I laid the rudis on the shelf as Cassia sat down at the table, opening the pouch to study its contents. Usually, she poured wine to refresh us after a trek across the city, but today it was I who uncorked the flask and filled our cups.
Cassia had bought this wine downstairs, a cheap vintage, but drinkable, even if it tasted a little of vinegar. Sometimes our acquaintance Sextus Livius sent us an amphora of excellent wine from one of his vineyards in Campania, but we’d finished off the last one a few weeks ago.
“It is Saturnalia,” I said in jest as I set down the cups. “Today, I serve you.”
“Pardon?” Cassia jerked her head up, blinking in surprise. “Oh, forgive me, Leonidas. I am lost in thought.”
I sat down opposite her as she absently lifted her cup and took a small sip. Cassia grimaced at the taste and set the cup down quickly.
I gulped my wine, knowing it would go down easier if I didn’t bother to savor it. “Are you afraid Drusus will have Ariston and his family arrested?”
“We will make certain he doesn’t.” Cassia fixed an adamant gaze on me. “We can say we chased the thief out of Rome and lost him in the hills beyond. Drusus can send out his own guards to search the wilds if he wishes, but anyone they find there will be too dangerous to approach.”
A good plan. “Is that why we are not going to Drusus right away?” I asked. “To give us time to follow this bandit who doesn’t exist?”
“Partly. Partly because this amount of money troubles me.”
“It troubles me too.” I ran a hand across my hard stomach, not liking how the wine was sitting in it. “If Ariston had been caught with that gold, he’d already be dead.”
“I agree. It would not go well for his family, that is certain, which is why we will not mention them.”
“They are very grateful to you,” I observed. “I’ve never seen a freedman bow to a slave.”
In truth, I didn’t always remember Cassia was a slave either. As a scribe, she was a superior form of being. Our household and our entire lives were now run according to her—gently made—dictates. I didn’t mind. I preferred Cassia’s orders to Aemil’s shouted curses and heavy fists.
Cassia eyed me speculatively. “Epikrates does not regard me in that way. Or, rather, in his eyes and the eyes of his god, we are same.”
“What god is that?” I asked in bewilderment. The deities who dwelled in the temples on the Capitoline were very aware of who was who in Rome.
“Did you not guess?” Cassia said, surprised. “They are Christian.”
“Ah.” I did not know much about the Christian sect, though I’d met a few of that religion when they’d passed through Aemil’s ludus. They’d not been condemned to the games for being Christian—they’d simply been gladiators sold to Aemil from the market. “Is that why I saw no ancestor masks or household god or goddess figurines on their shrine?”
Cassia nodded. “The cupboard contains the sign of their god, the cross, when opened. They keep it closed so that strangers do not see.”
I drained my cup and thunked it to the table. “What sort of god wants to be known by a device used to torture and execute criminals? I hear that they eat pieces of their dead god as well.” I screwed up my face in distaste.
Epikrates and his family had seemed so innocuous. I couldn’t imagine them participating in the strange and bloody rituals Christians were supposed to perform, always in secret.
Cassia regarded me patiently. “They don’t eat their god, or anyone’s flesh for that matter. They use bread and wine in a symbolic feast. No bodies are consumed,” she finished with a touch of humor. “The ritual is to honor his sacrifice for them.”
“We honor our gods by giving them offerings,” I countered, thinking of the bull killed for Saturn two days ago. “Then we eat the meat, which symbolizes having a decent meal.” I tried to add my own humor to the conversation.
I didn’t much like beef, preferring simple lentils or grains, but I’d have a mouthful at a festival honoring whatever god was on the calendar that month.
“We have the feast because the gods and goddesses can’t actually eat what we sacrifice, can they?” Cassia said. “They also don’t consume any offerings of wine or grain we leave for them at their temples. The priests or priestesses do. It stands to reason—statues don’t need food.”
“Are you a skeptic?” I asked, not entirely surprised. Cassia never showed much loyalty to a particular goddess or god, only to the ghost of her father and whatever simple deities might be inhabiting our home.
“Perhaps, though it never does one good to admit it. I don’t mind participating in the festivals. It is important to be part of the life of Rome, isn’t it?” Cassia rested her hands on the table, taking on the philosophical tone she assumed when discussing abstract matters. “That is one reason the Christians tend to be regarded with suspicion. They refuse to perform the rites honoring other gods, especially those of the divine Caesars, and won’t allow the rest of us take part in theirs.”
“I’m not certain I wish to take part in them. Why do they want their god inside them? Even symbolically?”
“I’m not certain.” Cassia frowned in thought. “To become one with him, or to become like him? He did let himself be killed, in human form, in a gruesome way, to prove his devotion to his followers, even those who mocked him.”
I shook my head. “I’ll stay with Hercules. A strong warrior.” Many gladiators prayed to him for protection.
“Osiris was killed and dismembered, then resurrected,” Cassia said. “Dionysius was as well. They faced death and overcame it, which made them extremely powerful gods.”
