Down These Strange Streets (George R.R. Martin) (Kitty Norville 6.50)

“Who buys cobras?” Julia asked, seemingly intrigued.

“The Isis cult is growing quite popular in Roman territory, my lady. Cobras are an absolute necessity for the rituals of Isis. If you have visited Egypt you have observed that the cobra, along with the vulture, is prominently featured on the uraeus crown of the pharaohs, since adopted by the Ptolemys. The cobra goddess, Wadjet, has been the patroness of the royal family since earliest antiquity.”

Here was another man about to launch into an oration on his favorite subject, so I took quick action to forestall him. “Is there some sort of problem with the swamp adder? It is, after all, native to Italy, not some exotic foreign breed. Rather prolific around Lake Fucinus, I hear.”

“Decidedly so. There is a reason the Marsi need a goddess of their own just for snakebite. Do you know much about venomous serpents, Senator?”

“Only that I don’t like them much.”

“Well, people think that cobras and asps and such are terribly deadly creatures. In truth, they are fairly easy to avoid, and their venom, while quite dangerous, will seldom kill a healthy adult. Their victims are usually the very young, the very old, and the infirm. Often, snakebitten people simply frighten themselves to death because they believe all snakes to be deadly.”

“Really?” I said. This was fascinating.

“Absolutely, Senator. I know of many cases in which people have died after being bitten by perfectly harmless snakes. For this reason, the common ratsnake that farmers keep in their barns for vermin control have probably killed more people than all the cobras in Egypt.”

“I see. But the swamp adder actually lives up to its reputation?”

“Beyond question. Its venom is more than powerful enough to kill a man in a few moments. In fact, the Marsi have an annual ritual in which a bull is sacrificed by placing it in a pit with a large swamp adder. It is a rather small pit, so it doesn’t take long for the bull to annoy the adder and be bitten. The priests of Angitia draw a great many omens for the coming year according to where the bite or bites are located on the bull, whether it staggers for a while, or has violent convulsions, or just drops down dead. The best omen is if the bull falls down dead instantly from a single bite.”

“What does this signify?” Julia asked.

“That nothing much will happen in the coming year. The Marsi consider this a good forecast.”

“As should we all,” I affirmed. “Is the serpent used in this rite the sacred specimen kept in Angitia’s temple?”

“Oh, no. There is too much danger of the snake being injured or killed, as sometimes happens when the bull falls. That is a portentous event in itself, meaning disaster to come. No, an adder is captured wild in the swamp by a team specially trained for this hazardous activity. If it lives, it is released back into the swamp, bearing the prayers of the people along with messages for their dead.”

“I see. So I take it you don’t have a swamp adder?” I said.

He shook his head. “Neither I nor my staff are that brave. You are aware, I take it, that almost all of the snake charmers you see in the markets and at festivals are Marsian? They never use swamp adders for their performances. They would never touch one except for religious purposes. You aren’t really looking to buy one, are you, Senator?”

“No, I just need to learn about them. Matters of state between Rome and the Marsi, as it were.”

“Actually,” Julia said, “I am quite interested in purchasing a house snake, one for family consultation, although I suppose it would do no harm if it catches mice as well. Could you show us your stock?”

Needless to say, we went home with a snake, a small, green creature of no great distinction that I could see. It came with a supply of cedar shavings and careful instructions as to its care and feeding, housed in an Egyptian basket artistically plaited from papyrus fiber. Julia seemed almost as delighted with the basket as with the snake.

“Have we learned anything?” Hermes said as we wended our way back toward the Subura.

“Other than that I am an indulgent husband?”

“We already knew that, dear,” Julia said, gloating over her purchase.

“I am a bit puzzled,” I said, running a few things through my mind. “Pompaedius acted as if the handling of venomous serpents is a simple business, yet Poplicola told us that it takes a specially trained team of Marsi just to catch one for the bull sacrifice.”

“Maybe it’s catching one in the swamp that’s the tricky part,” Hermes said. “Maybe they live in packs out there. The sacred snake sounds domesticated.”

“Pompaedius,” I mused. “Wasn’t that the name of the man who led the Marsi in the Social War?”

“Quintus Pompaedius Silo,” Julia said. “He is said to have held Cato out of a high window by his heels, when Cato was about ten years old.”

“Should’ve dropped the little bugger on his head,” I observed. “I remember the story now. He was in Rome drumming up support for Marsian citizenship rights, and little Cato refused to take his oath or some such. I always thought it was something Cato’s supporters made up to make him sound patriotic instead of just an insufferably rude little twit.”

“Do you think it’s significant?” Hermes asked. “For all I know, Pompaedius is as common a name in Marsian territory as Cornelius is in Rome.”

“Probably nothing,” I said. But in truth I was not so sanguine. Religion and politics are inseparable, which is why the founders of the Republic wisely made priesthood and omen-taking a part of public office. That way it can be kept under control, after a fashion. But Caesar himself had decided that this silly business was worth pursuing. Of course, he was obliged by ancient custom to aid a client who was in

Rome with a problem. “How did a Marsian named Pompaedius become Caesar’s client?” I wondered aloud.