?’ sneered Delia, though her sarcasm was mild.

  Something moved close by and I started.

  ‘That’s only Zoilus—he won’t hurt you.’ When Dora told me, I recognised the pale shadow that had crept up close unnoticed. The ghoul was jerking his arms like wings, holding up his pallid garments on pointed fingers. The witch turned towards him and let out a cry: ‘Leave us alone or I’ll bake you in a curse cake! Bugger off, Zoilus!’ At once, the unburied man-bat swooped off obediently.

  Conversation flagged. Exhaustion had taken hold of me; I was sinking.

  I dared not nod off, or I might be transformed into something; it w
as bound to be one of the animals or birds I loathed. ‘I enjoyed your green fire. Can we have another quick burst?’ I asked. Maybe someone would see the light and come to rescue me.

  ‘Oh, green fire is totallyoutmoded, darling. Delia only does it to calm her poor nerves. Bats’ eyes, now; bats’ eyes never go out of fashion. Tricky, though; ever tried making a bat keep still long enough to pull its eyes out? And bones of course.’ Dora rattled her bucket. ‘Bones,’ she repeated thoughtfully. ‘Can’t get them so much nowadays. Modem cremation methods sadly don’t help us, and the bereaved relatives generally break up any big bones so the ashes will fit those awful streamlined urns. Cheapskates.’

  ‘No it’s just overcrowding,’ Delia said. ‘They all want to save space because they’re running out of shelves in the tombs, darling. Only neat little urns will fit.’

  ‘Tragic!’ agreed Dora, morosely twisting locks of her hair in her filthy fingers. The braids appeared to be wound with rags instead of the traditional snakes. I refrained from asking about it. She was bound to bemoan the impossibility of getting hold of serpents nowadays and I knew I would fail to keep a straight face.

  Our fire-lit social gathering was ridiculous, but I never entirely lose sight of a mission. Since we were all on good terms, I asked Hecate’s sisters whether they had ever come across another woman with infernal aims: I told them as much as I could about Veleda.

  ‘Don’t know her. We never mingle in society much,’ pouted Delia. She had a good hooked nose, though something about it made me wonder if it was glued on for the occasion. Women dress up to go out on the razzle in their own ways…

  Dora had the warts. She also had the second sight. ‘You’ll regret getting involved with that one, dearie!’

  ‘Believe me, I already do. Well, if you do run into her, try to resist any claims of sisterhood. Don’t trust her; she’s trouble. Just find me and tell me.’

  ‘Oh we will!’ they assured me, insisting that they were both completely patriotic. This was like talking to a pair of elderly aunties who had been sipping at the festival wine since breakfast. They reminded me of several of mine. I had been at weddings where the conversation was much crazier than this.