The Legatus Mystery Read online

  There was a lady sitting in a grotto opposite – clearly a lady from her clothes and hair, although she seemed to be unattended in the garden. She was frowning over some document, written on a piece of folded bark, but as I pushed my head round the gate she half raised her eyes. There was no doubt that she had noticed me. But – and this was the astounding thing – instead of summoning a slave, and having me brought in for questioning, or even challenging me herself, she turned immediately away, pulling her mantle up to hide her face before I could really look at her.

  I had just time, as I retreated in embarrassment at being seen, to register that she had done the same.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Citizen! You will offend the gods!’ Scribonius’s whispered protest startled me. ‘It is not proper to spy upon the pontifex!’ He gestured me urgently away from the gate. ‘It is an affront for anyone outside the household to see the pontifex without his official robes. There are enough ill omens in the temple as it is.’

  After that embarrassing moment – when I was sure that I’d been seen – I was only too pleased to leave, and I allowed him to usher me back along the path. He was clearly as anxious as I was to have me away from there, and I had to walk quickly to keep up with him.

  ‘Suppose the pontifex had spotted you!’ he chided, in that schoolmasterly voice of his, when we were safely out of earshot and skirting round the central temple to the west. His tone suggested that even if I was not afraid of gods, at least I should beware of earthly powers.

  ‘The pontifex is in the temple still,’ I reminded him. ‘I was hardly likely to surprise him in the garden.’

  Scribonius did not look impressed. ‘All the same, citizen. Someone might have seen you, and told him about it. Then I should have been blamed for that, as well as everything else. After all, I am supposed to be escorting you. Suppose there was someone in the garden, for example.’

  ‘There was someone sitting in a grotto,’ I admitted. ‘Though whoever it was seemed eager to avoid my eyes.’

  Scribonius’s frown deepened. ‘One of the garden slaves, I suppose,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I doubt he will report the incident – he’ll be too afraid of being caught out sitting down. The chief priest likes his garden slaves to work!’ He was still striding down the path at an alarming pace.

  ‘I suppose they have to,’ I said, rather breathlessly. I was struggling to match my step to his. ‘It’s a very elaborate garden. Not the sort of thing that you’d expect.’ Scribonius looked at me quizzically, so I hastened to explain. ‘I thought the old man was so busy observing rules and denying himself in case they made him flamen some day that he had little time for material pleasures, such as gardens.’

  Scribonius slowed at this, and permitted himself a smile. ‘So you know about his flaminial ambitions? Of course. But the peristyle is not for the pontifex’s pleasure, citizen, it is for his wife’s. She is very partial to the garden, and of course whatever she says is like an imperial command. The old man can’t afford to offend her, or that would be farewell to his hopes of ever succeeding to the flaminate. Especially now.’ He gave a short mirthless laugh. ‘Trinunculus says the poor fellow already has more servants attending his plants than his person.’

  That was interesting, I thought. Scribonius was in awe of the high priest’s power, but he was still capable of disrespect, at least on the subject of Aurelia. ‘Why do you say “especially now”? Because of the happenings at the shrine? Surely they don’t affect Aurelia?’

  Scribonius seemed about to speak, but then he frowned. He looked at me sideways, made a doubtful clicking sound and shook his head. He looked so like a shifty market trader deliberating a dubious bargain in the forum that I was emboldened to persist. ‘I think you should tell me everything, Scribonius, if you wish me to put in a good word for you . . .’

  He glanced around him nervously, and ran an anxious tongue across his lips. ‘I suppose it is no real secret, citizen. The fact is, the imperial messenger brought word, when he came to tell us Marcellus Fabius was on his way. I don’t know if he told your patron too, but no doubt it will be common rumour soon enough . . .’

  ‘What will?’ I said impatiently. He was still hesitating, so I added, ‘Look, Scribonius, if this concerns the running of the temple, my patron will have to know in any case, since he is the highest civic authority hereabouts, and nothing can be decided without consulting him. And if this is something that you could tell Marcus, then you can tell me. His Excellence made me his representative, you heard him: and the pontifex himself expects you to help me in any way you can.’

  ‘I suppose so, citizen. Well, you see . . . the thing is . . .’ he took a deep breath, ‘the current Flamen Dialis is ill . . . dying . . . It is supposed to be a temple secret, for the moment.’

  He glanced up at the image of Jupiter on the pediment, as though expecting retribution for having said so much. There were no thunderbolts, however, and after a moment he continued, ‘Of course, when one flamen dies, another must be appointed, and there are few enough priests in the Empire who meet all the qualifying criteria – not only concerning himself but his wife and parents too – so our pontifex must think he had a realistic chance, this time.’

  I nodded. ‘I see.’ I remembered what Trinunculus had said. ‘The right patrician background, the right kind of temple marriage, all that kind of thing? And an unbroken marriage record too?’

  Scribonius looked at me with renewed respect. ‘You know about these regulations, citizen? So few ordinary citizens do. The requirements are extraordinarily strict – do you know the office was left open once, for years, because they could not find a man who met them all? And of course, it isn’t everyone who wants to live a life like that – all those things you’re not allowed to do – even with all the wealth and influence it brings.’

  I nodded again. ‘So, His Mightiness the pontifex . . .?’

  ‘Exactly, citizen. He has worked all his life for an opportunity like this. But these events . . .’ he waved his hand towards the Imperial shrine, ‘you can imagine what the effect of that will be. It will be seen as an omen against him from the gods. And that will make two of us whose dreams are shattered by all this.’

  ‘You think he is unlikely to get the position now?’ That was something I had not considered.

  Scribonius shook his head. ‘I think it will be impossible. He has ordered sacrifices and purification rituals of the gravest kind, but even he cannot believe that it will help. No augurer in the Empire could overlook a set of signs like those. It will spell the end of everything for him. He may even find himself removed from serving at the temple here, and sent somewhere even more remote – or removed from the priesthood altogether on some excuse.’ He swallowed, his throat working visibly, like a toad’s. ‘Unless . . . Oh, what’s the use of pretending! Of course he won’t allow that to happen. I know the pontifex. He’ll try to find some other scapegoat, and pin the responsibility for it onto him. And it’s not hard to guess who that will be.’ He paused and looked at me. ‘So you see why it’s important that you speak to him for me, and remind him that it was Meritus who found the body first. I know that you were shaken by what I said back there but you will do that, won’t you, citizen?’

  I was silent for a moment. It was true, I had been shaken – not by what he’d said, but by a sudden fear that this whole business defied analysis, and that some deep unexplained and sinister power was at work.

  Scribonius began again, almost babbling by this time. ‘I will offer votive tablets for you, citizen, make special sacrifices. I know what kinds of offerings please the gods and I’ll ensure the animals are flawless and pass the hirospex. I’ll petition them for riches, women – anything you like.’

  That brought me back to rationality. The idea of the small, staid, balding Scribonius earnestly petitioning the gods for a selection of willing virgins on my account was enough to make me smile. ‘Ask them for guidance for me, if you must,’ I said. ‘And make sure your offerings
are made at the central shrine. Judging by all those prayer tablets from Lucianus, petitions to the Emperor don’t seem to do much good.’

  Scribonius looked up at the statues in the courtyard again. My irreverence clearly troubled him a lot. However, the gods remained immovably on their pedestals, and nothing came to strike me dead. ‘Lucianus is a melancholy case,’ he said unhappily, and led the way up to the outer gate. Before he reached it, however, he stopped in surprise.

  ‘What are all these people doing here? Someone has been gossiping. News must have leaked out somehow to the town.’

  He was right. Some rumour had clearly found its way beyond the gates, because quite a little crowd had gathered, and were crowding round the entranceway. Not merely curious onlookers, but people with an air of panic and unease. Some of them were clearly terrified. One or two women were actually wailing, and men were waving votive plaques, or carried sacrificial birds in wicker cages. The temple slave whom I had seen before was now outside the gates, attempting to keep the rabble back, and only just succeeding too, although his temple uniform ensured him some respect.

  He was standing on a small four-legged stool, and trying to address the mob, and they were listening to him, though there were mutterings.

  ‘You must keep away,’ he was saying. ‘There are ill omens for you at the temple now. Go back to your homes, and make your offerings there. There must not be a riot here, or we shall feel more than the gods’ displeasure. The Emperor will hear of it. So go away. Leave matters to the priests. Sacrifices are being offered as I speak, and when the auguries are read the pontifex and the authorities will work out what to do. Your entering the temple will only make things worse.’

  The truth of his words made my spine prickle. This was what Scribonius had also feared. If there was a civil disturbance at the temple, then the whole city would have cause to fear. In fact, when the Emperor heard what had happened here already – as he assuredly would do – there could be very unfortunate results for everyone. Commodus took Imperial worship personally.

  Fortunately, the slave’s little homily was having some effect. A few of the crowd were still muttering discontentedly but others were beginning to drift away.

  ‘This is the handiwork of the gods,’ the slave said again. ‘Leave proper propitiation to the priests. There is nothing you can do here for the moment.’

  I turned to Scribonius. ‘If this is the hand of the gods,’ I murmured (we were still inside the ambulatory, so that only he could hear), ‘perhaps there is nothing anyone can do. However, I am still inclined to seek a human agency. I remember that opened bolt and that unprotected key. Make your sacrifices, just in case, to placate the deities – but keep your ears and eyes open too. That is the best way you can serve the temple.’

  He nodded, doubtfully.

  ‘Farewell, for now at least.’ I left him to it, and made my way out past the slave and through the gate.

  A little gaggle of people still lingered there, reluctant to disperse. As soon as they saw me they surrounded me, asking a hundred questions and tugging me this way and that, all shouting at once, their voices high with panic. I could see in their faces that unreasoning fear which had possessed me earlier.

  ‘What’s happening, tradesman? Why have they called on you?’ One of the wailing women accosted me. I did not know her, but she’d seized me by the sleeve and forced me to stop and talk to her. I was wearing a simple tunic, of course – if I had been wearing my toga, she would never have dared. ‘What’s happening in there? A demon with four heads they say. And someone saw a shower of stars last night. Are we all doomed?’ She gave my arm a little jerk, as if she could shake the information from me.

  Her terror was infectious. I knew that if I closed my eyes, I would see that reappearing stain, hear that inhuman moaning sound, feel the sticky warmth of blood upon my hands. I began to find my own heart thumping hard, and a cold sweat running down my spine. Besides, they were all swarming round me now. I’ve always had a fear of mindless crowds. But there was little I could say to calm them down. I was as mystified as they were. But it would not do to show it.

  As I was trying to compose myself, a second crone began plucking at me on the other side. ‘And is it true there was a visitation from the gods?’

  ‘A monstrous spectre with a face like death?’ That was a third, pulling at my shoulder.

  A man in a tattered tunic thrust his red face close to mine. ‘Don’t try to fob us off with lies. We heard that awful moaning yesterday.’

  This was getting out of hand. It would not take much to start a riot. I had to do something. I strove to recollect myself. ‘These things are exaggerated in the telling,’ I said firmly, shaking myself free. ‘Some serious events have happened at the temple, it is true, but there is a simple human explanation – which you will be told. But not today.’ I only wished I was as certain of that as I sounded. ‘The priests will tell you at the proper time, but first, of course, they must consult the auguries. Now, I am going back to attend to my work, and I suggest that you all do the same.’

  The temple slave had got down off his stool, and now flashed me a grateful smile, as if we were accomplices in a convenient lie.

  Yet there was an explanation, I told myself fiercely. There had to be. If these unearthly events had occurred at the altar of Mighty Jupiter, perhaps my terrors would be justified. Even a Celt like me would have recognised the workings of a supernatural hand. But they had happened at the Imperial shrine, and surely that was quite a different matter? Commodus was officially a god, of course, but I had never had the slightest belief in his divinity, much less in his ability to perform miracles and signs. Surely, rationally, I couldn’t accept it even now?

  I felt a little calmer at the thought, and that confidence must have communicated itself to the crowd, because they began to drift away. I couldn’t explain my reasoning to them, of course – I value my scraggy neck too much. It would not have taken much, in the mood that they were in, to turn the mob against me, and what I had just thought was treasonable, as well as impious. The punishment for that was horrible, though it might have caused amusement to the crowd. If Fabius Marcellus the legate ever did visit the city, I had no wish to form part of the civic entertainments by facing the beasts in the arena for his delight. I am an old man, and my sense of humour about these things is not what it was.

  I elbowed my way out through the remnants of crowd, and went resolutely back to Optimus’s house. One or two of the stragglers followed me, still plucking at my sleeves and questioning. I was glad to arrive at the back door of the house, where I could get away from them.

  Especially since I had no answers to give them. If there was some human explanation for what I’d seen, I had no idea what it was. I needed time to think.

  I rapped sharply on the wooden gate, and the doorman let me in.

  Chapter Fifteen

  This time, when he greeted me, the doorkeeper seemed noticeably more relaxed. ‘Citizen Optimus got tired of sending important visitors round to the servants’ door,’ he informed me cheerfully. ‘He’s gone off to hold his meetings in the public baths.’ He chuckled. ‘Taken that Phrygian steward with him, so you can find your own way through the house if you like. Save me having to get up, and leave the back door unattended.’

  ‘Thank you. I think I know the way.’ I hurried off before he had time to change his mind. I wanted to take the opportunity of being unattended to have a quick look in that inner courtyard garden where I’d seen the hooded shape. Not that there was very much to see. The colonnaded walkway I had seen the day before; a few uninteresting plants; a collection of poky storerooms at the back, full of amphorae, sacks and barrels; a sort of two-storey outhouse for the slaves; a lararium to the household gods, and a small courtyard with an oven in it, where bread and cakes were evidently baked without the threat of setting fire to the kitchen. Just like a dozen other dwellings of its kind.

  I might have investigated further, but at that moment a woman emerged
from one of the bedrooms off the colonnade. She was short, well fed, well coiffured and well dressed, and accompanied by a pretty slave girl carrying a tray of unguents. This must be Optimus’s wife. She stared at me.

  ‘I’ve come about the pavement, lady,’ I explained.

  She nodded vaguely and I went quickly on into the front section of the house.

  It was almost a relief, after the pressures of the day, to walk into that calm interior and to think about a piece of floor which was not occupied by disappearing corpses or reappearing blood. The only bodies in the passageway, when I arrived, were those of Junio and the kitchen boy, and they were clearly very much alive. Both were on their knees, facing away from me, occupied in laying tiles to a template under Junio’s vociferous command.

  ‘Not there, you stupid oaf, you’ll put your hand down on the wet cement. A little further right. That’s it. And now another – pass me that red one, quick! Before the mortar sets! Come on! Did they breed you from a tortoise and a snail?’

  I recognised something of my own style in this, and could not contain a chuckle. The kitchen slave heard me and scrambled to his feet, red-faced, brushing his dirty hands diligently on his apron.

  ‘What are you . . .?’ Junio said, and then he turned and saw me too. He stood up in his turn, a slow reluctant smile on his face. ‘There you are, master,’ he said. ‘I did not hear you come.’

  ‘So I observe,’ I said, trying to sound severe. ‘Judging by the sight that greeted me!’

  The kitchen slave looked anxious, but Junio only grinned. ‘Master, you have come back half an hour too soon. Another little while and we’d have finished the job.’ Now that I was not confronted by a pair of tunicked bottoms, I could see the border they had been working on. He was right. Most of the missing tiles had been reset by now and a good job they had made of it – though there was a slight imperfection in one corner, and they had created a lot of dust and chippings in the process.