THE LECTISTERNIUM.
“My dear child,” said Duilia, “I never did a better stroke of policy than
that supper a few evenings ago. It went off quite charmingly, without a
hitch. I allowed that good Flavius Sabinus to talk; and he is just one of
those men who enjoys himself best where he is given full flow for his
twaddle. A good, worthy, commonplace man. I doubt if he has push in him,
but he is just so situated now that he must go ahead. The news is most
encouraging. Mucianus is on his way to Italy at the head of an army.
Primus, with his legions, is approaching; he has beaten the troops sent
against him, and has sacked Cremona; there are positively none who hold by
Vitellius except his brother in Campania, and his German bodyguard.
Domitia,” the widow dropped her voice, “we can do better than with that
milksop Ælius Lamia.”
“Mother, I will have no other.”
“Then we must push him up into position. But come, my dear, we must show
ourselves at the Lectisternia. It will be expected of us, and be setting a
good example, and all that sort of thing, and it is positively wicked to
mope indoors when we ought to be seen in the streets and the forum. So
there, make yourself ready. I am going instantly. I have ordered round the
palanquins, and, as you may perceive, I am dressed and my hair done to go
out. That supper was _quite_ a success.”
The time was now that of the Saturnalia, lasting seven days, beginning on
the 17th December with a strange institution, a banquet of the gods.
Usually the several gods had their feasts in their own temples and invited
others to them, but on certain solemn occasions all banqueted together in
public. The distress, the butcheries, the general confusion caused by the
setting up and casting down of emperors—three in ten months—and now, eight
months after, a fourth tottering; and every change involving massacre,
plunder, disturbance of order;—this had moved the priests to decree a
solemn lectisternium and supplication for the restoration of tranquillity
and the cessation of civil broil.
The banquet was to take place in the forum.
“You shall come in the _lectica_ (palanquin) with me,” said Duilia. “It
will have quite a pathetic aspect—the widow and the orphan together.
Besides, I want some one to talk to. What do you think of Flavius
Domitianus? A modest lad, to my mind.”
“Shy and clumsy,” observed Domitia. “The sight of him is a horror to me.”
“My dear child, only a fool will take sprats when he can have whitebait.
Look out to better yourself.”
“Oh, mother!—what is that?”
“A god going to supper,” said the lady. “We shall see plenty of them
presently.”
That which had attracted her daughter’s attention was a bier supported on
the shoulders of priests, on which lay a figure dressed handsomely, in the
attitude of a man at table, raised on his left elbow that was buried in a
pillow, the head erect and the right arm extended, balanced in the air.
The body was probably of wood under the drooping drapery, but the face and
hands and feet were of wax. In jolting over the pavement, the sleeve had
become disarranged, and showed the wooden prop that sustained the waxen
right hand. The face was colored, the eyes were of glass, and real hair
was affixed to the head; the lower jaw, hung on wires, opened and shut
with the jostling. The staring figure swaying on the shoulders of the
bearers, had a sufficiently startling effect, sweeping round a corner,
wagging its beard, and past the palanquin in which were the ladies.
“A thing like that can’t eat,” said Domitia.
“Oh, my dear child, no. The gods only sniff at the food. After it has been
set before them, it is carried away, and the people scramble for it.”
“They are naught but wax and woodwork,” said the girl contemptuously.
“My child, how often have I not had to quote to you that text, ‘It is not
well to be overwise about the gods?’ Here we are! What a crowd!”
The forum of Rome, that wondrous basin towered over on one side by the
Capitol, inclosed on another by the Palatine, and on the third by the
densely packed blocks of houses in the Suburra below the Quirinal, Viminal
and Esquiline Hills, was itself crowded with temples and basilicas, yet
not then as dense with monuments as later, when the open spaces were
further encroached upon by the Antonines.
“Domitia,” said Longa Duilia, in her ear, “all things are working out
excellently. Vitellius is aware that he has no chance, and has been
consulting with our cousin in the Temple of Concord yonder, and they have
nearly settled between them that Vespasian is to assume the purple without
further opposition. Vitellius will retire to some country villa on a
handsome annuity. That will prevent more bloodshed and confiscation, and
all that sort of thing. It is always advisable to avoid unpleasantnesses
if possible. There, child, there are quite a bevy of gods already at
table. See that dear old doll, Summanus, without a head—you know it was
struck off by lightning in the time of Pyrrhus. It was of clay, and rolled
all the way to the Tiber and plopped in. Since then he has been without a
head, the darling!”
“How can he either smell or eat, mother?”
“My child, I don’t ask. It is not well to be overwise about the gods.
There go the Arval Brothers with the image of Aca Larentia seated—of
course not lying. You will see some venerable curiosities, who put in an
appearance on days like this so as not to be wholly forgotten.”
The sight presented by the forum was indeed strange. A space had been
cleared and shut off from the intrusion of the crowd, and there lay and
sat the images at tables that were spread with viands. All were either
life-size or larger. Some were skilfully modelled, and wore gorgeous
clothing, but others were of the rudest moulding in terra cotta, or carved
wood, and evidently of very ancient date, of Etruscan workmanship little
influenced by Greek art.
Domitia looked on in astonishment. The populace laughed and commented on
the images, without the least reverence; and the priests and their
assistants laid the dishes before the puppets, then whisked them off and
carried them without the barriers. Thereupon ensued a struggle who should
get hold of the savory morsels that were being conveyed from the table of
the gods; even the vessels used for the viands and for the wine were
snatched at and carried away, and the priests offered no resistance.
Domitia was completely transported out of herself by astonishment at the
sight. Every now and then the hum of voices spluttered into a burst of
laughter at some ribald joke, and then roared up into a hubbub of sound
over the trays of meats and wine that were being fought for.
Already the short winter day was closing in, and torches were being
brought forth and stood beside the images. Then the tables were cleared
and removed.
A trumpet blast sounded, and instantly the barriers were cast down, and
the second act of this extraordinary spectacle ensued. This was the
supplication. Instantly the temper of the mob changed from scepticism and
mockery to enthusiastic devotion, and those pressed forward to kneel and
touch the cushions and drapery on which the gods reposed, and to entreat
their assistance, whose lips had but recently uttered a scoff.
Nothing so completely differentiates Christian worship from that of Pagan
Rome as the congregational character of the former contrasted with the
uncongregational nature of the latter. At the present day in Papal Rome
the priests may be seen behind glass doors in little chapels annexed to S.
Peter’s and S. Maria Maggiore saying their offices, indifferent to there
being no laity present, indeed, with no provision made that they should
assist. This is a legacy of Pagan Rome. The sacrifices, the services in
the temples and other sanctuaries, were entirely independent of the
people, some performed within closed doors. The only popular religious
service was the _supplication_, which took place but occasionally. Then
the public streamed to the images of the gods, uttering fervent prayer,
chanting hymns, prostrating themselves before the couches, catching at
their bed-coverings, esteeming themselves blessed if they could lay their
hands on the sacred pillows. But there was no general consent as to which
of the gods and goddesses were most potent. Some cried out that Mother
Orbona had helped them, others that Fortuna was a jade and promised but
performed nothing. One fanatic, in a transport, shrieked that these gods
were good for naught, for his part he trusted only in Consus, whose temple
was in ruins, whose altar was buried in earth by the circus of Tarquin.
But there were others who swept in a strong current towards the couch of
Jupiter and of that of Venus. Another strong current, howling ‘Io Saturne!
Salve Mater Ops!’ made for the images of the Old God of Time and his
divine Mate.
Simultaneously came a cross current of vendors of cakes and toys from the
Suburra, regardless of the devotion of the people, careful only to sell
their goods—for the Saturnalia was a period at which the children were
regaled with gingerbread, and treated to dolls of terra cotta, of ivory
and of wood. Hawkers selling pistachio nuts, the cones of the edible pine,
men with baked chestnuts, others with trays of Pomponian pears and Mattian
apples, vociferating and belauding their wares, increased the clamor.
Whilst this was at its height, down from the Palatine by the New Way came
the German Imperial Body-Guard, forcing a passage through the mob, their
short swords drawn, bellowing imprecations, whirling their blades,
striking with the flat of the steel, threatening to cut down such as
impeded their progress.
Some _vigiles_, or city police, came up. There was no love lost between
them and the pampered foreigners employed in the palace, and they opposed
the household troops. Remonstrances were employed and cast away. Then a
German was struck in the face by a pine cone, another tripped, fell, and a
hawker with a barrow-load of dolls, in his eagerness to escape, ran his
vehicle over the prostrate guardsman. At once the Germans’ blood was up,
they rushed upon the police, and a fray ensued in which now this side,
then that, gained advantage. The populace, densely packed, came in for
blows and wounds. When a guardsman fell, and they could lay hold of him,
he was dragged away, and almost torn to pieces by eager hands stripping
him of his splendid uniform.
The Præfect, who was in the Forum, summoned three cohorts to his aid, to
drive back the household troops, and in a moment the trough between the
hills was converted into a scene of the wildest confusion, some women
screaming that they had lost their children, others crying to the gods to
help them. Boys had scrambled up the bases of the statues, and one urchin
sat with folded legs on the shoulders of Julius Cæsar, hallooing, and
occasionally pelting with nuts where they did not fear retaliation.
The vendors of cakes and toys cursed as their trays were upset, or their
barrows clashed. Men fought each other, for no other reason than that the
soldiers were engaged, and they were unable to keep their itching hands
off each other.
Down a stair from the palace came the Emperor Vitellius, carried on the
shoulders of soldiers, while slaves bore flambeaux before him.
He was seen to gesticulate, but in the uproar none heard what he said.
Meanwhile, the priests were endeavoring to remove the gods, and met with
the greatest difficulty. Some frantic women clung to the images and
refused to allow them to be taken away. Some of the figures had been
upset, and the servants of the temples to which they belonged made rings
about them with interlaced arms, to protect them from being trampled under
foot. Jupiter Capitolinus had been injured and lost his nose.
A priest with the help of a torch, was melting the wax and fastening it on
again, whilst the guard of the temple kept off the rabble.
The currents of human beings, driven by diverse passions, jostled, broke
across each other, resolved themselves into swirls of living men and women
carried off their feet.
The litter of the lady Duilia and her daughter tossed like a boat in a
whirlpool, and the widow shrieked with terror.
Then two powerful arms were thrust within the curtains of the palanquin,
and the slave Eboracus laid hold of Domitia, and said:—
“There is no safety here. Trust me. I will battle through with you. Come
on my arm. Fear not.”
“Save me! Me, also!” screamed Duilia, “I shall be thrown out, trodden
under foot! O my wig! My wig!”
But Eboracus, regardless of the widow, holding his young mistress on his
left arm, with the right armed with a cudgel, which he whirled like a
flail, and with which, without compunction he broke down all opposition,
drove, battered his way through the throng where most dense, across the
currents most violent, and did not stay till he had reached a
comparatively unobstructed spot, in one of the narrow lanes between the
Fish Market and the Hostilian Court.
[Illustration: “ARMED WITH A CUDGEL, WHICH HE WHIRLED LIKE A FLAIL.”
_Page 129._]