The Legatus Mystery (7 page)

That was addressed to Marcus, and deliberately. It is up to the priests to interpret omens, but it is technically the responsibility of the state to decide what averting action should be taken. And – in the absence of the Senate or the governor – that meant Marcus, in this instance. It was clear what the pontifex was up to. By publicly appealing to Marcus, he had astutely ensured that my patron, rather than himself, would be the one responsible if the Emperor’s direct orders were countermanded. Marcus looked at me.

‘To advise him, rather?’ I suggested. ‘Inform him of what’s happened, and suggest he doesn’t come – but perhaps the final decision should be his?’

Marcus nodded and the pontiff said, ‘As you suggest, citizen.’ There was an audible stirring of relief.

‘I will see to it, revered one,’ Marcus said, all courtesy again now that a formal decision had been reached. ‘And if you would add your messenger to mine . . . If the ambassador decides not to arrive, presumably we should let that Imperial flamen from Londinium know. I am aware that the Emperor has written asking him to come here, but if there are bad omens in the temple, perhaps he would prefer not to attend either.’

Was it my imagination, or did the eyes of the pontifex flicker with satisfaction? Of course, being a flamen to the Imperial cult was by no means the same thing as being the Flamen of Jupiter. Every emperor had his own flamen these days, and no doubt this visitor had merely been the flamen of one of the earlier Aurelians, retired to the provinces when his reign was done. But I suspected that, despite his words, the old man had not relished the prospect of taking second place to a flamen of any kind, especially in his own temple.

‘Very well, I’ll send to him this very afternoon,’ the pontifex replied, with the ghost of a smile. ‘As soon as I’ve made that sacrifice I vowed. Or should I wait until you’ve heard from Fabius Marcellus? It is possible that he will take no notice of your warnings. Dear me. Always a headstrong fellow. I knew him once.’

‘You did?’ Marcus was surprised.

‘Commanded a garrison over to the west. I was called upon to make some altar offerings – at the burial, you know.’

We nodded. Even I had heard of this. Of course a pontifex cannot look upon a corpse – as he had just told us himself – but it was not a body they were burying. Jupiter was a favourite with the army and every year there was a major festival in which their old altar was interred with great ceremony in an unmarked place at the edge of the parade-ground – presumably to save it from desecration if the garrison moved on – and a new one was set up close by.

‘I am sure even Fabius Marcellus will heed the warnings of the gods,’ Marcus said. ‘Especially if both of us are urging it. I will send my swiftest messenger to you, as soon as I have composed a letter to the legate. If you would be gracious enough to compose another, pontifex, my rider can take both despatches together. Then when we have an answer from Fabius, you can send a message to Londinium. That should still arrive in time to save the Imperial flamen a wasted journey.’

‘Of course, Excellence, anything you wish,’ the old priest assented, though with obvious reluctance. I wondered why, since he had virtually suggested this solution himself. Was he was suddenly regretting those lost donations to the temple? Or was he was unwilling to forgo the honour of appearing on a public podium in company with an imperial legate? ‘The temple and its servants are naturally at your command, in anything that does not touch directly on the gods.’

If this was a struggle for authority, Marcus seemed oblivious of it. ‘Then I shall return home and write to Fabius Marcellus at once. I’ll send to you about the eighth hour. My man is an expert on horseback; he can leave tonight. I can arrange fresh mounts for him along the way, and safe passage for him across the sea to Gaul if necessary. Given fine weather he should reach Fabius Marcellus before he sails. For now, revered one, hail and farewell.’

The old priest inclined his head, and with a gesture of benediction walked unsteadily back to his temple, presumably to start his sacrifice.

Marcus watched him for a moment and then turned to me. ‘You are looking thoughtful, my old friend. I know that face. You’ve thought of something which might help to throw some light on this unnerving affair?’

I was as mystified as he was, and if this was supernatural I didn’t want to get involved, but I made my suggestion all the same. ‘Merely that it might be prudent, Excellence – since the high priest has put the temple slaves at your disposal – to organise a little search. Of the temple and precinct and perhaps the streets around – just to be quite sure that someone hasn’t hidden this body somewhere obvious.’

Marcus frowned. ‘It’s hard to see how anyone could have managed that. But as usual, old friend, you’re right. It would be reassuring to find a human hand in this.’ He turned to the temple slave who was still standing by. ‘See to it.’

‘At once, Excellence,’ the man replied, and hurried off.

I made to do the same, and Marcus himself turned to leave, followed with evident relief by his servant. But before I could make my escape my patron called after me. ‘And you, Libertus, check up on that statue in the shrine. And call on me at home, about the same hour as I told the pontifex. Give the citizen his towel, slave!’

The servant thrust the damp cloth into my hands, and they were gone.

I glanced uncertainly at Trinunculus who was still standing beside me. Of all the things I did not wish to do that afternoon, going back into that chilling little shrine was close to the very top of the list – ranking only a little after being sentenced to hard labour in the mines or being obliged to face the dogs in the arena. However, Marcus had given his instructions, and I was more or less obliged to obey them – otherwise there was a distinct chance that I might be faced with one of those even more disagreeable alternatives.

I swallowed. ‘I suppose I must,’ I said, and added with as much aplomb as I could muster: ‘You will accompany me, of course?’ If I was obliged to go, I thought, I would be much more comfortable in the company of a priest. In the company of anyone, in fact, but of a temple priest in particular.

Trinunculus nodded cheerfully. ‘Of course. Are you not here on the orders of His Excellence?’ He led the way from the veranda and back across the court towards the altar precinct. If he saw my nervousness he gave no sign of it. ‘This way.’

Once more I followed him unwillingly.

It was no better the second time. If anything, the stone-faced giants on their plinths seemed to frown down at me with even more displeasure than before.

‘You have heard the story of the curse?’ I said, a little apprehensively – this hardly seemed the place for such a question.

Trinunculus however, gave me a cheery smile. ‘I have, of course. There’s been gossip about it ever since that body was discovered. But I don’t believe that there is anything to fear from that. Not with this lady looking on.’ He gestured to a particularly disapproving statue of Minerva. As I looked towards it, I saw a form scurry out of one of the outer buildings and hasten ahead of us towards the Imperial shrine.

Trinunculus had seen him too. ‘We should hurry, citizen, if you wish to look at that statue this afternoon. They will be cleansing the temple otherwise, and you can hardly interrupt the rituals again. There’s Scribonius, now.’

Of course it was Scribonius. Once it was pointed out to me, there was no mistaking that small anxious figure, but for a moment I hadn’t recognised the man. He had clearly been into the robing rooms to change. He had abandoned his priestly robes, and his expensive shoes, and he was now hobbling barefoot, dressed only in a wretched sackcloth tunic, with arms bare and his hair artistically dishevelled. It was a chilly afternoon, and I almost felt sorry for the fellow.

I quickened my pace. ‘This will be the second time the senior sevir has had to purify the shrine today.’ I was still thinking about that curse.

Trinunculus grinned. ‘Well, we can rely on Scribonius to help him do it right. He knows every syllable of the rituals. See him now, stopping at the outer altar. Probably wants to get himself some ashes. Never a man to do a thing by halves!’ And indeed, the auxiliary sevir was scooping up handfuls of ashes from the shrine and applying them not only to his forehead, but to his arms and legs as well. He was beginning to look more like a defendant at the law court, making a public show of penitence, than a respectable Imperial priest on his way to officiate at a shrine.

‘A bit inclined to overdo the symbols, some of these seviri.’ Trinunculus was grinning more widely now. ‘Of course, Scribonius probably feels that he has to prove himself, given his background. He’s always finding fault with Hirsus, for example, claiming that he’s overlooked some part of the ritual and is about to bring bad luck upon us all. But here we are. You’d better wash your hands again, but that should be enough – those ritual ashes are still on your forehead.’

We were at the grove entrance now and there was nothing for it but to do what I had come for, although I would have liked to hear a little more. Even if there was no human puzzle here – and on balance I was certain that there was – I was still anxious for all the information I could get. And it wasn’t going to be easy. One cannot demand answers from a priest in the same way as one can from other men. Not only do they trade in mystery, but if they
do
have supernatural powers the consequences of a mistake could be disastrous. I have no wish to find myself turned to stone, or transfixed by a thunderbolt from an affronted Jove. Besides, there was the story of the curse.

‘Here we are,’ Trinunculus said again.

His nonchalant confidence emboldened me. I took a deep breath, but when I went inside there was nothing particular to see. It was almost a disappointment. A temple slave was scrubbing at the floor, Scribonius was fussing with a censer, and Hirsus and Meritus (who were not wearing penitential tunics, but had confined themselves to unfastening their belts and leaving their garments disarrayed) were standing by the altar discussing the relative merits of a sheep or a pig as an extra sacrifice.

‘Scribonius is quite right, you know,’ Meritus was saying. ‘Since the first offering was so inauspicious, naturally it is not enough merely to repeat the same. We must expiate the fault. A pig is the traditional—’ He broke off when he saw me. ‘Citizen?’

‘The statue,’ I said, in some embarrassment. ‘I am to look at it. Marcus Aurelius Septimus’s orders.’

Hirsus looked dismayed. ‘But we are preparing . . .’ He fluttered nervous hands at me.

Meritus silenced him with a gesture.

‘Only a formality,’ I said, feeling extremely foolish and in the way. In that small space there was scarcely room for me as well. I stepped over the toiling slave, edged past Scribonius and his waving incense, and made my way towards the huge gilded image, while the others watched me in disbelief. It was a formality, of course. The image may have been hollow but it was extremely heavy, and though there were one or two small holes in the statue, at the base and at the eyes for instance, there was clearly no way anyone could enter it.

‘My thanks,’ I murmured, and I shuffled out.

‘I’m sure he entered the temple with his left foot first,’ I heard Scribonius complain, as soon as he thought I was out of earshot. ‘Oh, Hercules! More evil omens. Now we’ll have to do it all again.’

I looked back. Scribonius was plying his censer as though I had contaminated the air, Hirsus was fanning the statue half-heartedly with sacred herbs, and Meritus was clearly urging the temple slave to wash the floor again, before he could begin the sacrifice. I began to feel like an evil
genius
being driven from his haunt.

It was a relief to get out of the grove and find Trinunculus. ‘If you have finished here, I will see you to the gate,’ he offered, with that cheerful smile. ‘Did you discover anything, citizen?’

‘Nothing of any consequence. I think Marcus had some notion that the body, or perhaps the killer, might have been hidden in that statue of theirs, but there was obviously no possibility of that.’

‘I think I could have told you so, citizen, before you looked – though obviously you had to see it for yourself. It took half a dozen slaves to bring that statue in, and even then they were struggling to move it. It was Meritus’s endowment to the temple, when he was elected to office. Mind you, it was cast in his own metal, with his own gold used to gild it – he only had to pay the craftsman for the job. Though no one knows exactly who that craftsman was.’

‘Is that something that a donor must disclose?’ I said, wondering if some temple custom had been breached. I had never heard of it, but I knew that a priest’s life is full of little prohibitions: even the mention of a nanny-goat, for instance, will send a Priest of Jupiter into a frenzy of ritual cleansing. ‘I suppose a statue fashioned by inappropriate hands might be a dreadful omen in itself?’

Trinunculus smiled. ‘That kind of thing is not important, citizen. What matters is what happens to it here. There’s a fellow called Lucianus – one of Meritus’s supplicants – brings boxes of gifts to the Imperial altar almost every month. Bells, silver, statuettes, all kinds of things. No one knows where he obtains them from.’

‘Lucianus the wretched?’ I enquired, remembering the plaque, though from this account of his wealth he didn’t sound very wretched to me.

He grinned. ‘The very same. The temple slaves say he must have tried at all the other shrines, without success, and now he’s trying the Imperial Divinities. Meritus must be delighted – the sevir’s year of office is largely judged on the value of that year’s offerings. That’s why they make such handsome gifts themselves. But all offerings are simply laid before the gods, with a ritual prayer and sacrifice, and purified with sacred fire and water. That’s all that is required. So there’s nothing wrong with what the sevir did. It’s simply odd, that’s all.’

‘Odd?’

‘Most of the seviri, when they are appointed, are very anxious to tell everyone how much their “dowry” cost, and what important artists they paid to do the work. But not Meritus. Of course, there’s no reason why he should have told us, but it is almost as if he relishes secrecy.’ Trinunculus looked at me a moment, as if considering, and then added in an undertone, ‘It’s like the story of his life – he never gives a full account of that.’