The Legatus Mystery (21 page)

I tried to compose myself, but I couldn’t help getting up from time to time to glance uneasily towards the street. I half expected the mob to come thumping at the door at any minute.

‘You do not care for our refreshments, citizen?’ A female voice behind me made me start. Had someone seen me tip away my drink? But before I could say anything the voice went on, ‘Oh, please, do not look embarrassed. I can hardly blame you. Who but my husband would greet his guests with only water and unleavened bread? The dates should be a little better – or I hope they are. I ordered them myself.’

I turned. A woman had come in through the inner door, and was standing by the shrine, looking at me with frank, kohl-fringed brown eyes, and wafting a cloud of perfume in her wake.

I did not need anyone to tell me that this was the high priest’s wife. Nor did one have to be a rune-reader to see how she had gained her reputation for waywardness and frippery. Not that she was necessarily extravagant or vain. What this woman visibly lacked was
pietas
, that most feminine of Roman virtues, compounded as it is of modesty, devotion, loyalty and reserve.

She was obviously long past the first flush of youth, as I had calculated earlier – perhaps as much as twenty-five or -six – but there was nothing remotely matronly about her. She still had the awkward, eager air of a woman half her age. She was slim and muscular – none of your graceful Roman curves – and though she had done her best to make herself look fashionable by the application of powders and unguents, no amount of white lead and lupin powder on the face, red wine lees on the cheeks, or even grease and lamp-black round the eyes, could quite disguise that big nose and determined chin. She held herself casually, too, like a child, with no attempt at grace or elegance.

She reminded me of a young colt I used to have – in the days when I was young and free and had my choice of horses: it was healthy and lively and from first-class stock, but rather a trial to possess, being rather too inclined to nip unwitting passers-by and a little too spirited to take kindly to the reins.

‘I am Aurelia Honoria,’ she said, coming across the room towards me. She galloped over, I noticed (still thinking of the horse), rather than gliding in the approved feminine manner, and instead of modestly shunning private company with her male visitor she waved her page impatiently away.

I found myself staring at her in surprise.

I must have passed her sometimes in the town – Glevum is not a large
colonia
and, as a dignitary’s wife, no doubt she went out visiting her peers. Perhaps – being de facto High Priestess of Jupiter – she even performed private domestic rituals for them. Possibly she even sometimes attended the baths, although naturally a woman of her class would not frequent the market, since she had slaves to make her purchases. But I did not remember ever seeing her. Of course, like any well-born Roman wife, doubtless she always wore a veil in public places, and travelled in a covered litter or a private chair – but all the same it was surprising. Even when I had disturbed her reading in the garden (I was sure at once that this was the same person) she had instantly covered her features.

This was the first time I’d seen her face to face.

If I had seen her before, I would have noticed her. She seemed such an unlikely wife for the withered old Priest of Jupiter – not only in her coltish manners, but in her dress. Her stola was of the finest woven stuff, dyed amber and embroidered with silver, and worn over a tunic of the deepest green. Her hair was dramatically dressed, thick black locks coiled up in the latest style, and her make-up must have cost her handmaids many hours. But her neck, ears and hands were bare of any jewellery. That was unusual enough for a wealthy Roman wife, but what made her look particularly odd was a small apologetic wreath of wilting leaves tucked in among her hair. Given her lack of any other adornment it looked extraordinarily out of place. Altogether she was a strange assortment, with her graceless movements and fashionable dress.

My surprise was making me forget my manners. I bowed one knee to greet her. ‘I am the Citizen Longinus Flavius, lady,’ I began. ‘They call me—’

She cut me off with a gesture. ‘Oh, I know who you are, Libertus. My husband was expecting you.’ She had a surprisingly pleasant voice, girlish and humorous, and I found myself unexpectedly warming towards her. No one could ever call her beautiful but there was a frankness in her manner which gave her a certain fresh attractiveness. ‘He will be here to greet you presently, when he has finished fussing with his incense.’ She spoke with such feeling that I was moved to smile.

Tactless! I suppressed the grin at once, but I realised she had noticed it. I tried to cover my embarrassment. ‘No doubt the rituals are tedious, lady, when one is forced to live with them all day.’

Her response astonished me. ‘Tedious? It is a form of torment. And so unnecessary too! If my husband had been appointed flamen, as he hoped, perhaps all these restrictions would be acceptable, but he does not even have the post! And yet he insists on these petty regulations – not only on his own life, but on mine! Preparation for the role, he calls it. Preparation for the netherworld, more like! And it’s not one thing, or two, it’s everything! Look at this room!’ She gestured to the mural I had noticed earlier.

I muttered something about ‘impressive painting’.

‘Impressive?’ She almost snorted. ‘What woman wants to spend her life with that? And only bulls depicted, you notice! No “inauspicious” goats or horses, only bulls. And that frieze! We can’t have graceful vines or ivy patterns, like anybody else, because they trail and that would be unlucky, wouldn’t it, given the flamen’s intolerance of bonds and knots? Only, of course, he is not the flamen, yet! Or ever will be now, as far as I can see. In the meantime, I have to live with that. Isn’t it the ugliest thing you ever saw?’

I was embarrassed. It was indiscreet and inappropriate, talking like this to a stranger. No wonder her family had found her ‘wayward’! All the same I found myself increasingly liking this extraordinary creature, who had at least the rudiments of artistic sensibility. I remembered what Gwellia had said about the circumstances of this marriage: how Aurelia had been dragged into it against her will, and how the pontifex was afraid to come near her in case she died in childbirth. It was impossible not to feel sympathy for her – a woman trapped into a childish role, caught in a kind of permanent immaturity.

I could see why the old pontifex indulged her – more as a daughter than a wife – permitting her extravagances in the market and allowing her to have a garden if she wished. I only hoped it was enough. This young lady was no shrinking flower – if she were too far from satisfied I could envisage her walking out, and causing a sensation in the forum by publicly demanding to be sent back home!

What I could not imagine was that discreet liaison with Optimus which my wife had hinted at. This Aurelia seemed quite the least likely person to attract that elderly,
quadrans
-pinching man, and the least likely to keep it quiet if she did. Surely her love of spending money (which I found myself mentally justifying, as a trapped girl’s appreciation of fine things) would offend his frugal miser’s ways? Of course, she had powerful family connections; perhaps that was what attracted Optimus. Status mattered to him very much. But whatever did she see in him? I began to wonder if the gossip might be wrong. It sometimes was – as I had cause to realise today!

Perhaps she was simply grateful for a friend, I told myself, and the whole relationship was wholly innocent. On the whole I rather hoped it was. Even if Aurelia escaped exile and the disgrace of a divorce, surely consorting with Optimus was merely exchanging one misery for another? However, it was none of my business, and Aurelia was still chattering about the frieze.

‘My husband paid a fortune to have it done,’ she was saying. ‘And look at it! A simple stencilled pattern would have looked far better.’

I heartily agreed, though I could hardly say so. ‘You have a good eye, lady,’ I said tactfully.

She smiled, actually colouring with pleasure. It transformed her face. ‘Why, thank you, citizen. It is not often anyone pays
me
a compliment. I take it doubly kindly from an artist like yourself. I hear Optimus’s pavement is quite spectacular. If only my husband had asked for your advice! But there! I am neglecting my duties. You have eaten nothing in our house. Can I send for something a little more to your taste? We only have unleavened bread, I fear. A flamen cannot touch or come into contact with yeast – so, naturally . . .!’ She gave me a wry smile. ‘But we could find some fruits, perhaps, or cheese? My slave is waiting, just outside the door.’

I shook my head. ‘You are most kind, citizeness, and I don’t wish to be discourteous, but just at the moment I don’t think I could eat. Outside, in the town, there are armed men searching for me, wanting to kill me.’ I found myself explaining as though talking to a child. ‘All I want is to rest here, and to see your husband when I can.’ I stopped, suddenly recalling what she’d told me earlier. ‘Did you say he was expecting me?’

She nodded. ‘That’s right, citizen. Your slave brought word to us. He came here looking for your patron and told us what happened. He said that you were coming here.’

‘Marcus Septimus was already here?’

‘Indeed, because we had just received a messenger from Fabius Marcellus insisting that he will visit Glevum anyway.’ She looked at me. ‘Marcus has been with my husband half the afternoon. They’re in the temple making a special sacrifice, so they can read the entrails and find out what to do.’ She made a little face. ‘I hate all that – sticking your hands into an animal’s blood and looking at its innards. Thank Jupiter I didn’t have to watch. But my husband felt he had to do it. He is taking this very badly, you understand? All these goings-on in the temple, and disturbances in the street. And with the legate coming too. He knows this is the end of his hopes of getting the flaminate.’

‘I’m very sorry about that,’ I said. I meant it sincerely. I was desperately reliant on the pontifex for help, and I was not going to endear myself to him if he saw me as someone who’d helped destroy his dreams.

Aurelia shot me a look. ‘Don’t be sorry on my account, citizen. I shan’t be at all upset if this
is
the end. Perhaps then he will be persuaded to give up these ridiculous rules of his, and allow us to live a normal sort of life. There are restrictions enough in being High Priest of Jupiter, without adding to them of your own accord. I could wear my rings and necklaces again – he can’t be in the same house with “bonds” like that! – and eat bread and beans and goat’s cheese like anybody else. And get rid of this stupid wreath he makes me wear – because the Flaminia Dialis has one, of course. And wear my own hair, too, instead of this!’

To my astonishment she seized the piled black locks and tore them off, revealing them as a clever wig. Her own hair, dark, uncombed and wispy, fell around her face. I had been warned about her hairpieces, but the transformation was startling. Without her wig she looked younger and more vulnerable than ever.

‘You see what I have to put up with, citizen? You realise, if he was appointed, I’d have to weave and sew all my own clothes and his – with my own hands? Not even a slave to help me. And go back to live in Rome, which I don’t think I could bear. But the Flamen of Jupiter cannot leave the city for more than three nights in a row. Or take his hat off at any time. Or even have an empty table in his house. He’s got to be ready to make sacrifice at any hour of day or night! You know he already has the legs of his bed rubbed with earth, as the flamen does? It’s perfectly disgusting. The gods alone know why!’ She paused suddenly, sighed, and gave me a rueful smile. ‘Believe me, I shall not be sorry if he doesn’t get the job.’

I found myself saying gently, as though to a child, ‘Let’s just hope that he doesn’t lose the job he has. You realise he might? If the Emperor holds him responsible for what has been happening here? It is his temple, after all.’

She looked at me in evident dismay. ‘You think that’s possible? By Hermes, citizen, I hadn’t thought of that. Commodus can be . . . well—’ She broke off, biting her tongue. Even she felt the need for some discretion here – no one criticised the Emperor in front of strangers.

‘Swift in his punishments?’ I suggested.

She nodded gratefully. ‘Exactly, citizen. My husband is an old fool, sometimes, but I should not wish any harm to come to him.’

She always called him ‘my husband’, or ‘the pontifex’, I noticed. More deference to his would-be rank, no doubt, even when calling him a fool. I wondered how she referred to him in private. Even the high priest must have a name. Perhaps, if a man wishes to be flamen, not even his family can use his
praenomen
.

I was about to make some conventional remark when we heard the opening of the inner gate and the murmur of voices in the garden court.

‘Ah! No doubt that will be my husband now. By the way, citizen, I hardly like to mention this, but I suppose you are aware that your face is smeared with dust, and you seem to have stone chips in your hair?’

Great Jupiter, I had forgotten that. No wonder those citizens outside had stared at me. How could I meet the pontifex like that? And my patron was arriving too. I looked around wildly. I thought of using the water in the jug, but that was specially matured, and cost accordingly. My eyes fell on the ornamental pool, but before I could do anything the page came in.

‘His Excellence Marcus Aurelius Septimus and my master have arrived,’ he announced.

The two men came in, accompanied by the unmistakable odour of sacrifice – burnt feathers and fresh blood – and also by Junio, to my great relief, though naturally he was unannounced. I saw his eyes widen as he saw me and took in the ashes on my hair and face. He shook his head pityingly.

But it was too late now. I knelt to greet my patron, as I was. ‘A thousand apologies, Excellence . . .’

He waved his acceptance loftily. ‘Very well, very well. Get up, Libertus.’