“..For our elders say The barren, touchèd in this holy chase, Shake off their sterile curse.”
(William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, 1:2)
IO LUPERCALIA!
Cried the crowds across the great city, drunk on wine and the mysteries of the gods.
IO LUPERCLIA!
Shouted the racing, barefoot priests, proclaiming the power of the bloody spirit of the ancient hills.
IO LUPERCALIA!
Sighed the childless matrons whom the sacred whips had touched as their wolfskin- clad carriers ran by, bringing the promise of the Twice Blessed She-Wolf. IO LUPERCALIA!
Rose the shrill voice from the hills and avenues of Roma. This grand, imperious, rational and dignified queen of cities, was once more, for a day, a confederacy of hill-and-swamp villages, honoring Prey and Prdator, Murderer and Victim, Quarry and Hunter - the noble twins who sustain life, vitality and power. The Republic was celebrating both in equal measure, Romulus Quirinus, the fratricide and slain Remus, the headstrong brothers who gave her life and the common, female Principle- Lupa, heavy-mamaried she-wolf - the symbol of life and their bounty, over which all creatures must fight or perish. IO LUPERCALIA!
Murmured chaste maidens and dour-faced patriarchs over a thousand smoke-belching hueshold-altars as the sacrifices were consumed by the Eternal Flames.
IO LUERCALIA!
Greeted smiling neighbors each other as they exchanged gfts and garlands.
IO LUPERCALIA!
Decalred the Senatorial brodsides and the street urchins’ grafitti upon the walls.
2: The House of Nikanor
“Bright were the castle buildings, many the bathing-halls, high the abundance of gables, great the noise of the multitude, many a mead-hall full of festivity, until Fate the mighty changed that.”
(Unknown Author, “The Ruin” Tr. From Old English by Jack Watson)
If one were to cross the dark alleyways of the Aventine and walk to the old Servile Wall, he may find a large house with no door facing the street. The wall has a large, rather ugly painting on it, the kind the entirety of Italy is plagued with. The scribbling was not different from thousands of others to be found throughout the City. It was crudely drawn, depicting a man wearing nothing but a lion's hide, a wooden mace at his feet and besides him a rather miserable looking boar roasting on a spit. While such works were common, painted by drunks and delinquents to the chagrin of anvry proprietors, this one showed no signs of attempts to scrape it away or whitewash over it. The giants and the boar were both endowed with fresh coat of garish paint and reverently furnished with candles and figurines. HERCULES LAETUS read a title inscribed hastily under the oversized mace. To find the door, One must follow the direction of the Boar's snout and circle around the right corner. An old oaken door, reinforced with copper hinges and bolts would be opened to he who can knock the sequence by the iron hammer hanging from the left. A fat little man with hair meticulously blackened with soot and a perfumed tunic would accompany the guest beyond a silken screen hiding a dark, serpentine corridor, snaking downwards.
The corpulent guide's name is Nikanor, and his family operates the place since the famed Marcus Tullius Cicero had given it to his ancestor Tyro as a manumission gift, almost eleven centuries ago. Down, down go guest and host, as if to the bowels of the Earth.
The air is filled with the laughter of men and the smells of wine, roasting meat, soap, perfume and clean steam. Finally they reach the ante-chamber.
Here a few balding, half dressed old men are quaffing watered wine as they notice the two men entering the room “Health Nikanor! Who is that you are bringing with you? Why, such a fresh new piece of youth we haven't had here for awhile!”
3: Gens Togata
“Jupiter nodded assent. At his nod both the poles shook, and Atlas shifted the burden of the sky.” (Ovid, Fasti II:490)
“Ah, but this is the young and indispensable ‘Tonius!”said the man closest to the door, a spare man of somewhat rotund figure, who seemed to be enjoying the steam, “I must thank you, sir, for securing the support of the Tymphallii! What a masterstroke it was for us!”
"Hail and thank thee, Consul,” said Antonius (he had grown accustomed to Centenius’, as this was the magistrate's name, habit of dropping the first syllable of his name), “But the honored Baebii did name their price.”
“Of course they did,” snorted a tall lean elder who was helping himself to a piece of goat off a tray carried by a diminutive servant, “after all, we all know the rhyme:
The Statii are the pillars of the State, To ever stay, without advancement, They are content. The Malii are bad, And the Priscii are old, But the Baebii can drink A river of gold.
Or at least,” said Lucius Mennius, “is how I remember it sung when I was a schoolboy.” “Be it as it may,” Antonius could not suppress a tiny smile at the old "Rhyme of the Foot-shufflers", “This time their request is not unreasonable, it carries with it, as a matter of fact quite a potential.” “I am familiar with their demands,” said Centenius, scraping his thick arms (he was quite proud of those large slabs of pure muscle, that a decade ago almost cost him his career when he broke the Princeps Senatus' chair) from sweat and oil. “They want their client, Lutatius Varro, to be viaticus.” “That lunatic?” said Mennius, almost dropping a pitcher labeled Old Falerian, Preserver of Youth from shock (which would have caused a negligible damage to Nikanor, who always kept gallons of the stuff in his cellar), “That thrice-thunderstruck fanatic wants to be in charge of a road?” he took a swig directly from the pitcher, without bothering to water it down in a cup, “Which road?” He asked in an almost frightened voice.
“He desires the Via Apia,” said Centenius in amused tone, like a theater-goer who know how the farce would play out and barely stops himself from whispering the butt of the joke to his neighbors. “I do believe, censor, that this would be quite interesting for you.”
“WHAT?” Roared Mennius, enraged beyond belief, Old Falerian flew across the room, barely missing Nikanor’s head and smashing against the whitewashed wall, painting it in a twenty-sesterces worth of red. “MY APIA? NO!! I WOULD NOT ALLOW THIS, YOU OLD PACKHORSE! YOU STUPID BULL! YOU LYRE-PLAYING ASS!” He hollered and charged Antonius, who stood there, indifferent to his anger. “I WILL THROW YOU OUT OF THE SENATE! I WILL SMASH YOUR FOREFATHERS’ DEATH-MASKS! I WILL..”
“Calm down old friend,” said Centenius, "our young colleague is here for a reason - not only did he delivered to us the Baebii, but he also did admirably for himself- note his toga,” he pointed to the youth’s upper garment “he was elected aedil,” he smiled, “the first I believe, of his family to achieve a magisterial office since the Night of the Lances.”
Young Gnaeius Antonius bowed his head to hide his shame at the mention of that dreadful, ancient night, when the Caesarians were no more.
“Oh, Gnaeius here is a good lad, of the good side of the family, the Merendae, if memory serves?” Centenius grinned good-naturedly on both censor and aedil. “He can supervise our good, pious Viaticus, making sure he is not carried away in his devotions to the Thunderer and at the same time,” he tapped gently the shoulder of Mennius, “is benefiting from the sage guidance of you, old chap. Now if you'll excuse me,” he said and removed himself from the bench, “my physician recommended I cool myself for twenty minutes for every hour of steam; Nikanor, good man, would you hold this for me?”
The old Greek bowed and took away the towel, as the Consul of Rome, head of the Tullian faction, and by many people's expert reckoning, the most powef man in Italy, glided in all the grace of a naked rheumatic politico towards the cold pool, fed from a fountain equiped with ashapely statue of Minerva weaving as its font.
His hairy feet barely touched the water when he jumped in a very un-magisterial manner and screamed. “The Furies and Pluto upon him! He did it again, the maniac!” He cried and sobbed, as the stench of burnt hair spread in the room. Antonius could not stop himself. He laughed wholeheartedly. What a farce!
4: Domestic Spirits
""..To this end, in offering this pig to thee I humbly beg that thou wilt be gracious and merciful to me, to my house and household, and to my children. Wilt thou deign to receive this pig which I offer thee to this end."
(A Roman Prayer before sacrifice, Cato the Elder, On Farming, 139)
There was a light breeze in the field and the altar's flame danced and quivered, but did not falter. A bearded men was standing besides it holding a knife in his hand. In an archaic accent and a tone that suggested he held strong opinion about every word, he recited an old incantation. The features and expressions of his face were obscured by the hem of his toga, which he pulled over his head in solemn devotion, but the wind played with his flowing garments to reveal a figure which was still tall and strong.
A younger man was standing nearby. He was equally as tall, but his figure suggested he misspent too many days by his writing block or at dinner and not enough working under the Latian Sun. He wore a tunic rather than a toga and carried a crude, heavy stone hammer in his hands. His face was bared and clean shaven in the old style, and his shoes were too good for the farm. But he carried himself, and the hammer, well and with confidence.
With a loud lowing, the sacrifice interrupted the old patriarch. This earthly sound seemed to have broken his reveree. The younger man was nervous. What if Father decides it all must be repeated, again? He wagered a question "Father, Shall I do it? By the Immortal gods and goddesses, shall I do it?"
But Father finished his prayers before the victim uttered his last monologue.
"Do it! By the immortal gods and the goddesses, Gaius, do it!"
Gaius raised the hammer in a long, round arch and landed it on the animal's head. The bull collapsed in place, thrashing in agony. Father dived quickly, avoiding the great, sharp gilded horns to find the crack in the animal's skull and plunged his knife in its brain. The animal's thrashing soon grew into a faint twitch. Before it ceased entirely, the old man used the same knife to cut its side open, proceeding than to snatch the liver in his bare hands and rip it out of the suffering body.
A youthful, irreverent gasp was heard. It came out of the few young women holding iron braziers in their hands, engraved with ancient charms and ancestral death masks. Father knew who among the maidens of his Familia had made the offending noise. He gave her father a reproachful look, which the latter, still heaving and leaning on his hammer, returned to his Varinilla.
Father lifted the liver and open its bloody folds in the bright sunlight over the fire. He examined it carefully, than declared:
"The gods are solicitous! Oh, Jove-Father Mars-Father, Dis-Father, gods above and gods below! Oh, Mother Ceres, Wise Minerva, Venus the Queen, Mother Juno, Sister Vesta, goddesss in the Soil, goddesses in the air, goddesses in the hand, goddesses in fire, goddesses in body and godesses in the spirit!
"May this bull appease you. May this bull please you, may the blood sweeten, may the blood rejuvenate, may the blood slackened thy thirst!"
"Good Omen! Good Omen! The gods are beneficent!" Cried Gaius in response, "Good Omen!" Cried his brothers, their wives and children, "The gods are beneficent!" Cried all the Lutatii Varrones.
Varinnila and the other girls approached the altar. Father Lutatius raised his blood dripping right hand above the fire and with his right, equally gory, marked their foreheads, eyelids, ears, noses and lips. With their senses thus dedicated, they collected the burning ambers into the fat-coated braziers and covered it with heavy, perforated lids of bronze. The fire danced merrily within as the daughters of the Lutatii retreated into the house.
Behind them, the boys of the family raced happily, rattling with bells and chimes.
5: Home and Hearth
"Rome never looks where she treads."
(Rudyard Kipling, A Pict Song)
Gaius was not happy with his portion. It was a lean and tough part of the sacrifice's shank, he couldn't recognize it. Unlike his father he could never tell all the different cuts of a slaughtered animal.
"You hefted the hammer well, son", Old Lutatius utter those words in a wet, quite murmur, the voice of an old man enjoying his meat, quite different from his ringing, reverend altar-speech, "the brute was utterly stunned, it danced beautifully."
"Thank you, Father, your plunge was admirable."
"For an old soldier, this is nothing, of course, once the bastard is down he is no match for an officer of the Eighty Third".
"May Mavors protect them", said Gaius piously, pedantically invoking the ancient rendition of the Lord of the Soldiery's name.
"And may Fortuna, the Old Whore, smile on them" chuckled the retired tribune, "for the gods know they don't get along with Juno, are too ugly for Venus and too stupid for Minerva".
"What about Vesta, grandfather?" asked Varinilla pertly.
"Don't be bold granddaughter," Lutatius' voice was calm and low, with a slight threat underneath the surface, "Vesta is in Roma, she hasn't seen the Eighty Third for ten years".
"Uncle Varro says that he will be the first commander to make good use of them in this entire time", chimed in one of the younger, male Lutatii, "I saw his missives in my Collegium".
"You should spend less time there and more in the Forum, great-grandson," barked Lutatius, "since when do young men in this family attend the meetings of the Fishmongers, the Shepherds and Potters? HA! back in my day, a youth of good reputation would rather visit a cheap Tiburian brothel!", more quietly he added "My poor, deluded idiot of a brother would get himself in trouble. Sending missives to the Collegia from the most remote command to the Northwest? I swear this man's ambition is greater than his sense".
Great-grandson Lutatius wished to correct his venerable progenitor that his Collegium never had a fishmonger or a potter in its ranks (not to mention shepherds!), since it was the highly respected College of the Wheelwrights and Scriveners, which admitted only the most brilliant youth of the best families to her ranks, that the Forum was the place of boring old men to gossip and play match-makers like a gaggle of ancient Vestals and that Uncle Varro is the most brilliant commander the Republic had produced in two centuries and the last hope of the Lutatii to emerge from the obscurity and petty offices which he was so comfortable to maintain.
All this would have been extremely rude and would lead to severe punishment, no doubt, but the young hothead had enough of Great-grandfather's tyranny. Down with Saturn! Down with the living Death Mask!
Unfortunately, before the brave Revolutionary could have toppled the Ancient Regime, a loud knock was heard from the door and a voice bellowing:
"OPEN! IN THE NAME OF THE SENATE AND THE PEOPLE OF ROME, OPEN!"