Spurius Books I & Ii

From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim

Spurius Defender of Rome, 186 BCE

Conspiracy, Revolt, and Hannibal’s Oath

a novel

David László Conhaim 1

From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim

The Memoirs

Until today most experts in Roman history would have shrugged if challenged to identify the consul who crushed the cult of Bacchus in 186 BCE. Yet this statesman was a principal figure in one of the most unusual stories to come down to us from the classical world. While occupying Rome’s highest office, Spurius Postumius Albinus made an alarming discovery: the priests devoted to this god of wine and ecstatic transformation had turned their state-sanctioned religion into a secret society whose coercive recruiting methods, acquisition of property, and rape and murder of initiates threatened “the very heart of the state.” Or so Spurius reported to the Senate in his plea for emergency powers. In the special inquiry to follow, he rounded up some 7,000 suspects. Half were condemned. Our sources for the “Bacchic conspiracy” are few. Drawing from works by previous Roman annalists now lost,1 Livy, two centuries removed from events, produced the only detailed written account available to us until just two years ago when excavators uncovered an estate on the bay 1

The histories of Gaius Acilius, Valerius Antias, and Claudius Quadrigarius; only fragments remain. Passages herein attributed to Acilius are taken from Penguin Classics’ Rome and the Mediterranean.

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim of Naples once bequeathed by Spurius to the legendary Gracchus family. The ruins held two remarkable discoveries. The first was a bronze decree of the Roman Senate proscribing the Bacchic cult, identical to one unearthed elsewhere in southern Italy in 1640 and displayed today in the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna (p. 198). The second, found in the remains of a library whose papyrus and parchment volumes had turned to dust, were piles of corroded waxen notebooks. To these, researchers have applied a range of cleansing and imaging techniques, gradually revealing a treasure trove of material dictated by Spurius to his secretary. Of supreme interest is a fragmentary account of his eventful consulship, during which he “saved the state” from both the Bacchanalians and the Gauls and prepared the nation for a final, eastern campaign against the so-called scourge of Rome, Hannibal Barca. More, this dramatic narrative is segmented by Spurius’ equally intriguing reflections on Rome’s moral slippage in the four decades of empire-building to follow. Similarities to our own times are manifest. As concerns underreported events in Roman history, few accounts are less satisfactory than Livy’s description of a fateful peace-embassy led by Scipio Africanus to Hannibal on the shores of Asia Minor, where the two historic opponents failed to broker a peace between Rome and Syria. Seldom far from Scipio’s side in those days, Spurius left us a detailed account of that encounter, which to our good fortune has been discovered among his writings. The text is also notable for its humility, a tone seldom struck in Spurius’ reportage of his subsequent career. Included here as the Prologue, this enthralling episode puts Spurius’ future consulship squarely into the context of those times and reveals how Rome’s rivalries with Carthage and Syria would make the Mediterranean her lake. All the major concerns confronting Rome in Spurius’ later years—from the acquisitiveness of her leaders to the erosion of public decency—have their

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim beginnings in Rome’s ascendancy to the world’s first power, an achievement very much the result of Hannibal’s persistent efforts to destroy her. This novel combines the rescued fragments with narrative embellishments, among them a composite historical personage or two.

DLC Tel Aviv, December 2009

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim

And he shall know the son of Zeus, Dionysus; who, though most gentle to mankind, can prove a god of terror irresistible. Euripides, Bacchae

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim

Prologue: Embassy to Ephesus

All dates BCE

193 I

After a rough overnight passage from Samos against an unfavorable easterly gale, our vessel and its escort of four warships at last raised oars and dropped anchor in the still bay of Ephesus. Crowding the harbor was the magnificent Syrian navy, assembled for the invasion of Greece. Along the cliffs to the north and south sprawled dense lines of enemy infantry whose golden and silver standards glittered in the sun. Heavy in the morning air was the scent of smoldering campfires. Not since the war with Hannibal had the Senate assigned me a mission to Asia Minor. In the fourteenth year of that great struggle, a prophecy found in the Sibylline books revealed—or so it was interpreted—that only by acquiring the sacred effigy of Cybele, mother of all the gods, could Rome defeat Hannibal. Ordered to obtain her statuette, I sailed promptly for Ephesus and 6

From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim traveled inland to her sanctuary in Phrygia where I found her priests eager to support Rome. To this day Cybele’s shrine on the Palatine hill is tended by Phrygian priests. As the world knows, it was Publius Scipio Africanus who won the war, thus he was the obvious choice to lead the present embassy to Hannibal in exile. Shortly after our arrival we boarded a ten-oared launch, accompanied by a priest of Concord, a secretary, and ten guards. Scipio took the seat of honor in the stern, his handsome face slightly anemic after a near sleepless night. Beside him sat our priest, smoothing the coat of a nervous lamb. I seated myself close to the bow and gave the order to push off. We felt little trepidation as our craft slipped between the hulking Syrian vessels for their crews all stood at attention by the rails, silhouetted against an azure sky. Even so, our oarsmen quickly put some distance between us and the fleet; and as we glided toward the vast and bustling waterfront, the din from its throngs of Greek and barbarian sailors, merchants, soldiers, and stevedores increased to a roar. Beyond the dockyards towered a colonnade that marked our destination. The launch was brought alongside a stone jetty and stout dockers came forward to catch the mooring ropes. As a crowd began to form at the water’s edge, a committee of Ephesian dignitaries, all robed in white, pushed their way through, their guards dispersing the mob with warning thrusts of their staves. We exchanged solemn greetings with our Ionian Greek counterparts before following them to a stone altar on a nearby quay where mariners propitiated the gods. The clerics among them restrained the lamb on the platform while our priest offered up incense and a cup of wine. Sprinkling the writhing animal with wine and salted grain, he called upon Concord to intervene in human affairs. I prayed secretly to Mars.

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim A single cut to the throat dispatched the beast. The lamb kicked hysterically as blood spurted in a fountain from the severed vein. When the animal expired, the priest made an arcing incision in its belly and pulled back the hide to reveal its vital organs to his fellow diviners. The lamb was pronounced healthy. Auguring peace or war? Scipio and I did not much care. No mere sacrifice could decide the issue. The fate of the East rested with the Roman Senate. After our priests uttered closing prayers in accordance with their different traditions, the Ephesians conducted us through the ragtag hordes with their beasts of burden, implements, supplies, and wares, to the colonnaded offices of the port, currently functioning as the command center of the Syrian army. There we were met by a Greek-speaking barbarian slave with oiled hair and a finely embroidered tunic. This fragrant Asiatic dandy led our retinue up the blackened steps to a pair of open bronze portals. He bowed at the waist and gestured flamboyantly toward the shadowy entrance hall. Stepping inside with some reluctance, we approached a marble staircase lined on each side with soldiers standing at attention. Their army was a mixed force of mercenaries and subjects from King Antiochus’ vast dominions, which stretched all the way to the Kabul valley—a legacy from Alexander’s time consolidated with remarkable ability by this restless Seleucid heir. The king, we were told, was holding court upriver at Sardis. Scipio, quite unarmed in his general’s cloak, stole a critical look at my gladius in its embossed silver scabbard. I had worn it as a precaution, a ridiculous accessory under the circumstances. With a chuckle, he motioned for the slave to lead the way. We climbed the steps in the wake of the boy’s nauseating perfume, casting uneasy glances over our shoulders. On the

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim floor above, our guide showed us down a torch-lit corridor adorned with busts on pedestals—of Seleucid royalty not Greek statesmen or philosophers—and then, after turning a corner, through a doorway glowing with daylight. There, on a broad terrace supported by the building’s frontal columns and overlooking the sparkling harbor congested with massive quinqeremes and triremes, stood Hannibal Barca with his back turned. From his elevated position he must have watched us disembark, sacrifice the lamb, and hasten to our audience with him. Now level with Scipio and me, he was disinclined to greet us. Scipio stepped forward, but he did not deign to approach our old scourge or call his name. Instead, he paused for Hannibal to bring himself to face the Roman whose honorific— “Africanus”—commemorated the very conquest of Hannibal and his people. A sudden gust from the Aegean stirred Scipio’s red cloak; sunlight glinted off the sheen of his scalp where his hair had thinned. We had indulged Hannibal’s characteristic insolence long enough. I ended the awkward silence by loudly rattling my scabbard as I unclamped it and handed it to my guard. Hannibal’s shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. At last he turned around. Hannibal appraised our delegation at length with his one eye. Although hardened and disfigured by a life at war, and now a fallen statesman, he had by no means lost his luster. Bronzed and sinewy in a white tunic trimmed with gold, he radiated boundless confidence. “I will speak with our distinguished visitors alone,” he growled at our escort in Greek. With a dismissive wave from Scipio, the senators, priests, and even our guards withdrew. Only our secretary remained, poised with stylus and tablet. I draw the following discourse from his notes, embellished somewhat by my memory of that event half a century ago.

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim Hannibal strode forward with a dazzling smile that for an instant dispelled our enmity. He vigorously clasped Scipio’s forearm, then mine. “Publius Cornelius Scipio … Spurius Postumius Albinus…. Welcome to Ephesus, now the westernmost port of the Seleucid empire. Has it really been eight years since we met at Zama?” Almost to the day. Scipio and I had last seen Hannibal in Africa, where, after crushing his army at Zama, we signed the treaty that brought our seventeen-year war with Carthage to a triumphant—if dubious—conclusion. Now, as then, we spoke in Latin. Hannibal continued blithely. “My compliments to you, Scipio, for reaching the consulship twice and attaining the censorship as well. And to you, Spurius, for your unbroken successes in the field and growing importance in the Senate. Fortune has favored you both.” That was quite true. Yet Hannibal’s florid assessment of our careers bore some irony. Scipio had indeed occupied the highest offices, but the jealous Senate had not yet voted him a subsequent command in Greece. Hence, this peerless commander was meeting Hannibal again not on the field, but as a reluctant peace envoy. As for my career, it was advancing commensurate with my years of service to the state, nothing more. In addition to my military tribuneships and the commands I held under Scipio and Cato, I had been made army paymaster and subsequently elected aedile. I was about to stand for the praetorship. My consulship was still seven years off. Hannibal motioned us to a small table. Three chairs meant for us were shielded by a sunscreen, while two others, for him and his secretary, stood exposed. I recalled how at our conference just before the battle of Zama, Hannibal had refused to negotiate in a tent, snarling, “The shade is for women.” At Zama, we therefore remained on horseback. This time, unperturbed, Scipio and I took the shaded seats, followed by our secretary.

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim Slaves poured us Chian wine. Hannibal accepted only a few drops. “If only we were sharing this drink in a Carthage garrisoned by Rome,” said Scipio in a nod to Hannibal. The victor did not feel victorious enough. “Nevertheless, Carthage is at your mercy—for now.” Neither Hannibal nor Carthage was bereft of hope. “Which is why you are again at the head of an army?” Scipio kept his tone light but blood had returned to his face. “Some of my countrymen still caution that while Hannibal lives and Carthage stands Rome will always be threatened.” “Cato, for one.” Hannibal then forcefully uttered the demand with which our redoubtable colleague famously closed all of his Senate harangues: “Carthage must be destroyed!” Scipio nodded coolly. “And Cato will see it done if ever Carthage breaks our terms of peace. But the habitual scheming of your native land is just one concern. At our northern frontier hostile barbarians pace back and forth like hungry wolves. While to our east Greece is prey to Hannibal—a bloodthirsty lion.” The characterization elicited a sneer from its subject. “A promising state of affairs for the last of a lion’s brood committed to Rome’s destruction,” answered Hannibal. “Conversely, of course, your observation reflects how the uneasy Roman commonwealth justifies its imperial policy—as preventative action. ‘If Greece is a weak buffer against Hannibal,’ your colleagues are whispering, ‘occupy her.’ I presume your Senate has already assigned the governorship of Greece. Perhaps to one of you?” Scipio was blunt. “If we ever govern Greece it will be by invitation, not invasion.” “By the invitation of which league? No Greek confederation can speak for the whole country.” Hannibal crossed his hairy, muscular forearms. “Greece is hopelessly divided and easy

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim prey to friends with dubious intentions. Beware, Greece, of Romans bearing gifts! You have come to talk of peace, Scipio, but like us you think of war. Why did you want the Greek command if not to win still more glories in battle? In a matter of weeks Rome will invite herself into Greece, where we shall already be mobilized to protect the East.” He sipped his wine. “I was born the year my father assumed the naval command in our first war with your nation. Later, when I was a boy campaigning with him in Spain, he made me swear an oath never to be a friend of Rome.” “We know,” replied Scipio. “But you promised never to be a friend, not always an enemy poised to invade. I suppose you will say that pledge makes this very embassy pointless.” “A meeting about the fate of Greece pointless?” He gestured broadly with upturned hands. “In any case, how could I decline one with you and Spurius?” I laughed at Hannibal’s munificent exaggeration of my importance. Though at Zama I had commanded the “velites”—the light-armed troops that filled the gaps between our front-line maniples and drove Hannibal’s panicked elephants back into his ranks—I had been and still was a comparatively minor figure beside Scipio. “In Africa,” I improvised, “we did very well for our peoples by negotiating. Today, even Rome benefits from the survival of Carthage. Do not let your oath destroy your country.” As Hannibal took a moment to formulate his response, I found my attention magnetically drawn not toward his fierce green eye but to his leather eye-patch, a dark portal into that crucial time. Against our entreaties the Senate had voted to spare Carthage and come to terms with Hannibal. Chief among these conditions was that Hannibal disband his mercenary army and disarm his nation. The Senate then imposed on Carthage a heavy yearly indemnity meant to cripple her economy while it restored ours. Two years prior to our meeting in Ephesus, Hannibal

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim had fallen out with the oligarchs at home from whom he had demanded greater contributions toward fulfilling the indemnity. He fled to Antiochus’ court, by then moved from Syria to Sardis. Antiochus feared Roman expansion into the East and intended to seize control of Greece before we did. Hannibal convinced the “Great” king that if he were given command of the royal fleet he could rouse Carthage to revolt, making her, in effect, the left wing of the grandest force mobilized since the Persian Wars. With it they planned to sweep across the Mediterranean and overrun Italy. “Opinions in the Senate differ,” said Scipio. “My own view is that Carthage without Hannibal is not to be feared. But Syria with Hannibal is another matter. Though our success in a new contest is certain, Rome wishes to avoid preventable wars.” While Scipio did speak for some of the Senate, the overriding sentiment among patricians and plebeians alike was rather for war now, peace later—a pax Romana by right of conquest. Hannibal was not fooled. “That is your official policy—designed to ennoble Rome’s imperial plans while it belittles our determination to block your chain of fire. Your true intention is to use the Greek world as a stepping stone to Asia. And soon enough, unless you are stopped, your senate will find reason to declare a third war on Carthage so that Rome can take Africa too.” “A slippery assertion, general. As you know, Carthage was our first port of call on this voyage. Your opponents there fear that you will provoke us into declaring that very war you say you wish to avoid. According to them, an agent of yours named Aristo was recently discovered attempting to incite your party to rebellion.” Scipio smiled, wanly. “A notice was posted in the marketplace ordering his capture. He fled by boat the day our delegation arrived. If by chance he has since returned to your side, we should like to interview him.”

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim Hannibal could not conceal his disappointment that we had learned of his plot. But he was quick to reply as if blameless. “Return, commanders, with this message for your senate—that Antiochus and Hannibal simply wish to prevent Roman domination of the world. We will take every measure within our means to prevent it.” Scipio briefly turned his attention toward Hannibal’s menacing fleet in the harbor and asked the perfunctory question in a hopeless tone: “What can we do to avert war?” “Is that the earnest wish of Rome?” Hannibal shook his head incredulously. He motioned for a slave to pour us more wine. “I’m told that despite your settlement with Philip V of Macedonia, Rome still has not closed the doors of its temple of Janus to signify peace throughout the empire. This we take as a threat. Go home and bolt them shut. And do not land again in Greece.” “And you will not invade her?” “We will not … if you let Pergamum go without a fight.” A suspicious senate is not gullible. Moreover, King Eumenes of Pergamum was our strongest ally on the Ionian coast. His late father, Attalus, was beloved by Greece and honored by Rome for his help in the Greek defense against Macedonia. To this day I do not believe that Hannibal was proposing a solution in earnest. Like Scipio’s talk of wanting peace, it was mere posturing. Once entrenched in Pergamum, Antiochus would most certainly cross to Macedonia and Greece by land and sea. “I believe we understand each other,” said Scipio. “You are not mobilizing here to retreat without a fight. And you have now been warned by this embassy that Rome will defend Greek sovereignty. As for Pergamum … I will dutifully report your request to the Senate as a matter of possible compromise.” Scipio stood up, and I followed.

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim Hannibal rose too—gingerly. Nothing wrong with his knees. He wished us a safe voyage to Italy, then turned to me. “Spurius, please convey my regards to Hamno. Still your slave?” “A very obedient one,” I replied. “He was a good soldier too, particularly skilled at handling elephants.” “Not, as I recall, in a crossfire of javelins.” “That was my tactical error. Whenever I think of him being routed by your velites, I feel it here … ” said Hannibal, clutching his gut. “I feel him there too whenever I think of him, but satisfyingly. He’s quite a cook.” “I could use him again on my staff.” “On your kitchen staff, I presume. If you relinquish your command and retire to private life, I’ll gladly send him to you.” “When I do finally lay down my arms,” he replied lightly, “I could well be occupying your home.” He accompanied us to the pergola leading inside. The Ephesians were anxiously awaiting us in the corridor. We stopped at the door to exchange parting words. Somewhat shorter than us, Hannibal stood sufficiently back in order to face us eye-to-eye. An awkward moment passed. We would next encounter him at war for Greece. And yet again for Italy? Hannibal placed his hands on his hips, browned biceps tensing, and addressed Scipio. “If you had not routed me at Zama, I should rank myself as the second greatest commander of all time—after Alexander. That is how highly I estimate you, Africanus.” “Hence your eagerness for a rematch,” replied Scipio. For the first and only time in their historic association, both men shared a smile. Publius Scipio, the victor of Zama, was not too vain to acknowledge that if not for Hannibal he himself might never have achieved lasting glory.

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim Hannibal closed our meeting with his luminous green-eyed smile. Despite his profuse charm, he was still our greatest enemy. We set sail for Rome to recommend that preparations be made to land in Greece even as he and Antiochus awaited the Senate’s response.

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim

I

146 I

From my terrace here on the Palatine hill I can look directly into the Circus where chariot racing draws thousands on our ever more numerous days of thanksgiving. Deafened by the feverish roars that rattle my villa, and too frail either to stray beyond my gate or communicate with my secretary over the racket, whenever there is a competition below I resign myself to being its captive spectator. Beyond the oval field rises the Aventine hill, tiered like ours with villas whose unusual size and lavish decor reflect the spirit and wealth of the times. Not a view I knew as a boy. Back then the Circus was a mere sandbox between these hills. Today the slopes are scaled by rows of benches, though too few to satisfy the demand for seats. Hence an elevated structure has been proposed for the site—to be distinguished as “Maximus.” And if its hopeful architects can obtain their wants from our conquering generals, statues of naked athletes brought from 17

From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim Greece will pose in the archways of its marble veneer. So much for the Roman modesty of my day. What’s more, they boast this new Circus could seat 250,000 spectators. Who, I wonder, would be left to attend theatrical competitions? Who would be left to do anything? This much is certain: if the engineering and building guilds get their way by bribing my colleagues in the Senate with that special tool of the trade—I mean the private construction discount—the charioteer is destined to triumph over the dramatist. All ominous signs of our changing times. This moonlit evening, faint traces of the Circus can be glimpsed from my vantage point. It lies there, chalky-white, supine, noiseless, like a beached whale. Yes, Simonides, like a beached balaena. Sitting beside my couch in the lamplight with his stylus and tablet, my esteemed amanuensis also questions using the word “deafened,” above. Literal to a fault, he suggests it will provide unintended amusement to readers of personal acquaintance who know I’m already half deaf. In addition, he asks why we open an account of how I saved the state long ago with observations of the present day—or night, as it were. This will become clear in due course. Simonides has been with me more than forty years. An Ionian Greek, he came my way as a deserter from the camp of Antiochus the Great shortly before the battle of Magnesia in Asia Minor. To curry our favor should Rome win this contest to dominate the Greek world, the Syrian king had charged Simonides with the return of our commander’s son, a prisoner of war. Antiochus had reason to fear the war’s outcome. His opponent was none other than my close colleague, Publius Scipio Africanus, whose very name commemorated his famous conquest of the king’s advisor, Hannibal of Carthage. Sharing a love for tragic drama, Simonides and young Scipio had struck up a friendship during Scipio’s detainment, and upon receiving the thanks of

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim the father for his son’s safe return, he wisely chose to stay in our camp. Africanus then generously gave him to me. A freedman for thirty years, Simonides has nevertheless remained at my side. Today’s readers should know that I intend these writings primarily for future generations. As it cannot be assumed that such readers will remember my consulship or be familiar with the customs of our times, on occasion I will state the obvious. Critics beware! I have too little time left to bother with exhaustive research; that undertaking I happily leave to younger contemporaries. Fact-finding is one thing, memory quite another, and though mine is sometimes misty it is, after all, an eyewitness account of roughly one-third of our history as a republic. It also bears mentioning that my advanced age allows me to write incautiously—as opposed to inaccurately—when it comes to certain living personages and troubling contemporary affairs. Affirmative friend that he is, Simonides remains unconvinced of the need for my reminiscences when all Rome eagerly awaits the second installment in the histories of Polybius for which I myself was interviewed. But while our intrepid Greek friend, now watching Carthage burn, has charged himself with explaining how Rome rose to dominate the world, I intend to focus on how my actions as consul prevented us from losing our gains, beginning with my suppression of the insidious Bacchic cult. If only our restoration of Roman virtue had endured. Let us now look back precisely forty years to when old-fashioned republican values overcame moral decay.

186 II In the small hours of the Kalends of May a perplexing occurrence awakened me gradually from my slumber. What first attracted my attention was a distant and regular crashing of cymbals 19

From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim resounding from the city below. As I gazed dreamily into the darkness of my shuttered bedchamber the monotonous rhythm might have lulled me back to sleep just the same, but it was shortly augmented by antiphonal chanting modulated by the beat of drums. This was impossible to ignore. Muttering to Jupiter, I got out of bed and stepped to my window. With the shutters open I realized that the eerie song was coming not from the nearby Forum or its surroundings but rather from the southeast. Hardly a satisfying conclusion. I slipped into a robe and crossed through the moonlit peristyle to my terrace, where I found the birds in the aviary strangely agitated. Beyond the Circus nothing was visible except, faintly, quiet villas on the Aventine and the pillars of the temple of Diana. All was tranquil in the night except for those mysterious revelries that now seemed to be originating east of the opposite slope, near the city wall. Tomorrow my neighbors were bound to ask me, their elected leader, for an explanation. While I was fretting over how they would receive my admission of ignorance, I sensed a presence behind me in the darkness. There was Simonides, lighting a lamp on the terrace table where we often played dice games—and still do. The glow elongated and ennobled his features. “What do you make of it, master?” he asked. “Nothing for now, Simonides. Perhaps it’s just a private party.” “But the chanting….” I nodded. “Disconcerting, isn’t it … a religious ceremony, perhaps. Have you ever heard such a commotion—at night?” “We both have, master. In April, while we were packing up the dice late one evening. Don’t you remember? It was much softer then, as if the gods themselves were lulling us to sleep with song.”

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim “Now they’re keeping us awake.” On second thought, I did recollect the previous occurrence, and other more removed episodes. “Where do you suppose it’s originating?” Simonides peered over the ledge into the night. “Just as in April, it seems to be coming from the grove of Stimula or thereabouts.” “I can’t discern what tongue they’re chanting in….” He leaned still farther over the parapet. “It sounds remarkably similar to the singing of a Greek chorus. We’d have to get closer to the source to make out the verse.” If only Rome had street lamps, like some cities of the East, I thought. “Well, make a note of today’s date. And write invitations to dinner on Mercury’s Day for the pontifex maximus, the urban praetor, and the aedile in charge of that district. Maybe the high pontiff can explain it. If not, the other two will investigate.” “And take it out of your hands? I hardly think so, master. We do owe them invitations, though. They’ve all had you to dine since your election.” “That they have. Remember the high pontiff’s stuffed quail? I brought one home for you wrapped in a serviette—delicious in that aged fish sauce.” “A delight.” “We must put our heads together with Hamno and come up with a menu both memorable and—” “Frugal?” “Moderate, Simonides, moderate. Remember, there are starving farmers out there.” I gestured—absurdly—toward the Aventine. “Even slaves live better nowadays,” said Simonides, a most fortunate one.

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim “My slaves do,” I agreed. Just then the faraway commotion stopped, replaced by the singing of birds heralding dawn. Traces of brightening blue had appeared over the crest of the Aventine—a signal for those hidden festivities to end? The brisk air carried the reassuring scent of burning coal from household braziers. I looked back at Simonides. As if to shield himself from a sudden draft, he wrapped his arms around his chest. “With your leave, I’ll begin preparations for the morning reception.”

III Later, after I had dismissed my callers and was taking a light breakfast in the triclinium with my mother, Sulpicia, my secretary introduced a rather flustered young man who had impudently arrived late and so avoided the queue for my audience. He was clothed in a rumpled tunic, his gaze unsteady. I’m afraid I wasn’t very gracious at first. “You’re lucky I don’t turn you out,” I scolded him straightaway. Nevertheless, I called for a chair: Simonides would have dismissed him himself if it weren’t important. “So your name is Aebutius … what significance should that hold for me?” “Aebutius?” my mother exclaimed from her couch. I glanced over. From behind a fig she was about to place in her mouth, her expression reproached me for my rough handling of the boy. “Yes, madam. The nephew of your friend Aebutia.” “You know this woman, mother?” “Of course I do—a most distinguished matron from the Aventine. I used to meet her often at the comedies of Plautus. Her favorite play, I recall, was Glorious Soldier. I trust she is well….”

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim “For her years,” the boy replied. “She went to the trouble of cooking me porridge this morning, which is why I couldn’t present myself during your levee, Consul. I apologize for my tardiness. But it was she who urged me to call on you today, and she sends you, madam, her most affectionate greetings. If I may say so, you’ve retained the radiance that my aunt says made you the most enchanting beauty of Rome.” My mother’s face was suddenly aglow with no small vestige of that famous radiance. “You’re a charming liar, young man. Thank you for the compliment.” I instructed Simonides to seat our deft young flatterer before our couches and to put a cup of wine in his hand. Aebutius cleared his throat. His eyes were bloodshot, I noticed. One eyelid was quivering. “Again, I’m here at my aunt’s urging. Otherwise I’d never annoy you with this private matter.” “You’re only beginning to annoy me, Aebutius. Please get to the point.” I bit into a meaty fig. He regarded my mother. “Perhaps I shouldn’t occupy the consul’s time. I could tell you the story, madam. And later when the consul is not as pressed, you might—” “Never mind that.” I slid my feet off the couch, stood up and grabbed a bowl of figs from the center table, which I dropped in his lap. “They’re from my Tusculum estate—try one. Then take a breath. And start over.” I gave him a quick smile and returned to my couch. Simonides immediately brought the boy a tripod on which to set his cup and bowl. I had succeeded only in intensifying Aebutius’ apprehension. When he resumed his explanation, it was with a stammer— but at least we would finally obtain the story. “Perhaps, Consul, your mother remembers that when I was an infant my father gave up his life in Spain under your command.”

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim Sulpicia nodded solemnly. “Do you mean Quintus Aebutius?” I asked, and, after receiving an affirming nod: “A gallant equestrian, indeed. You should be proud of how your father lived—and died.” “I am, sir. But I’m not proud of how my mother has conducted herself since he left us. She and my worthless stepfather have been withholding the income I’m due from the farm my father bequeathed me. What’s more, they want me to co-sign on the sale of a substantial parcel.” “What do they need the money for?” He said he didn’t know. “The inheritance satisfies our hunger at least.” Aebutius briefly regarded his dirty tunic, bridging one thought to the next. “What’s even more disturbing is that when I awoke yesterday from a persistent fever they reported that to restore my health they had promised Bacchus I’d join his mysteries.” I propped myself up on my cushion. “The Bacchanalia? But it’s a woman’s cult….” “Apparently not anymore,” he said. For the moment I set aside this worrisome piece of news. “Of all the gods, why did she pray to Bacchus for intervention?” Aebutius shrugged. “That’s not all….” He asked my mother to forgive his frankness. “She also insisted I observe ten days of sexual continence, whereupon she and my stepfather would take me to some sort of banquet. From there, she said I would be conducted by the priests to a ceremonial bath, and finally to a Bacchic shrine for my initiation.” “Extraordinary! Mother, what do you know of the cult of Bacchus?” “Very little,” she said. “Its mysteries caught on during the war with Hannibal. A sisterhood of the grape, if you will. Even then I considered myself too old for such frivolities. Though I was never initiated, the cult’s motives were common knowledge….” She explained that such

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim occasions, replete with wine-guzzling and merrymaking, afforded lonely wives and widows a harmless tonic in an age of terror. Ever insightful, Simonides, standing by the door, added the following verse from Euripides: “It was Dionysus who gave us the gift of the vine as a cure for sorrow.” Unmoved, I responded, “A rather tasteless diversion considering the nation’s sacrifices, don’t you agree? It was just this sort of extravagance the Oppian Law sought to restrain.” “And if you and Cato had had your way the law would never have been repealed!” my mother harangued. I would have been wise not to provoke her. The Lex Oppia was still a point of contention between us. Ten years before, in an unprecedented action, she had led a large demonstration of women to the Forum to successfully demand the sumptuary law’s abrogation. “Were women meant to be denied every indulgence?” she continued defiantly. “We’d already been ordered not to wear jewelry and multicolored clothing and not to ride in carriages in the city….” Moreover, maidens and widows had been required to aid the war effort by turning over their inheritances to the public Treasury. “Presumably we should not have had any fun either!” she concluded, grabbing her wine cup. I transferred my attention back to Aebutius. “I still don’t understand what the god of wine had to do with restoring your health….” Chewing a fig, he shook his head. “Nor do I know what such an initiation would occasion. Should it involve being poured full of wine to break down my resistance, couldn’t I be induced to turn over the full measure of my inheritance to them?” “To your parents or to the cult? I wonder which…. So, how did you respond?” “I was not so feverish that I couldn’t force my way out of bed.” “And then?”

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim “When I started for the door, they came at me with knives.” “Knives!” I said. He turned to Sulpicia. “My own mother threatening me with a knife!” “Well, what did you do?” she responded urgently. “I ran all the way from the Quirinal hill to my aunt’s house on the Aventine. Once I got inside, her slave bolted shut the doors and windows.” “And now you want my protection,” I said. “It’s obvious,” my mother said, “that Aebutia sent her nephew here for your personal intervention. If he had filed a complaint with his aedile instead it could be weeks before the matter was investigated.” I considered this a moment. “Aebutius, in a short while I’ll receive a delegation requiring my attention until the lunch hour.” I was referring to a commission of senators and tribunes charged with the distribution of public holdings to veterans returning from Greece. “I concede you might be in danger, though frankly I’m skeptical based on your account. This could well be a trivial matter requiring you to think and act less like a boy. You must be near seventeen by now. It’s high time you find yourself a patron and break away from your parents’ guardianship, if one could call it that. However, I’m willing to do the following. I’ll send you back to your aunt’s house with four of my lictors. Two of them will return immediately with your aunt, for I must have corroboration of your story before taking any action. Assuming I’m satisfied by my interview with her, my lictors will return her before sundown, and together with the other two, they’ll serve your guardians with an order to keep away until the matter can receive attention from your aedile. The larger issue of the Bacchanalia I intend to look into in short order.” Aebutius rose. “Thank you, Consul. I am grateful for—”

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim “Yes, yes….” I got to my feet, indicating Simonides. “Before you go, provide my secretary with the names of your mother and stepfather. You are welcome to visit again if necessary. Next time wear a toga. And don’t forget, I shall expect you to queue up—behind my clients.” “Thank you again, Consul. And thank you, madam.” My mother smiled. “Despite these unfortunate circumstances, I will be most pleased to receive your aunt this afternoon. She is a woman of the highest order.” He bowed his head in shame. “I wish I could say the same for my mother.” I instructed Simonides to ask the chief lictor, posted in the vestibule, to visit me in my private quarters for his instructions. “Also,” I said, “see to it that young Aebutius takes a bag with him stuffed with figs, that bowl, and that wine cup. And throw in a skin of wine too.” At the start of my inquiry into Aebutius’ domestic intrigue, I could not have guessed that the favor I did him would prevent me from ever reaching the supreme field command for which I had trained all my life. That is, I would never draw lots with the other consul, Q. Marcius Philippus, for the command of a consular army and province. Thanks to Publius Aebutius, my consulship would be spent restoring order to Rome.

IV That afternoon, while exchanging parting words in my forecourt with members of the senatorial delegation, I noticed Aebutius’ aunt arriving by carriage at my mother’s wing of the house, where Simonides now lives. Simonides immediately excused himself from our group and went to fetch a footstep for her. A frail woman of advanced age, Aebutia needed the assistance of both lictors accompanying her to step down from the carriage. Simonides at once led her by the arm

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim indoors. My mother had promised to avoid discussion of Aebutius in my absence, and instead try to make small talk with her about the ailing Plautus. It was some time before I could extricate myself from an exchange with a lingering and disputatious senator. Simonides then accompanied me to the interview. We found Aebutia and Sulpicia reclining in my mother’s receiving room, a plate of honey-cakes between them. Far from discussing Roman comedy, Aebutia was just then explaining how Aebutius’ late father— her half-brother, decades younger—had left Aebutius a fair amount of property in Latium, which she feared Aebutius’ mother, Durenia, and her second husband, a dispossessed equestrian named Rutilius, were scheming to acquire from the boy now that he was nearing the age at which he could legally transfer title. Not surprisingly, my mother had broken her promise to avoid discussion of Aebutius. After casting a disapproving glance at her I apologized to Aebutia for my lateness. Simonides and I took our places. “Your brother was a courageous officer,” I told Aebutia, recalling his death in Spain. Not long before Quintus Aebutius’ cavalry unit routed the enemy near Emporiae, flaming darts brought down his horse. Its fall had pinned him to the ground where he lay defenseless as a tribesman thrust a lance through his eye. Soon after, while the enemy took to the hills, I came across Quintus’ body. His gaping mouth held a pool of blood, and his remaining eye expressed the horror of his last moment. Months later I nearly met the same fate myself, avoiding it only because of a foot soldier’s lucky intervention. Knocked off my horse when I deflected a tribesman’s lance-thrust with my shield, I suddenly found myself lying helpless on my back, the sight of war replaced briefly by the serene dark blue of the Iberian sky. Then, when the shrieking warrior brandished his weapon above me for the kill, I was overcome by the pathetic realization that Fate had just cancelled my future. Surely most soldiers similarly felled are dispatched before

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim they can finish the thought. But in the tribesman’s case, he got no warning his life was over, for the fatal sword cut came from behind, neatly dividing his menacing face in a torrent of blood and gristle before his body crashed forward onto my breastplate. I can still taste his brains. If, sitting with my mother, secretary and guest, I had faded for an instant, haunted by this memory, I was quick to recover my senses. “His cavalry on our left flank led us to a victory that returned Spain north of the Ebro to Rome,” I said. “Quintus had written home about his fine commander,” said Aebutia in a faltering yet mellifluous voice. “A peerless one—Marcus Cato.” “Peerless? Aren’t you forgetting Scipio Africanus?” “Africanus is in a class by himself—the gods favor him in every engagement,” I replied. “But anyone who has served with Cato knows his victories have owed little to Fate….” I commented no further. “Being a friend to both men must require considerable diplomacy, Consul.” I hid momentarily behind a smile while formulating my response. Because my mother held Aebutia in such high regard, I did not dismiss her presumptuous conjecture outright. “Even the noblest minds must disagree, madam. Africanus and Cato’s mutual enmity has more to do with the fact that their countenances and lifestyles are at variance with one another. Being of the privileged class, Scipio is flamboyant as well as brave and accomplished, while Cato, true to his humble origins, is austere—or to use the Greek word, Spartan, which more accurately describes his sense of discipline. I’m somewhere in between them ideologically and temperamentally.” “And more refined than either, if you ask me.”

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim I admired the woman’s pluck: she didn’t shy away from the liberties her years allowed her to take. “Now, Aebutia, shall we pick up where you left off with Sulpicia? You were describing how your nephew’s mother and stepfather are conspiring to finesse him out of his inheritance—” “Wicked people,” she said. “I always suspected that Durenia was without scruples. Only my brother’s virtuousness held her rank opportunism in check, but not for long. She found a kindred spirit in that good-for-nothing Rutilius. No sooner had they married than she reverted back to her true nature, which she had concealed from my brother to increase the return on her investment in him. My brother wasn’t as credulous as he seemed. He bequeathed her nothing. As Plautus says in one of his plays, Despite the luxuriousness of her coat, she’s still a bitch.” I was impressed by her bluntness: a woman of the old school, as my mother would say. “Aebutius seems to think that Durenia and Rutilius planned to induct him into the Bacchanalia as a means to obtain his property against his will,” I responded. “It’s possible, since he refuses to share his holdings with them. And why should he if retaining them will ensure his equestrian rank? Moreover, he knows his mother is a cold-blooded whore. Durenia’s designs were always to become landed gentry herself. If not for Aebutius, she might’ve achieved her aims.” “But do you really believe that Durenia could depend on the Bacchic rites to induce him to unwittingly sign a transfer of deed?” “Perhaps the cult itself is the real culprit, not just the tool.” “I had wondered as much myself,” I told her. My mother selected a honey-cake from the platter. “I’ve already explained to my son—I mean of course, the consul—that by the time the Bacchanalia became popular in Rome, I was too old to participate. But there was nothing suspicious about it. I knew many initiates. It was my

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim understanding that they just drank wine, danced, and celebrated life together at a time when it wasn’t certain the nation would endure.” “Its endurance is quite sure today with Hannibal merely an operative of King Prusias of Bithynia,” I interjected. Still, Hannibal was a gathering threat. I was in receipt of a report that he was mobilizing a large Bithynian force to attack King Eumenes of Pergamum, our ally in the Syrian war. As for the aggressor in that previous conflict, the “Great” king Antiochus had recently died of wounds sustained while pillaging a neighbor’s temple of Zeus to meet our peace terms. Was it the offended Almighty who finally got rid of him? “Regarding the Bacchanalia,” I continued, “I gather that something in the nature of the cult has changed since those days if it embraces young men too. That is, young equites with legacies to protect, or to lose. What I don’t understand is how Aebutius came to fear the cult while taken ill. From whom did he learn he could be putting himself at risk?” “Didn’t he tell you?” said Aebutia. “After he recovered from his fever and his mother divulged the vow she’d made to Bacchus on his behalf, he received a visitor—a freedwoman. She was worried about Aebutius’ disappearance and came round to inquire about him.” My mother and I exchanged looks. “Aebutius told us of no such visitor,” I said. “Shame on him.” But Aebutia wasn’t surprised. “He’s probably afraid of incriminating her—she’s his lover. According to him, she has first-hand experience with the cult. Although she’s considerably older than he, and of lower station, they glow with affection for each other. She has even applied to the urban praetor for permission to become his patroness.” “Lower station but rich,” I said. “So there is more behind events than Aebutius tells. You mentioned that this freedwoman has first-hand knowledge of the cult’s activities….”

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim “All I heard from Aebutius was that when she was a domestic she used to attend the rites with her mistress, yet has stayed away ever since her manumission. Nevertheless, whatever she told him about the Bacchanalia struck fear into poor Aebutius.” “Not so poor Aebutius, as it turns out. And not so innocent.” “My nephew has done nothing wrong.” “He did quite right calling on me. But I’m relieved for his sake you’ve shown more candor. Did his lover happen to say where the rites are conducted, and when?” Aebutia regarded me with astonishment, as if I was new to the city in my charge. If not a stranger to Rome, my awareness of happenings in the city was hardly that of a constant resident: most of my adult life had been spent on campaign. “Surely, Consul, you’ve heard the sounds at night echoing from the grove of Stimula….” I glanced at Simonides. He looked grim. “On occasion,” I replied. “In fact, I’m commissioning an inquiry into the matter.” “An inquiry is advisable if it’s no longer a cult devoted to frivolous entertainment,” Sulpicia put in. “I’ll need to interview this freedwoman,” I added. “Of course. I’ll insist that my nephew direct your lictors to Hispala’s house,” replied Aebutia. I could sense Simonides start with me. “Hispala?” Her utterance struck me like a blow. “Do you mean Hispala Faecenia?” “Why, yes … that’s her full name.” With an inquisitive rise in her tone, my mother asked me to explain my reaction to the name of this freedwoman. But Simonides and I immediately retired from the chamber and stepped

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim outdoors into the sandy forecourt. A crisp spring breeze counterbalanced the bright afternoon sun high above the Forum; in the crescent wall of poplars opposite my doorstep, swallows fresh from their daily bath in my courtyard fishpond chirped merrily; across the drive, my groundskeeper was attending to the carriage horses with bowls of feed and water; and from over the hedge behind him came the playful shouting of my neighbors’ children. Simonides waited for me to speak. I wrung my hands and prioritized the various tasks he must now accomplish. “Compose the order to Aebutius’ guardians to keep away. And instruct a page to cancel tomorrow’s appointments.” “Yes, master.” “Then ask Valerius”—my chief lictor—“to meet me in my office.” Tomorrow he would collect Hispala for an urgent meeting with me aboard the Republic.

V Moored downstream from the Sublicius bridge, the Republic was a retired warship used by the Society of Consuls for entertaining and, occasionally, state business. The staff consisted of six slaves and a salaried steward. Supported by a fund established by Gn. Cornelius Lentulus and P. Aelius Paetus the year following Rome’s second victory over Carthage, its hold had been gutted and refurbished into an overstuffed lounge flooded with light from windows cut into the hull. Thereafter, the consuls of each year contributed a fixed amount to its maintenance and operation fund. By the year of my consulship scant business was conducted aboard the Republic; and I confess that I was among the helmsman of the state who often invited the courtesan Hispala Faecenia to its perfumed parlor. Our relations had begun some twelve years prior, following the

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim death of my wife in childbirth. Initially, a friend had recommended her company to lift my spirits, but we continued our acquaintance whenever intervals between foreign assignments returned me to Rome. Now in her middle thirties, Hispala was at the peak of her powers and scarcely beyond the apex of her beauty. I knew the contours of her face better than my own. I knew her history too. If not for the second Carthaginian war, Hispala would have been a Tarentine of high society; but the defection of Tarentum to Hannibal and its eventual recapture and subjugation by Q. Fabius Maximus had made her a slave at the age of eleven. She nevertheless grew up privileged as his granddaughter’s maidservant in Rome and was graciously manumitted by her while still young. Upon gaining her liberty, she married a centurion who did not survive the second Macedonian war and left her with debilitating debts. Too proud to beg, Hispala let herself become the mistress of several of the late Fabius’ colleagues, among them the former consul T. Quinctius Flamininus, her husband’s commander in Macedonia. Her intimate acquaintance with men of stature and wealth saved her from falling into poverty. In fact, she did so well for herself that she could pick and choose from those leaders of the state who desired her very special companionship; she even acquired a slave-girl. In spite of her low station in life, Hispala’s innate dignity, noble comportment, and regal carriage easily made her Rome’s most alluring courtesan, perhaps even its most desirable woman. Naturally most so-called respectable women kept their distance from Hispala and regarded her with a combination of revulsion and envy. Unlike them, she did not occupy her time weaving or practicing other interminable hobbies; nor had she grown soft or frail from a decade of continuous childbirth. Thus, her radiance had lasted long after others’ had faded. But she always had the love of at least one prominent matron—her former mistress. I remember once

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim encountering Fabia at a Saturnalia feast, where she told me of how, after hearing a rumor that Hispala was surviving by harlotry, she had offered her an allowance on which she could live modestly for life; yet Hispala would neither accept the offer nor admit to her reputed profession. Hispala’s reaction unnerved Fabia, for how could any woman choose to continue a life of degradation after a way out had been proffered? I understood why. Her status as a courtesan was markedly higher and more glamorous than it could ever be as a mere ward, and she enjoyed the sexual power she exerted over Rome’s leaders. Finally, her acquaintance with the urban praetor had led her to apply with considerable expectation for the right to alienate her property, because she wished to make Publius Aebutius her heir. This request, unknown to me then, was pending at the time of my sudden embroilment in their complex affairs. Hispala’s dedication to young Aebutius might be explained by the following theory. Due to the course her life had taken, and because along the way she had made herself barren, Hispala could not obtain a respectable husband even from her own clan—or produce a child of her own. She may therefore have shrewdly recognized that by becoming Aebutius’ benefactor she would, in one stroke of the urban praetor’s stylus, legally establish herself as a mother-figure to a lover who might later wed her out of gratitude. But enough of my cynical conjecture: love, whether maternal or not, could just as well have been her primary motive. Soon I would learn unequivocally that within her means Hispala was an earnest protector of Aebutius’ virtue and good name. Hispala arrived in my lictors’ carriage stripped of the presence of her vigilant maidservant who had by my order stayed home. Simonides met her at the gangplank while I waited below in the perfumed parlor where a table had been set with delicacies and a vessel of wine. The slaves

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim had been instructed to respect our privacy—a command that would raise no eyebrows aboard the Republic. When she came down the short flight of creaking steps, a cerulean shawl encircling her face and a pale gown accentuating her curves, I felt myself momentarily stirred. “You’re looking fit, Spurius,” she said as she uncovered her head, draping the shawl over her shoulders. “The consulship suits you.” “Yes, but the toga doesn’t.” I took her by the hand and guided her to the couch from which we often dined. “You know how I detest ceremonial dress, all these layers and folds clinging to me, restricting my movement. Now I must wear it every day.” I poured us wine. She reclined in front of me, her warm body fitting snugly against mine. “I know you feel most at ease in a tight-fitting military tunic—and at war.” Over her shoulder she added, “Without much of a political background, how is it they ever trusted you with the supreme magistrate?” I sipped my wine. “Few politicians are confidants of both Cato and Africanus….” “An accomplishment deserving of an Ovation, if not a full Triumph,” she quipped. “The Triumph will come too,” I replied determinedly. But due to the Bacchanalia it would not. A Roman general cannot “triumph” over fellow Romans. “There are fresh disturbances in Gaul, Spain, and the East that require an able commander’s attention.” “Your colleague Marcius is an able soldier too.” She drank from her cup. “He’s impetuous in bed though.” “He’s impetuous on the field as well. We shall learn very soon how he performs in the supreme command against a strong adversary.” She reached backwards and stroked my thigh. “Marcius has a lot of energy.” I stopped her hand. “He will need it.” “And endurance.”

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim “So I hear.” Hispala glanced at me over her shoulder. In the brilliant light from the windows overlooking the Tiber, I noticed faint, attenuated lines fanning out from the corner of her eye. “I didn’t wear my rare Syrian perfume,” she said, “because your intention today is hardly to experience the pleasures of my charms. Perhaps it was the way my house shuddered from Valerius’ discreet knocks.” A tight smile raised her rouged cheek. “So what is this all about, Spurius?” “Perhaps you’ll tell me,” I whispered in her ear. Next, I cruelly delivered the blow: “Beginning with what you know about the Bacchic cult.” Her cheek rose still higher as she winced. Those faint wrinkles deepened. The muscles of her back hardened against my chest. In a dismissive movement, she tore herself away from me, sat up rigidly, and buried her face in her hands. Her queenly comportment had abandoned her all at once, replaced by a self-incriminating anguish that was as personally repellent as it was concerning. I could harbor no affection for her now. Watching her shoulders heave as she sobbed, I braced myself for bad news. “Dry your eyes,” I muttered, slipping off the couch to allow her to collect herself. While she patted her face with a serviette, my attention was drawn to the fluted platter of morsels on the table. I speared a pepper stuffed with quail’s liver and washed it down with wine. I would allow myself these pleasures. At last Hispala lifted her eyes. Around them were blotted rings of kohl. She listened with mounting consternation as I recounted my interviews with Aebutius and his aunt. My retellings diverged from the truth only when I shrewdly insinuated that her lover—not his aunt—had revealed Hispala’s past as a Bacchanalian. “Aebutius told you that, did he!” Her dark gaze smoldered with indignation. She rose with an aggrieved sigh and crossed to one of the Tiber-facing windows, sufficiently luminous to cast

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim her graceful form into silhouette. I refilled her wine cup and proffered it purposefully. She took a contemplative sip. I rested my hand on her shoulder. “Tell me how you came to be initiated—and where.” She shrugged off my touch. “I’m vowed to silence, Spurius.” Peering across the river at the steep rise of the Janiculum, she added, “I gave my word to the god himself.” “The parent-gods will forgive you, Hispala. It is my duty to them to protect the Republic.” Tears streamed down her cheeks in a fresh flow; she drained her wine cup and, turning from the window, let it drop with a clang to the floor. In response to the sudden noise, a slave brandishing a carving knife broke into the parlor through the kitchen door. He halted abruptly when he saw that we were in no need of his expertise. I ordered him out, rebuking him for disobeying my demand for privacy. When I regarded Hispala again her face was segmented by lines of sooty tears. “May the immortal gods and my former mistress forgive me,” she cried and then slumped weeping to the plank floor below the window. I retrieved a serviette from the table and let it fall where she lay. Dabbing her eyes, she said flatly, “As a young woman I was initiated along with my mistress, Fabia.” Thus she began a gradual confession that would soon awaken the Senate to an intestine malady with conspiratorial implications. If the granddaughter of Fabius Maximus had once been a Bacchanalian, and the cult was lately indoctrinating young men too, what respectable family had not been tainted to some degree by its nocturnal orgies? More worrisome still was whether legionaries under the influence of Bacchus could stand up to a powerful foe. “Where was your initiation conducted, Hispala?” I asked. “In the grove of Stimula?” She shook her head.

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim I raised her trembling body by the elbow, but she would not be led back to the couch. “What did these rites entail? Why are they shrouded in secrecy? And why do you live in fear?” Still I could elicit no response. “Both my mother and Aebutia,” I continued in a gentler tone, “told me of how harmless they once considered the cult. A diversion for lonely women in trying times.” “That may have been true long ago,” she said at last. “The mysteries began to change in tone and purpose around the time I was inducted.” “Go on….” “Spurius, the cult is entitled to its secret rites. If I break my vow of silence, I’ll surely be struck down.” She took a moment to compose herself. “You are a guardian of the Republic and its way of life, of Romans’ freedom to enroll in the cults of their choice. You should respect my vow of silence.” Unsympathetic, I replied, “Two nights ago Aebutius’ mother and stepfather threatened him with knives after you made him promise to avert initiation. Now he’s in hiding. Meanwhile eerie nighttime revelries are causing public trepidation. Something is amiss in Rome. You can help me understand it, Hispala. You must help me. Just chose your stronger loyalty. Either protect the Republic or protect the Bacchanalians.” She took a breath. “Spurius, making demands is easy. What have you to lose by doing so?” Her voice quavered. “I assure you that the extent of my knowledge cannot possibly satisfy your thirst for information. But if I divulge what little I know, I’ll very likely forfeit my life.” “Nonsense. For now I’ll be content to know what you told Aebutius that scared him out of his wits and turned his own mother against him.”

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim “It’s your privilege as Consul to order me to confess,” she sobbed. “It’s also your privilege to ask the Senate to grant me a temporary state-sponsored exile for my own protection if I talk.” “Exile? For your protection?” I laughed. “I suppose you will also insist that young Aebutius join you there for his safety at the people’s expense! Perhaps a cozy villa on Capri for the two of you?” I took a step toward her. “Take heed, Hispala. My patience is at an end.” “Forgive me, Consul. Your threatening tone can hardly convince me to give up my life. Sure death”—she spoke the unlucky word, magnifying her point—“is dangling from the tip of my tongue.” She raised her chin and addressed me with dried eyes. “Unless the Senate votes to protect me and my estate—and, yes, Aebutius too, and his estate!—you’ll learn nothing from me.” “Then I’m left with no choice but to detain you, your lover, and his allegedly wicked parents.” I indicated the serving table. “A quail-stuffed pepper before you’re arrested?” My lictors marched Hispala straight to my villa. Meantime, I invited Simonides below to help me finish lunch.

146 VI To return to the present, news has just arrived that Carthage is destroyed. According to reports, Scipio Aemilianus has razed the unfortunate city to the ground and sold its people as slaves. The site will now be cursed by our priests, ploughed over, and sown with salt. Marcus Cato nearly lived to see his dream come true. Of the generation that won the war with Hannibal, I alone have survived—just barely—to witness Rome extinguish her once mighty rival. To give thanks to Aemilianus, the Senate has already decreed that when he returns to triumph he will inherit his 40

From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim grandfather’s title of “Africanus.” We should remember that the elder Scipio was the first general to become identified by a country conquered, and his brother Lucius “Asiagenes” the second. So far such distinctions have been reserved for the Scipios. Although I happily supported Aemilianus’ petition for a Triumph, I alone condemned the measure to accord him the title and abstained from the voting. A lover of rhetoricians and philosophers, Aemilianus will forgive me. He knows that mine was merely a symbolic protest against what could become a terrible contagion: predacious generals conquering hapless peoples in pursuit of such accolades; indolent generals emboldened by such awards defying the Senate’s authority—what’s left of it; treasonous generals marching their legions on Rome as political instruments. I foretold as much until jeered down with silly epithets such as “moralist” and “contrarian.” With colleagues like those, it hardly seems worthwhile anymore to make the precarious ride down to the Curia in a litter. Henceforth I shall restrict my appearances. In all likelihood I won’t bother my colleagues again until I drag them out to witness my funeral procession!

Well, Simonides, the nightingales are singing, I am digressing, and you look ravaged. Let’s continue with our story tomorrow morning after my clients leave. Speaking of whom, if the weather is fair, I should like to receive them by the fishpond in the peristyle. A few chairs will do: with all the commotion following the successful prosecution of the war, few come asking favors. But commotion never stops the Gracchi, and young Tiberius is just back from Carthage and intent on visiting me. It’s being reported that despite his youth, this other grandson of the elder Scipio was the very first soldier to mount the enemy’s fortifications. The story could well be true, and it will doubtless be remembered as true; but the source of the account is the

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim sycophantic historian C. Fannius, who boasts he was right behind Tiberius with his stylus at the time. One cannot help wondering if perhaps Tiberius was merely the first eminent man to scale the wall—preceded by hundreds of nameless infantry unobserved by the bootlicking Fannius. At any rate, with that story circulating, Tiberius will likely seek an official appointment in the legions. Accompanying him tomorrow will be the senator Gaius Laelius. I understand they have a proposition for me to consider.

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim

II

146 I

My amanuensis has been an invaluable resource in helping me reconstruct events and, in some cases, dialogue too. Yet he wonders if we should rely on so many discursive embellishments, such as my confrontation with Hispala Faecenia. Won’t this poetic approach—his phrase— undermine my credibility as an historian? On the contrary, I argue, my Roman contemporaries have themselves departed from conventional annalistic tradition, and, after the Greek fashion, now enliven their histories with dialogue. Even though our friend Polybius, in a recent book, criticizes writers from his native country for adopting such practices from their tragic dramatists, he too attempts to approximate what was said at certain events when no verbatim account has survived. One such instance was the futile peace-talk between Scipio Africanus and Hannibal before the climactic battle of Zama outside Carthage. Occupying a saddle next to Scipio, I was

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim Polybius’ eyewitness source of the story; but instead of faithfully recording my report, which by no means took the form of a dialogue, he invented whole speeches for the two opponents. By contrast, what interests me is what my subjects really said and did. It helps that I was there. That I wish to justify the severe actions I took against Roman citizens and prove that safeguarding the commonwealth warranted extreme measures is unavoidable; and who could tell the story with more authority than I myself?

Gaius Laelius and Tiberius Gracchus arrived early to my levee. Laelius looks Greek in that unfashionable beard. The radiant Tiberius, on the other hand, is clean shaven despite his passion for the philosophers. How proud I am of young Tiberius, now returned from his first military engagement—the subjugation of Carthage no less—and already establishing a political program under a senior politician’s tutelage. That I’m opposed to the program itself is beside the point; I admire the loftiness of their intentions. Moral leadership is rare these days. I bade them sit and served one of my better Falernian vintages, appropriately cut with water for the early hour. Unlike the adopted Scipio Aemilianus, Tiberius is the blood grandson of Scipio Africanus. His father, the late T. Sempronius Gracchus, was twice Consul and once Censor. The elder Sempronius and I established a friendship while attached to the staff of Marcus Cato in Spain, a few years before the Syrian war. When later we returned to Rome for our consul’s Triumph, I introduced him to Africanus’ daughter Cornelia, and they were married soon after. She eventually bore him twelve children, of which three have survived—Tiberius, his younger brother Gaius, and their older sister Sempronia, who is married to Scipio Aemilianus. Having no children of my own, I regard the young Scipii and Gracchi with almost paternal pride.

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim The Scipii shall someday have this villa and the Gracchi my summer retreat at Misenum on the bay of Naples. Simonides will get my Tusculum estate. This morning Senator Laelius asked me to support a bill that he intends to introduce at the next meeting of the Senate. It would authorize the state to buy holdings from the rich for appropriation to the army returning from Africa. His plan is similar to a popular measure I once introduced whereby additional allotments were made to repatriating veterans as a means to colonize southern Italy. But Laelius’ proposal is a consequence of displacement, not expansion, and our veterans’ pressing need for land reflects poorly indeed on the general character and aptitude of the Senate. With our legionaries largely deployed abroad in recent years and therefore unable to maintain their farms at home, the majority of my colleagues voted in their absence to confiscate neglected holdings and sell them at public auction “as an emergency measure to feed the nation.” Not surprisingly, the new landowners are without exception senators who supported the bill. This they call land reform. It is only the latest scheme dreamed up by our Sacred Fathers to transfer the resources of the many into the hands of the few. In defiance of the Licinian Law, enacted two centuries ago to protect the small farmer by forbidding any individual to acquire more than 310 acres, the rich have been adding to their lands under fictitious names and later shifting their illegal holdings openly to themselves. The censors turn a blind eye to these practices: undoubtedly their own holdings, or those belonging to members of their families or clans, exceed the Licinian limit too. To add insult to injury, the dispossessed cannot find employment even as hired hands because today slaves can be got for a song. Thus they converge on Rome looking for means to feed themselves and their families while well-fed slaves work their old fields. Our slums are now

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim crammed with ruined families, stacked tier upon tier in fetid apartment houses. And who profits from it all? We do. Gaius Laelius and Tiberius Gracchus are merciless—and none too brave—to appeal to our traditional sense of democracy to restore the dignity and livelihood of the small-holder. Their efforts shame even myself, for my own holdings exceed the Licinian limit and depend upon slave labor to turn a profit. Yet what lasting benefit would result were I to forfeit my extra acreage in support of their bill? Others in the Senate would not follow my initiative, and the people would rise up in protest. This must be avoided at all costs. I therefore urged our would-be reformers to set aside their agenda before they put the security of the nation at risk. In other words, a solution to this growing crisis eludes even me.

Speaking of protests, Simonides asks me if by chance I’ve overheard the ones issuing from his stomach. I reply that I no longer have the pleasure of overhearing anyone’s bodily noises. Very well, we shall return to our unfolding revelations after we’ve paused for a needed snack. Call for some bread, olives, and cheese. And let’s drink a little wine too. Even my doctor Isidorus says I may reward myself with a cupful now and then.

186 II Simonides reminds me that as we were finishing our meal aboard the Republic a messenger arrived from the Senate secretary. He brought a roll addressed to me, found on the steps of the temple of Apollo. It bore the first warning I was to receive. Do we still have it somewhere? Always scrupulous, Simonides saved the original. He excuses himself to fetch it. 46

From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim Emerging from my cellar archives after a brief search, he unrolls it and reads:

Aebutia is dead, Aebutius lost. Search for him and Sulpicia will be dead, Spurius lost.

The threat did not go very well with dessert—an airy lemon custard if I’m not mistaken. With just two lictors still accompanying me, I could spare none for a separate assignment; so rather than dividing our attentions, we searched out Aebutia’s house on the Aventine together before riding on to my own. Unlike some great cities of the East, Rome has named only a fraction of its streets and roads, and marked just a few with gates at the city boundary. If an unfamiliar destination isn’t near a public monument even a consul’s entourage must make frequent stops to ask directions. After taking several wrong turns we located Aebutia’s rickety abode on a bramble-lined ascent opposite the lower Palatine. Upon our appearance outside her house a crowd of her neighbors gathered in the street to gawk. My lictor Sextus ordered the men among them to stand back and show their respect by uncovering their heads. Simonides ceremoniously helped me down from my carriage while Sextus went ahead to Aebutia’s door. Meantime, the second lictor, Macro, fell back to guard my person. Sextus rapped on the door. There was no response. Trying the knob, he found the door bolted from inside. A nod from me told him to kick it open. Achieving this neatly, he crossed the threshold with his sword drawn. Simonides and I followed him inside. Macro brought up the rear. As we stepped out of the sunlight into the gloomy interior, we were met by the fetor of death. We did not have to look far to find its source. The light cast by the open doorway exposed the body of Aebutia’s maidservant lying in a pool of hardening blood midway between us and 47

From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim the kitchen cupboards, opposite. On the counter was the bowl of figs I’d given Aebutius yesterday. What next arrested our attention—prominent in the shadows to our right—was a rumpled heap of clothing curiously flung over the shrine to the household gods, and below it another opaque puddle. Without prompting, Sextus warily approached the spot, each step crackling like a fire as he peeled his soles from the mucky floor. First he made a summary assessment of the inert mound, momentarily hidden from our view by his big frame; then he dug a hand into its folds, and, gathering a bunch of blackened fabric in his fist, hefted it into the air for us to see. With his grip firm behind the neck, he dangled Aebutia’s withered corpse. Sharing the fate of her slave, the old woman’s throat had been cut from ear to ear. Her head suddenly rolled to one side, and the wound gaped like a shrieking mouth. I recall almost nothing from that moment until we reached home. My immediate concern of course was for my mother’s safety though the house was already well guarded by Valerius and his staff. After ordering Aebutia’s neighbors to post a warning against trespassing on her property we rode briskly for the Palatine, glancing urgently upward across the Circus at the graceful outcropping of my linen-shaded terrace. Far from injured, we found Sulpicia entertaining Hispala in the peristyle with an assortment of freshly baked cakes and a vessel of wine. I noticed from Hispala’s change of gowns that my mother had offered her one of her own. My mother! Her old-fashioned hospitality was in this case as improper as it was excessive. Yet I dismissed my inclination to reproach her. The guard that Valerius had posted at the door left no doubt as to Hispala’s status as a prisoner. I took my mother aside to tell her privately about events on the Aventine and showed her the threat against her life. Her sorrowful reaction emphasized the news of Aebutia’s killing, not the danger she herself was in, which was my greatest concern. Though I could ensure her safety here

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim at home she might be struck down in the market on any outing. Presently I would send a team of lictors back to the Subura to arrest Aebutius’ mother and stepfather, but anyone in the cult’s leadership could have ordered or committed the murders. “Do not deviate one step,” Sulpicia advised. “You have all Rome to safeguard.” After holding a brief council with Valerius in my office, my chief lictor ordered his men to seize Durenia and Rutilius. Their dingy flat was found deserted.

III Many of us whose Greek slaves had exposed us to their classics were familiar with Euripides’ tragedy Bacchae. From it we learned how the women of Greece worshipped Bacchus—also called Dionysus—with feasting, music-making, and dancing: harmless stuff unless taken to an extreme. Accordingly, Euripides duly warns his audience that Dionysiac indulgence run amok could threaten a whole nation and he endeavors to show us how it could happen. In my youth, when Greece seemed a distant place, Romans watched little of its drama, content instead with Latin retellings; but today, with Greece a Roman protectorate, our exposure to its culture is immense. Productions of Bacchae at Rome have lately held their own against the popularity of Circus competitions. First, Euripides’ tale resonates with audiences of the present day who rightly view it as both prescient and historical; second, our prohibitions on the performance of Bacchic rituals did not extend to the stage, so its productions attract those curious to witness the rites that once terrorized the state. Given my generation’s aversion to that religion, it isn’t surprising that there is still no Latin rewriting of Bacchae, an omission from our playbills for which any lover of tragic drama should be grateful: whereas Plato’s secretary once observed

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim “Whatever the Greeks adopt from foreigners they make finer,” quite the opposite could be said of our versions of Greek plays. Euripides was naturally barred from the mysteries, and probably knew little more about them than what he wrote, yet what he described went far beyond custom. Although his text is replete with fanciful references to mixed-sex orgies and depictions of cannibalistic feasts—in all certitude neither ever occurred in Greece—his descriptions of frolicking initiates do, I’m sad to say, correspond to later Roman practices. Like our own “Bacchae,” his are clothed in dappled fawn skins and garlanded by ivy shoots; they carry wands of fennel; and

… in the midst of each group of revelers stands a bowl full of wine; and the women go creeping off this way and that to lonely places and there give themselves to lecherous men.

Yet he is quick to add,

Self-control in all things depends on our natures. This is a fact you should consider; for a chaste-minded woman will come to no harm in the rites of Bacchus.

In my time, Marcus Cato was first to recognize that self-control was slipping at Rome and chastity was losing its appeal. When he initially bewailed the cult’s sharp rise in popularity, I dismissed his fears that this unseemly movement, much out of keeping with Roman modesty, could become a threat to the established order. With the Syrian war imminent, I told him, “Don’t worry, Marcus, by the time we defeat Antiochus, the Bacchanalia will be last year’s fashion.” As it happened, I was wrong. In our absence, unsupervised, the cult and its evil ways flourished. How and why it did, I will explain below.

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim IV Invited to my home were three high officers whose combined knowledge, authority, and backing in the Senate would prove crucial to my inquiries: the pontifex maximus, the urban praetor, and the aedile responsible for the grove of Stimula. Having shared my guests’ company at numerous feasts, I was familiar with their enjoyment of good food and drink. At my table there was always plenty of both. Yet it should be stressed to the modern reader that when Roman virtue was at its height our palate was correspondingly reserved. Extravagant living was inappropriate and even impossible during our first and second wars with Carthage and the intervening Gallic invasion. So those of my readers accustomed to gorgeous platters of exotic seafood and fruits, or thrushes bursting into flight from split-open roasts, or oysters spilling onto your plates from cracked eggs—in short, to such soft-bottomed Romans who are tickled, not appalled, by such superfluities—our tasteful menu will leave something to be desired. The appetizers consisted of a hot dish of green beans and lentils patiently cooked in olive oil, leek branches, coriander leaves, and cumin seeds; a platter of artichoke hearts filled with minced eggs and smothered in fish gravy; and servings of fried lamb medallions topped with a cheerful white wine sauce made with honey, spices, and raisins. For the main course we served a suckling pig stuffed with figs, apples, and bacon—a dish grudgingly prepared by my former Carthaginian slave Hamno because pork is considered unclean by his people. With dinner we drank a fifteen year-old Caecuban, the first great vintage released since Hannibal ravaged the Capuan vineyards; and with our dessert of honey-fried dates, a delicate sweet-wine made at my Tusculum estate from overripe pears. Rome’s high priest, Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, arrived first, wearing an airy muslin gown over a body the shape of a wine vessel. This steadfast colleague had occupied the consulship in

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim the previous term, and, as if in defiance of his widening girth, in twelve years he would successfully stand again for it, later expanding his list of commissions with the censorship as well. Lepidus’ ambition to hold public office again and again was rivaled only by his prodigious appetite for food and sex. His gluttony I had witnessed for myself on any number of occasions; his endless humping I’d heard about from Hispala Faecenia. But enough of that. Simonides helped him off with his boots, washed his feet, and fitted them with house slippers. Next to arrive was the praetor responsible for Rome, Titus Maenius, fresh from the thermal baths and redolent of cologne. Another of Hispala’s lovers, he was also the official to whom she had applied for guardianship over Publius Aebutius; but none of this was known to me before her interview. A robust general and selfless advisor, Maenius was prominent among those of my inner circle and constantly at my side throughout the rising tempest. As nimble a strategist as he was a stalwart commander, he embodied all the leadership qualities that sustained our war against Hannibal. Like Scipio Africanus, Marcus Cato, and a few others from that hardy old school, his presence is now dearly missed. Last came the aedile whose district encompassed the grove of Stimula. An unremarkable man whose budding career was soon after trampled by a Gallic chieftain, his name now escapes even Simonides. Make a note to obtain it from the College of Priests before we revise this draft. It so happened that of the four aediles elected annually, his commission included superintending religious celebrations. The following story will show that his oversight was entirely lacking. Their lictors and slaves were all led into adjoining rooms for refreshments. Sextus and Macro stood guard outside the dining chamber. Valerius posted himself inside the door, where he would stay until instructed to fetch Hispala. She and my mother were confined to Sulpicia’s parlor for their own safety.

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim Second only to myself in rank, the pontifex maximus took the couch of honor to my right, while the praetor and aedile reposed on a broader triclinia to my left. Although the women would not join us until dessert was served, chairs for them had been placed a few feet beyond the far side of the table. Between courses, Simonides replaced our serviettes and poured perfumed water over our hands from a prized blue-glass Corinthian ampula. Combining state business with mealtime defies custom; but my years of campaigning had taught me that, while the consumption of wine does as much to elicit truth from men as distortions of fact, a satisfying meal affords its host formidable power to disarm his guests and get to the heart of things. My reliance upon the military “convivia” had thus earned me the comical sobriquet of “Gastronomicus” among my junior officers. And so our guests this evening were unfazed when I did not wait for the digestive to delve into the cause of their urgent summons. Yet they were hardly prepared for the yarn I was going to spin. Just as Lepidus was sliding a first spoonful of beans and lentils into his mouth, I started recounting the events of the past days. His pouched eyes narrowed, and he withdrew the empty spoon as if in a trance. At first he concentrated solely on my words, but his appetite was eventually reawakened by the mounting tension in the story. When I finished, he patted the corners of his mouth with his serviette and, with a nod from me, volunteered a short history of how the Bacchic mysteries arrived in Italy and came to Rome. I am tempted to report our talk that night in the form of a symposium. Simonides, however, cautions me against putting too many words into the mouths of such venerable figures as Rome’s high priest and governor unless a reliable witness exists. Since my secretary was busy assisting the kitchen staff until Hispala was called in to testify, I’ve elected merely to summarize what was said up to that juncture, beginning with Lepidus’ contribution.

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim

During the war with Hannibal, an itinerant priest from mainland Greece or Sicily introduced the cult into the devastated region of Campania. There its festive rites were immediately embraced. From the south the religion spread like an epidemic to Rome where the very size of the city concealed its popularity. Lepidus’ late predecessor, we learned, had originally allowed the mysteries to be performed twice a year, in daylight, and confined them to a secluded patch where the Campus Martius borders the Tiber. Scores of distinguished matrons had officiated in rotation. At the end of each ceremony they would return to their normal lives just as women have done for centuries after observing the equally secretive rites of the Good Goddess. Several years later, however, the Bacchanalia’s liturgy was altered abruptly by the new prelate, Paculla Annia, whose Greek origins will be dealt with later in this narrative. She started by inducting her twin sons, Minius and Herrenius, as the first male Bacchanalians. The inclusion of men in the Bacchanalia, contrary to the Greek tradition, constituted a shrewd missionary plan, for the cult became immensely popular overnight. Without approval from the College of Priests she also increased the number of initiation days to two in every month. Then, as if demand for membership had exceeded her means to provide it, she set down that the mysteries would no longer accept initiates over the age of twenty. Finally, in defiance of the high pontiff’s mandate, she ordered the nocturnal performance of the rites. When Lepidus assumed office and heard of Annia’s worrisome alterations he immediately summoned the self-styled priestess before him. Dutifully presenting herself at the State House on the appointed morning she argued that the cult’s immense popularity derived mainly from its uplifting character, her contention being that in the wake of the Hannibalic war, in which a quarter of a million Italians perished, Romans desired more opportunities for public

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim thanksgiving. Indeed, public appeal for membership had become so great that it was now impossible to satisfy demand without increasing the number of initiation days. Even so, an age limit was imposed on would-be initiates to lessen the burden on the priests. The pontifex had suspected as much. Finding her explanation reasonable thus far, Lepidus asked Annia why she had disobeyed his predecessor’s stipulation that she restrict the mysteries to daytime. “Because darkness induces religious awe,” was her response. With all due respect to my late friend, if Lepidus had been versed in Greek drama he might have recognized the phrase from Bacchae and guessed that more was afoot than just a runaway cult. As for myself, I identified its true author at once and proposed to my colleagues that the little-known tragedy could be the source of the havoc: “And he shall know the son of Zeus, Dionysus,” I quoted from the play, “who, though most gentle to mankind, can prove a god of terror irresistible.” My colleagues’ blank expressions conveyed their ignorance of it. Simonides, on the other hand, nodded with the pride of a schoolteacher as he removed a ravaged platter of artichoke hearts from Lepidus’ table. The pontifex wiped his brow. “Since the cult had no political agenda,” he continued in his own defense, “I gave Annia my written approval for increasing the number of initiation days— but on condition that the state supervise the mysteries. I then followed protocol and turned the whole matter over to the Praetor’s Office….” I rested my cheek on my fist and eyed Maenius over my shoulder. “Where it disappeared without a trace….” I surmised. Rigidly alert on his couch opposite the pontifex, Maenius had been absorbing our discussion stone-faced. Then, in a contrite tone unbefitting a soldier of his stature, he confirmed my

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim suspicions: disregarded by previous holders of his office, Lepidus’ instructions had once again been set aside for more pressing matters. “But surely,” I replied, “your office has received complaints about nocturnal disturbances resounding from the grove of Stimula.” Maenius acknowledged responding to such grievances. In conjunction with the aedile of that district, seated next to him, searches of the grove had been conducted only to turn up scattered remains of feasting left for the wolves. Following a widely-reported incident in April, he had even ordered watchmen to patrol the grove after sunset, but recalled them a week later after they had encountered nothing but the rustling of leaves and the singing of nightingales. He expressed regret for going no further. To put my friend at ease, I confessed that during my praetorship I could have been more vigilant myself. “We have all been asleep on watch,” I said. “A capital offence in the ranks,” he answered. “We didn’t know that evil lurks outside the city boundary.” “And inside it too….” What kind of evil and how grave a threat it represented to the state, we were about to discover. Euripides’ description of a missionary from the East with a “flush of wine in his face and the charm of Aphrodite in his eyes” enticing “our young girls with his Bacchic mysteries” is suspiciously similar to what transpired in the Italy of our times. If only it had been as easy for us to “comb the city and find this effeminate foreigner, who plagues our women with this strange disease and turns them into whores,” as the men of Thebes are ordered to do in the play. It so happened that it was a whore who helped lead us to him, or—as it turned out—to them.

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim Beautifully appareled by my mother in one of her multicolored formal gowns, Hispala Faecenia was led into the triclinium by Valerius; Sulpicia followed closely behind them in similar attire. Simonides, in a simple white tunic, announced their names to my guests. The women then took their seats. After wiping my hands on a serviette, I draped the folds of my toga over my left arm and rose to approach Hispala. She needed no further introduction, for all the magistrates were familiar with her, to say the least. The high priest, for his part, had seemed to acknowledge their acquaintance by loudly clearing his throat when she entered the room, as if warning her to be discreet: Consul the previous year, he had spent much of his uneventful term of office aboard the Republic. Hamno had just served the honey-fried dates, stuffed with walnuts and pepper, for which Lepidus showed a prodigious appetite during Hispala’s testimony. Although I was disappointed that Hispala had withheld information from me and done nothing to forestall this awkward and embarrassing confrontation, I concede that I still felt some sympathy for her as she sat stiffly under our scrutiny, her handsome features downcast under a shroud that failed to hide her shame. A most unpleasant scene was about to be played out in my house, but better here than before the collected Senate. With terse formality, and solely for the sake of appearances, I introduced my colleagues, noticing as I did how both Lepidus and Maenius averted their eyes when I spoke their names. Gesturing toward them with my unencumbered arm, I entreated Hispala to tell us all she knew about the Bacchanalia under the threat of perjury; and I cautioned her that we would eventually produce other witnesses to corroborate or contradict her story. At first she refused to talk at all, her plaintive gaze still fixed on the floor tiles. I therefore let her know, without

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim revealing the extent of my enmeshment in her affairs, that horrible crimes had been committed in Rome. “Murder and abduction,” I added for effect. This elicited an alarmed glance from her. “Your unrestrained testimony,” I went on, “is therefore of the greatest import. If you hold back you will lose whatever dignity you still possess. I will afford you no charity.” Next, in an admittedly clumsy attempt to demonstrate my impartiality, I grabbed the back of her chair and pulled it out from under her. She stumbled but did not fall. Straightening herself, she gave me an icy stare. My mother stood up in protest. I told her to sit back down or leave us. Pursing her lips, Sulpicia took her seat. I then crossed my arms and leveled my gaze at Hispala. “Now tell us, madam, why you deny assistance to your consul in the execution of his duties?” She reacted with characteristic impertinence, merely a futile sortie before a complete rout. “Why are you—sir—interfering in a purely domestic affair?” “If that’s the extent of it,” I replied, “why have you begged me to send you into exile for your own protection?” Already shaken, she held back those familiar tears. “Because you’re insisting I betray my oath to Bacchus.” I thought on this a moment. “If the gods do not approve of this inquiry, yet you participate in it, you’ll hardly be out of their reach in exile.” “It’s not punishment from the gods I fear, but being torn apart by man himself!” I was reminded of the “mad women” of Euripides’ play who tear their king asunder and eat his flesh. “If you cannot guarantee my safety,” she added, “I will not talk.” “Oh, come now, madam,” groaned Lepidus through the date he was chewing, “no harm will come to you if you are innocent. We’ll make sure of that.”

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim She shook her head, brow down. “Do you care more for your personal safety than for the security of the state?” I asked. “Or for the safety of your young lover?” She looked up and abandoned formality. “Spurius, allow me to remind you that I urged Aebutius to resist his parents’ attempts to induct him into the Bacchanalia. Consider what thanks I’ve received for it. He came to you for protection and in doing so incriminated me!” Indignant, she confronted my colleagues. “What do I stand accused of, anyway? Titus Maenius, you’re Praetor of Rome—are you aware of a criminal complaint against me for which I should seek legal counsel?” He offered no response. “Nothing from you, Maenius?” she taunted. “Well then, Marcus Lepidus, as Pontifex Maximus have you explained to the others that the Bacchic cult happens to be recognized by the College of Priests?” Surely he and Maenius would have liked to respond, given their familiarity with Hispala, but being induced to answer in company to a woman of her station was to be avoided. That being the case, I answered for Lepidus: “The high priest has indeed attested to the cult’s legitimate standing in the state religion.” “So I had every right to celebrate its mysteries!” She crossed her arms under her bosom. This time Lepidus was roused to provide some clarification. He sat up in haste. “My office condones religious observance so long as it doesn’t violate public morals.” Hispala responded with mounting confidence: “And perhaps I should remind my accusers that my Bacchic membership was in exceptionally good company.” By invoking her fellow Bacchanalians, she was of course alluding to her estimable former mistress, Fabia, and to the numbers of equally distinguished matrons who had enrolled in the cult before Paculla Annia assumed its leadership and changed the rules. To my colleagues I explained

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim that my interest was hardly in censuring the blameless, and blameless must be the Fabii, for we owed the survival of our country to Fabius Maximus’ generalship early in the war with Hannibal. “If Fabia is beyond reproach, what then makes me guilty?” said Hispala. “I was a mere girl at the time! And I walked away from it too.” These statements far from exonerated her. “Walked away from what, exactly?” I asked. “You obviously knew enough about the cult—then and now—to have frightened Aebutius into fleeing his parents and seeking refuge with no less than the highest magistrate in the land.” She had counterattacked one too many times, and I recognized the opportunity to deliver the crushing blow I’d held back. I clasped my hands together and adjusted my tone accordingly: “Regrettably, I sent him away….” Her face flushed under her mantle. “Oh, no, Spurius…. No!” I nodded mournfully. “This afternoon, my entourage paid a visit to his aunt’s house on the Aventine. There we discovered Aebutia and her maidservant brutally murdered.” “And Aebutius?” “Missing.” In a burst of tears, she dropped to her knees on my prized mosaic depicting the conquest of Hannibal at Zama. If her groveling had not elicited sympathy from me when we were alone aboard the Republic, I certainly would not respond to it here before my peers. I called for Simonides to bring the roll whose inscription threatened my mother and myself. At my prompting he read it aloud. Further aggrieved, Hispala cried, “There you have proof that none of us is safe from them!” My mother had witnessed enough. “Must you be so theatrical, Spurius?” she said. “You are not after all in the law courts!” She brushed past me and knelt next to Hispala, ordering a slave to

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim retrieve her chair. After helping her into it, she returned to her own seat, giving me a cutting look. This had its intended effect. Perhaps I would achieve my aims faster by softening my approach. I called for a fresh cup of wine. A slave hurriedly filled the order, and I placed the cup in Hispala’s trembling hands. Even if she abstained from drinking from it, she now had an object to grasp during her testimony, and while the cup remained full she would think twice about throwing herself to the floor again. “Take a moment to compose yourself, Hispala,” I said, placing a hand on her heaving shoulder. “Conserve your strength and reconsider your options. With some encouragement from myself you’ve already made a partial confession. This assistance, I assure you, will not be overlooked. Nevertheless, we need more help from you. If worries about your personal safety are holding you back, I’m willing to offer you lodgings here until this matter is resolved.” Filling my lungs with a deep breath, I continued: “You’ve already enjoyed my mother’s hospitality, and you will surely find our home, with my guard never far away, a tranquil sanctuary from the Rome you fear. As for the gods, while we all know that Fortune changes sides, and no man is ever safe from her vicissitudes, in war and peacetime few Romans have received as much favor from her as I have. And if you agree to participate wholeheartedly in this investigation, I will instruct the pontifex maximus to sacrifice a sacred goat on your behalf first thing tomorrow morning.” Stupefied, Lepidus unconsciously suspended his date-chewing. This was hardly an indication of assent, so I gave him a commanding look and he responded with a vigorous nod of his swollen cheeks. Turning back to Hispala, I said, “I now entreat you to satisfy our need to know all that you do concerning the cult of Bacchus, its leadership, membership, and the rites habitually performed in the grove of Stimula.”

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim She fortified herself with a sip of wine. “You have my pledge, Spurius.” “Good. According to our colleague, Aemilius Lepidus, the cult’s emissary was a man….” “A Greek who brought the mysteries to Italy,” she began at last. “Yet his role was limited to conducting the initial supplication to the god. He never participated in the rites that followed. But soon after his death, his successor, a woman from the Greek colonies in the south, committed the sacrilege of inducting men into the mysteries, starting with her two sons. I was present that night with my mistress, and I witnessed her disapproval. Fabia left the order shortly thereafter. Like your mother, the Fabii matrons place the highest importance on respecting the old standards of conduct. But some of their friends were content to keep their membership.” “Were you?” She bowed her head. “I was often invited to attend with them.” “We will of course require their names,” I said. She shook her head. “If you disturb the beehive you’ll arouse a torrent. Some of your colleagues in the Senate will discover that their wives still frequent the rites, and worse, that they have initiated their sons and daughters in them too.” At this point Maenius and Lepidus broke in demanding to know if their wives were Bacchanalians as well. “Ask them,” she replied indignantly. “There will be time enough later to take a full accounting,” I said. In the course of our inquiry we happily learned that Maenius’ wife had left the order with Fabia, while Lepidus’ had declined initiation altogether. “Go on, Hispala. Tell us about the rites.” She paused. “Must I before an audience, Spurius? Before your mother?”

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim “If my mother wishes to retire to her rooms, she is encouraged to do so.” “Better for you if I stay,” said Sulpicia from her chair, casting a pointed glance my way. Hispala wiped her eyes, and after regarding me tentatively, commenced explaining how the initiates were first conducted to enclosed places, such as grottos, able to contain the sounds of the revelries. “The sort of ruckus you’ve been hearing echoing from the grove of Stimula,” she said. “Vigorous incantations to the wailing of pipes, the clashing of cymbals, the beating of drums….” Simonides, now sitting with his writing tablet in a corner of the room, raised his hand. With my permission he observed that the ritual song we had heard issuing from the grove of Stimula was not unlike the chanting of the chorus in Greek tragedies. “A logical relationship may exist between the two,” he offered, “for the Dionysiac rituals and those of Greek drama are linked by tradition. Witness how our principal theatrical competition is called the ‘City Dionysia,’ originally a religious festival dedicated to Bacchus.” Critical of the source of the mayhem, I found myself sounding like Cato. “Where, I take it, your ancestors acquired their moral guidance.” My secretary was rather too comfortable with his lenient master. “For moral guidance,” he retorted, “we rely upon the schools of philosophy which the Greeks gave civilization. With all due respect, master, if the Bacchanalia has gone astray in Italy it’s because the sensuous aspects of the cult are being practiced for their own sake. Romans do not know when to stop.” Nor did Simonides. The validity of his point notwithstanding, my guests would expect me to discipline him for such impertinence. Though I would privately concur with him that Romans took certain Greek influences too far, before my colleagues I reminded my secretary of his servitude and its boundaries: “Perhaps you would feel more comfortable in the household of a

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim statesman who shares your views about moral slippage at Rome—Cato’s, for instance.” This silenced Simonides. The most celebrated Roman moralist treated his slaves like beasts of burden. I then signaled Hispala to proceed. She drank again from her cup. “The mixing of the sexes soon led to random wine-induced encounters,” she continued, “and the shroud of darkness eventually gave license to regular acts of depravity. You see, they grab our youth at a vulnerable age. At the start, I was naïve, inexperienced, and easily seduced. Had Fabia known what was happening there I would’ve jeopardized my manumission. Fearing that result, I was finally able to resist temptation.” “Perhaps for the Bacchanalia, but hardly for promiscuous sex,” I said. In discharging the barb, I had stupidly rendered both myself and my distinguished company vulnerable to a counterattack. I saw it coming. “To the delight of every magistrate in this room,” she announced victoriously. “Some accusers!” my mother exclaimed. “Guilty of indiscretions themselves!” “My dear Sulpicia,” said the rotund Lepidus with remarkable aplomb, “I never dance gaily to the beat of drums….” Sulpicia’s brashness was well known. But she had gone too far and I scolded her for it. “Mother, one more word from you and I’ll march you back to your chambers.” I then reproached Hispala for never warning us of this troubling state of affairs. If the Bacchanalia was undermining private and civil obedience, its mysteries imperiled the security of Rome. “And if I had sounded the alarm?” she responded. “How long do you think I’d have survived? Aebutius and his aunt didn’t last a day. Your own mother has been threatened. And by calling this meeting you’ve put everyone else here at risk too.”

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim I glanced around at the faces of my colleagues, pink with the realization that our collective negligence had put the nation at risk. “Since you’ve succeeded in making our hair stand on end,” I said, “tell us what these youths are encouraged to do?” I returned to my couch, where I sat on its edge throughout the rest of her testimony. “I’ve seen nothing for myself,” she said. “Then tell us what you’ve heard reported.” She drained her wine cup and continued in a whisper. “From certain acquaintances whose lives have been harmed by the Bacchanalia I’ve heard the licentiousness of the orgies far exceeds what I witnessed long ago. In my day, all inhibitions between the sexes were quickly washed away by the liberal amounts of wine administered by the priests, but that was the limit of it. Now, it’s only the beginning. After being made drunk and enticed further into the mysteries by unclothed bodies and gentle touching, initiates are subjected to the most humiliating of sexual assaults by hearty men dressed as legionaries.” “Legionaries!” protested the soldierly Maenius. “Merely a fashion or an actual fact?” I asked. “How would I know?” she replied unconvincingly. “When the young emerge despoiled from the mysteries they are understandably consumed by shame, aware that if they denounce the cult to the authorities, they will also disgrace themselves and their families.” With their reputations thus held hostage, she explained, initiates were induced to turn over their assets to the priests. When they had nothing left to give, they were pressured to feed the cult with new flesh. Men took precedence over women, soon replacing them as the majority and officiating over all the ceremonies. In this way, initiates of both sexes climbed the cult hierarchy, forming attachments

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim and sharing in the collective hunger for carnality. In a months-long ritual of rebirth, they were gradually endowed by their priests with greater importance and afforded more chances to satisfy their lust. Finally the men among them joined the ranks of the initiators. “That’s what I told Aebutius,” she concluded in a tremulous voice. “It was quite enough to change his mind. Little good it did him….” She carelessly let her empty wine cup slip from her grasp. It rolled across the floor and beneath the praetor and aedile’s couch. Unable to restrain another burst of tears, she once more implored me to keep her safe. This I guaranteed a second time. Yet my voice sounded weak even to myself. If what she said was true, our society was rotting from the core, and the burden of saving the state had fallen upon my shoulders: but how was I to mobilize a resistance against an intestine threat? I expressed my gratitude to Hispala for her candor thus far and called for a slave to bring her a handkerchief. “In addition,” I said, “I need to know all the locations of Bacchic worship. We must act on more than mere hearsay.” “One can’t easily sneak into the mysteries,” she replied. Drying her eyes, she confessed that she herself had been initiated at the site by the Tiber. “Even then, the river shrine was closely guarded when the rites were being performed. The lone ritual visible to others was the original ceremony symbolizing rebirth in which we waded into the river with special torches that could be immersed and withdrawn still alight. But that site was deserted long ago. The public demonstrations in the grove of Stimula are probably just innocuous decoys. The true rites are conducted underground in locations unknown to me.” “But you know who knows.” “They would rather die by their own hand. A less painful fate than if they informed on the cult.”

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim I grabbed a cup of wine from the table to refresh my voice. My thirst was such that I could have drunk it down like water. Instead I sipped from the cup in a silence that enveloped my uneasiness. A grave fear had formed in my mind. “Hispala, what motives do you think lie behind such a movement?” “Motives?” “Yes,” I said. “With what objective do you think the cult’s leadership has perverted and popularized its sacred mysteries?” Lepidus responded for her in a voice as parched as mine. “Haven’t you just answered your own question, Spurius? Popularity is the most obvious measure of power.” Thinking on his point, my gaze roamed the bracket of tables. All but Lepidus’ plates had been cleared; but even the high priest’s appetite seemed satisfied. Or he had lost it. “Still, why have the Bacchic priests fashioned the cult into a popular recreation targeting the young of both sexes?” The aedile spoke up: “Judging from Hispala’s testimony … to take their money and hold their reputations hostage for life. It’s easier to coerce and muzzle a boy than a man.” Continuing the thought, I replied, “And while the cult has gathered strength in the numbers of its youth, it has also succeeded at keeping out whistle-blowers. Again, I ask, why? Because it wishes to maintain its current grade of success? Or because it is yet to achieve its true aim?” “I’m afraid I don’t follow you,” said the aedile. “I believe I do,” said Maenius worriedly. “If what Hispala says is true, and the evil influence of the Bacchanalia—disseminated I might add by foreigners—has already spread to countless families and possibly thousands of able-bodied soldiers, it follows that its objective could be to make the state vulnerable to—I hesitate to say it….”

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim “As foretold by Euripides in Bacchae,” I concluded. “But does this religious manifestation really threaten us?” “I favor the evidence, Consul,” Maenius announced in his orotund voice. “And at risk of seeming impious to the gods, my office will support your investigations with zeal.” “So shall mine,” Lepidus added. “Then I’ll convoke the Senate posthaste in an emergency session.” Maenius rubbed his eyes pensively and, after this brief pause, addressed Hispala from across the table. To the collective surprise of his colleagues, including myself, he revealed their previous acquaintance and his familiarity with her relationship with Aebutius. “Hispala, from your private and official entreaties, I am perhaps better informed of your sincere concern for Publius Aebutius’ welfare than are my colleagues. If it weren’t for other matters competing for the attention of my office, I should have already taken up your request for guardianship over Aebutius and your wish to make him your heir.” With that unexpected statement, he transferred his attention to us. “I can personally vouch for the genuine affection Hispala holds for Publius Aebutius. And it should be emphasized that we owe our knowledge about this horrible menace to the state entirely to her efforts to protect him.” He directed his gaze at her again. “If you prove otherwise blameless in this affair, with the consent of the Senate I will grant your request.” “And if you continue to cooperate, I’ll ask the Senate for additional rewards,” I said. Now sitting rather less gloomily in her chair, Hispala gave us her thanks. Sulpicia, meantime, appearing regal—if mortified—in hers, dared not express herself. Rising from my couch and crossing back over to Hispala, I told her to await Simonides in my mother’s quarters. “He’ll draft a sworn-statement from your testimony. You will also provide us with three lists of

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim names: one, of those who once took part in the Bacchanalia but are no longer active members, so far as you know; another, of those you think are still associated with it; and finally, one which identifies your sources of information.” In addition, she would give Simonides a detailed description of Aebutius. Mindful of the potentially damaging facts that had emerged about my married peers, I appealed to everyone’s discretion. I instructed my mother to appropriate a room for Hispala in her chambers. Valerius, I ordered to secure by locks and bars respectively all the doors and all the windows on the land side by nightfall tomorrow. The main entrance, I insisted, should never be left unguarded, while another set of guards should watch over Sulpicia and Hispala. I also instructed Valerius to send two men into Rome with a cart for Hispala’s slave-girl and possessions. He then escorted both Hispala and Sulpicia away. Turning to Lepidus, I asked him to check his records to ascertain if a permit had ever been issued for the performance of the Bacchic mysteries in the grove of Stimula; I also requested from him a list of every designated site of Bacchic worship in Rome and its surroundings by sundown tomorrow. The aedile, I charged with the unprecedented task of handpicking a team of men to locate and search every grotto bordering his city district, and to inform his three colleagues in office to do likewise by my order. Needless to say, the patrols must be conducted out of uniform with each man concealing a “dolon,” a common dagger. From the outskirts of Rome the units should expand their searches into the countryside. Adding police patrols to the aediles’ responsibilities for the superintendence of the city could be deemed legal if such activities fell under the praetor’s imperium; so I made each aedile report to Maenius. Such modifications to their duties were necessary to deal with these extraordinary circumstances.

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim Another innovation was my employment of lictors as a light-armed guard. During my investigations I had no use for twelve robed and defenseless men leading me with their cumbersome fasces wherever I went in Rome; only during festivals or when I was called upon to officiate at public rituals were they required to dress in the traditional manner. Urgency had inspired me to modify the post by multiplying their responsibilities, equipping them as the experienced soldiers they were, and expanding their charge to summon, arrest, and execute. Augmenting them was an escort initially made up of my clients, but later of legionaries. Maenius, I charged with dispatching a notice about the Bacchanalians to his colleagues in office across Italy; on my authority he should also advise them to quietly start making inquiries modeled on ours. As for Annia and her twin sons, they should be rounded up at once for questioning. Finally, every inquiry near Rome should be conducted with an eye out for Aebutius whose description Simonides would provide tomorrow. “I realize that by launching such investigations I will drive the leaders of this secret society deeper into their caves or put them to flight,” I said. “It is therefore incumbent upon every one of our offices to act with alacrity against the Bacchanalians.” Next, I established an hour of the day immediately following my morning reception at which I would receive anyone associated with the special inquiry. I also instructed Simonides to draft a letter to accompany the Senate secretary’s crisis summons explaining my reasons for taking these actions before the Senate could convene.

V However many wars Rome had previously fought on Italian soil, only once before were we terrorized inside the city itself and that was centuries ago when the Gauls overran a Roman army

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From Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim and set her ablaze. Still rivaled by its neighbors, the state was weaker then, but by the age of my consulship we had subdued every major enemy at home and abroad. Thus, when we suddenly discovered that the state suffered from an internal pandemic, some of my colleagues in the Senate suggested that the gods were punishing us for having neglected public morals at home in favor of building the empire. If the gods’ method of exposing our slippage was indeed to threaten Rome with a false and pestilent religion, they had consequently made me the champion of her moral revival. In Book III, the reader will learn how, when the Senate was finally stirred from its slumber, the actions we took to protect the commonwealth were swift, decisive, and characteristically measured.

I ask Simonides to ignite the terrace brazier while I adjust this woolen blanket around my brittle bones. These June nights can be chilly. And have we any sweetmeats left? No matter how decayed I become, my appetite for food is insatiable. That my doctor advises moderation is no help. Let’s have an array of morsels to spear as we work.

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