Saturnalia Surprise
What if a part of the Roman Empire had survived? And they still celebrated the traditional celebration of Saturnalia? Carina Mitela, heroine of INCEPTIO, CARINA, PERFIDITAS and SUCCESSIO in the Roma Nova thriller series is anxious about her son Gilius missing the festivities, but knows that she owes it to her family, to her household to carry on with the biggest Roman festival of the year.
From the journal of Carina Mitela
Roma Nova, 17 December 2030 – Saturnalia
We were snowed in with metre high drifts. The media were having a field day with their graphs and charts. The ploughs and tractors were out despite it being an official holiday and battling to keep the main city roads cleared.
Although most of the public Saturnalia celebrations were cancelled, the priests would nevertheless make the usual grand sacrifice and invoke Saturn’s blessings. I pitied them today; it was a Greek rite and they’d have to shiver in sleeveless fringed tunics, with heads bare instead of a warm woollen toga snuggly folded over the head. It was a sure bet they’d turn up the heating in the Temple of Saturn and have every open brazier burning hard.
My husband, Conrad, and our youngest daughter, Tonia, sat in silence at breakfast. Our eldest, Allegra, had called first thing to say she would join us just after two when she finished her shift in the Praetorian Guard Special Forces. She looked tired on the screen; hopefully she’d get some sleep before tomorrow. Along with the rest of the military, she’d been called in to help ensure vital services were kept running.
‘I’ll be there, Mama, as long as there are no further disturbances in the city.’
‘What do you mean “disturbances”?’
‘Unfortunately,’ she said in the driest tone I’d ever heard her use, ‘some people seem to think the custodes concentrating on the bad weather crisis means they can help themselves to what’s in the shops. I’ve been freezing my extremities off in the Macellum district all night. We came across some kids with a crowbar in front of a smashed window, pulling stuff out of an electrical goods shop. The alarm was going full blast. As soon as they saw us, though, they ran like the Furies were after them.’ She chuckled.
The sight of half a dozen Praetorians marching towards you with intent and attitude would make anybody run.
‘But the curia has opened the basilica for the public banquet. My oppo, Sergilia, has caught guard duty there,’ she added, making a face. The law court hall was huge and could accommodate up to a thousand. But good luck to those trying to keep order.
After checking last details with my steward for our own celebration meal later, I retreated to my office for an hour to read my messages and ensure nobody had found my stash of gifts for the 23rd. Sigillaria was important not just for the kids who loved new toys, but a day when adults gave each other something to compensate for the excesses that would surely happen today.
Normally on Saturnalia morning, my cousin Helena and I would sip a glass of champagne and exchange jokes and snippets of gossip. She had more than a finger on the pulse of city life; its lifeblood ran through her. She’d also forewarn me about any particularly risqué activities the household were planning for today.
Ceding my place at the head of the Mitela tribe for a day to the princeps Saturnalicius was all well and good, but even misrule and chaos had its limit as far as I was concerned. But for a few hours, the house would be overrun with noise, people, stupid but fun dares, overeating, games, theatricals and stand-up of dubious taste, arguments, falling in lust, laughter and progressive drunkenness. Helena would make sure the children were safe out of the way when the horseplay became a little too raunchy.
By early afternoon the atrium blazed with light. Everywhere was covered in ferns, spruce and pine. In the centre was a large square table covered with linen, silverware, glasses, candles and the best china. I smelt roast pork, lemons and spices. In tune with the reversal of the day Junia, the steward, was enthroned in my usual place. Conrad handed me a glass of champagne even though he was on waiter duty. His Saturnalia tunic was bright orange. He shrugged. Then grinned. Wearing over-colourful clothes was traditional, but a strain on the eyes.
‘It’s only for a day,’ he whispered.
‘I know,’ and smiled back. ‘But I wish Gil had been able to make it.’
Our thirteen-year-old son had been staying in the country with Conrad’s cousin and was caught in the atrocious weather. Gil loved the madness of Saturnalia. My geeky son would turn into a shiny-eyed imp of Tartarus, darting around, laughing and joking, pulling pranks I didn’t know he knew. Now he’d be holed up with Conrad’s serious cousin for days. I only hoped they had enough food and the electricity hadn’t been cut, like the phone.
‘Well, Tonia’s having fun.’ Conrad pointed to her skipping between people with trays of hors d’oeuvres, watched anxiously by the steward’s son, and me. I could see at least one of the trays coming to grief, contents slithering across the marble floor.
‘Io Saturnalia!’
I blinked at the hearty shout from the household and guests gathered around and raised my glass, then bowed towards the steward. She went to speak, but a blast of cold air and a loud thud interrupted her. All heads turned towards the atrium doors, now open. Allegra, in her military fatigues and winter parka, cheeks burning with the indoor heat, tore off her field cap and shouted, ‘Io Saturnalia’.
Everybody shouted back, the noise filling the atrium. I hugged her to me, ignoring the cold and wet of her thick coat.
‘I’ve brought you something else, Mama,’ she whispered in my ear and nodded towards the double doors. On the threshold stood a lanky boy – pale, shivering and wide-eyed. He was enveloped in a survival blanket.
Gil.
‘I found him trudging through the city,’ Allegra said. ‘He’s walked the ten kilometres from Brancadorum to get here and —.’
But I didn’t hear the rest of what she said. I ran to the door and crushed him in my arms.
Io Saturnalia, indeed!
Alison Morton
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