The Ides of April

LI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good luck!" I chortled.

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

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

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

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

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

"Flavia Albia, behave more demurely."

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

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

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

›He left his drink. What man does that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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