There is some justification for his view, I suppose, since the Chief Priest of Jupiter in any city is the guardian of the sacred temple ‘flame’, and as such has the exclusive privilege of using it to light the altar-fire for public offerings. Certainly he was a most important dignitary and often the honoured celebrant at any civic festival. But this tall, cadaverous old man had held the post in Glevum for a decade, and his insistence on the flamanic rituals was the source of many jokes at his expense, especially since – like many priests – he had a much younger wife. His personal fire had dwindled with the years, the town wags said, until now there was very little ‘flame’ about him. Embers at best, they whispered, if not actually ashes.
His appearance, as he tottered towards us in his pale robes, certainly merited the description. He could not avoid the purple border on his toga, of course, since all Capitoline priests must wear that patrician stripe as a sign of their position, but apart from that he was entirely robed in white. His under-tunic was of purest wool, with only a suggestion of decoration at the hem, and that stitched in the palest gold and silver thread. Under his diadem of office he wore a white embroidered cap, very like the one the flamen must wear out of doors on all occasions. It even had the characteristic little strap beneath the chin, though he had not gone as far as having a copy of the flamen’s famous little metal rod sticking up at the back. His hair – such as could be seen of it – was the merest straggling wisp of dusty white. So was his beard. His face was the colour of chalky ash, and he was generally so thin and frail that it seemed as if – like cinders – he would disintegrate to dust if stirred too enthusiastically with a stick.
His voice, too, was as fragile, dry and brittle as a fragment of burned parchment. He was hard of hearing, and notoriously chose to compensate by speaking in the merest murmur so that everyone else, also, had to strain their ears to hear. Today was no exception.
‘Excellence!’ he breathed, in that rustling ghost of a voice. ‘I am sorry I was not here to greet you. But there were rituals . . . you understand.’ He had reached us now, but we all found ourselves bending forward a little to catch his words, Marcus included.
The pontifex chose to misinterpret this. He extended the sacerdotal staff of office in his ringless hand (another ostentatious choice, since flamines cannot of course tolerate the constriction of rings on their fingers, any more than they can permit knots anywhere on their person) and Marcus, for once, was forced to bend forward and kiss it reverently. It was not unheard of – even the mighty often choose to pay homage to the Rod of Jupiter – but I was sure that Marcus had not intended it. But it was an adroit way of establishing religious precedence. The old man was not as foolish as he looked, I thought. Meanwhile I dropped hastily to one knee. It would never do for me to remain standing while my patron bowed.
‘All homage be to Jupiter, Greatest and Best, and to his priests who serve his temples.’ Marcus muttered the formula dutifully, and straightened up again as quickly as protocol allowed. I followed suit, and grinned inwardly to see the forced smile on my patron’s lips. But Marcus was not easily subdued. ‘I was hoping to speak to you, most revered one,’ he went on, speaking to the old priest firmly, but deliberately slowly and loudly, as though in deference to infirmity. I knew my patron; he was reasserting his authority. Sure enough . . . ‘As representative of the governor, I have to make a decision. I felt I should at least ask your opinion. About these unfortunate events this morning.’
The pontifex nodded slowly, but it was some moments before he spoke. The deliberation, and his frail appearance, gave him an air of thoughtful dignity. The dice were back in his cup. No wonder he was widely half revered as well as affectionately mocked. The old priest might need a discreet nudge from his acolytes at public festivals when it was his turn to speak, and mutter the rituals so that nobody could hear, but he knew how to impose himself when the occasion demanded it. I found myself wondering how much of his deafness and apparent dithering was a conscious choice.
‘The body?’ He did not avoid the ill-omened word, as Marcus had so carefully done. ‘Alas, unfortunate events indeed. It is as well I did not go into the shrine myself. It is not permitted for a pontifex to set eyes on such a thing – but I heard that one had been found. A dreadful portent.’
‘You heard that now it has disappeared?’
‘What did you say?’ No careful pauses now. The question seemed startled out of him, and the creaking voice was clearly audible.
‘Dis-ap-peared, Mightiness,’ Trinunculus repeated helpfully, stressing each syllable. ‘Gone. Not there.’ He outlined briefly what had happened since we arrived at the temple.
‘But that’s not possible,’ the old priest said.
‘Not humanly possibly,’ Trinunculus supplied.
The pontifex looked startled. ‘Indeed.’ The pale eyes flickered with sudden animation. It might have been anxiety, or amusement. ‘Dear me. A sign from the gods right here in my own temple. We haven’t had a proper sign for years.’ He clasped his hands solemnly and raised his eyes to the symbol of the sun god on the pediment. ‘Great and Immortal Jove, I am honoured,’ he intoned. ‘I vow a thank-offering to you this afternoon.’ He unclasped his hands and refocused his attention on the assembled mortals. ‘Well, this is very unexpected. A sign! Dear me.’
Marcus looked at me and raised an eyebrow, but when he turned back to the priest he was still resolutely smiling. ‘And then there was that sound . . .’
‘Sound? And when was this?’
‘That appalling moaning. Only a few minutes ago. And I believe it happened once before, earlier this morning.’
The old man frowned. ‘I think I was aware of something, now you mention it. Dear me. Another sign perhaps. Most odd.’
‘But,’ Marcus said, with increasing irritation, ‘the question is, revered one, what it was a sign of. What was the meaning of it? Trinunculus here thinks these things are warnings.’
The pontifex nodded, the little cap dancing in sympathy. ‘Oh, a warning, certainly. Clearly a warning.’ He regarded us benevolently. ‘They almost always are, you know. Warnings. I remember, when I was a young priest—’
This time Marcus cut him off. ‘A warning, perhaps, to Fabius Marcellus? The ambassador from Rome? Trinunculus suggests that we should warn him not to come. After all, it was a legate’s body that was found.’
The thin voice was no more than a rustle. ‘Are we sure of that?’
‘The sevir Meritus swears that the man was dressed in ambassadorial dress, and this was found beside the altar.’ Marcus passed the ring to Trinunculus, to hand on to the old man. ‘A seal-ring with an imperial eagle’s head. That looks like a legate’s ring to me.’
The old priest did not take it. He looked at it a moment, standing well back as though too close a contact with a ring might contaminate him, and gestured to Trinunculus to put it out of sight. ‘Who was it who found the ring?’ he said at last.
‘The Citizen Libertus.’ Marcus indicated me, and as the pale eyes flicked towards me in surprise I became uncomfortably aware of my disreputable attire. I had come dressed for an informal visit to the baths, not for an interview with the chief priest in his own temple. Marcus was obviously following a similar train of thought. ‘I am his patron,’ he said with dignity. ‘He has assisted me many times with solving mysteries. He was at the baths when I was summoned here, and I asked him to accompany me, hoping he could help. And he has already done so, as you see.’
The pontifex produced another of his silences. I felt myself colour, and wondered again at the force of the personality disguised in that frail frame. Until a moment ago, I had not given a thought to the fact that I was inappropriately dressed. Of course, until Marcus identified my rank, the old priest must have mentally dismissed me as some kind of slave, and I had been effectively invisible.
‘A citizen,’ the old man murmured at last. ‘I see. Well, citizen, what is your opinion? What is your explanation of events?’ The tone was ironic, but he was
admitting my existence by addressing me directly.
I felt that something concrete was expected. ‘I do not have an explanation, Mightiness, but I do have a proposal. It has already been suggested that a message should be sent to Fabius Marcellus, warning him against visiting the city. In the circumstances, I think that would be wise – at least until we have cleared up this mystery.’ That sounded unfortunate, in a temple, and I hastened to add, ‘If there is a mystery. If this is a warning from the gods, that is all the more reason to prevent him coming.’
The pontifex held my eyes with his own pale ones. If there was fire within him there was no flicker of it in his gaze. His eyes were as cold and dispassionate as stone. ‘But you do not believe in omens?’
That was dangerous. The succession of the Emperor had been partly based on omens. I found myself babbling. Of course I believed in omens, I declared – why, only the year before there had been a cloud over Glevum in the shape of a bird, and everyone now knew that meant a change of governor. ‘If this had simply been a vision,’ I finished breathlessly, ‘I would have had no doubts. But the blood was real enough, and the ring was found by accident. Of course the gods could organise such things’ (did I believe that? I wondered) ‘but surely then these signs would have been immediately clear to everyone, and not discovered partially by chance.’
‘But citizen,’ Trinunculus had been following my words, ‘if the gods intend us to have a sign, there is no such thing as chance. Perhaps the gods decreed that Hirsus should kneel down where he did, and that you should find the ring. In any case the temple slaves would have discovered everything, when they came to cleanse the shrine – as they would have to do, after an event like this.’
He was right, of course. I had no better explanation for any of it. Perhaps there really had been some divine intervention, and I’d been the unwitting tool of the gods. I shook my head. I didn’t want to believe that. Or else the impossible had happened. I wanted to believe that even less.
‘And then there was that unearthly noise as well,’ Trinunculus went on. ‘I agree with the citizen, Mightiness: someone should write to Fabius Marcellus without delay. Otherwise who knows what disasters might befall.’
The chief priest looked at his young acolyte with disfavour, and the thin, dry voice was drier than ever. ‘The imperial ambassador was to honour this temple. And a flamen of the Imperial cult was coming here to lead the sacrifice. Special ceremonies and processions – I was to assist him – it was all arranged. And there would no doubt have been donations to the shrine. Dear me! It is most unfortunate. The Emperor’s legates can be generous. It would have meant a great deal to the city.’
‘And if anything happens to the legate, it will mean a great deal more to the city – most of it unpleasant!’ Marcus put in impatiently. ‘I don’t need to remind you what happened last time . . .’
The old priest sighed. ‘Indeed! Indeed! Well, I’ve no doubt you’re right. I can scarcely ignore an augury like this.’ He looked up to the pediment once more. ‘As you command, O Mightiest and Best.’ Another sigh. ‘It seems a pity, that is all. Nevertheless, I suppose that we must send to Fabius Marcellus at once. To tell him that he should not come, you think?’
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 t
his.’ 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.
Chapter Six
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.’
The Legatus Mystery Page 5
