The Legatus Mystery Page 6

  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.’

  We were under Minerva’s disapproving stare again, but this blatant piece of temple go
ssip stopped me in my tracks. I braved the goddess’s anger long enough to say, ‘But surely . . .? I heard he was slave-manager of an estate?’

  ‘Oh, certainly he was,’ Trinunculus replied. ‘He has his pilleus – the freeman’s cap – and his certificate to prove it. But how did he become the manager? He is no ordinary slave. He can do more than read and write his name – he knows the orators: and it is rumoured that he can ride a horse, play an instrument, even quote the Greek philosophers. How did he learn to do all that? It’s clear he wasn’t born on that estate. So was he born a slave at all? That’s what I want to know.’

  I looked at him. ‘I was captured into slavery myself,’ I said, with some feeling. ‘I can understand why any man would avoid talking about it – or about the life he had to leave behind. Or he may have been the pet slave of some wealthy man. He is good-looking enough, and some of them are taught all sorts of things to be companions to their masters. If you had risen to wealth and dignity wouldn’t you avoid talking about your humble beginnings? And what other explanations are there? That he sold himself into slavery to clear a debt? Or was sentenced to it, to atone for a crime? Neither seems likely, for a man who made his master’s fortune, and rose so high in his esteem.’

  I had not meant to speak so sharply. Even to me it sounded like a rebuke. ‘What made you question it?’ I asked more gently.

  The young priest looked abashed. ‘It is only that he has such skills. And once when we were talking, he mentioned Aquae Sulis. Not casually, but as if he knew the town. Then when Scribonius pressed him, he tried to change the subject – said that he had been there with his master once.’ He glanced at me. ‘And most of all, I’ve noticed when he dons his robes he does not seem to have a brand. Or ever to have had one, if you see what I mean.’

  I did see. I have unhappy memories, not only of the branding on my back, but of the painful surgery when it was removed. There is a deep scar on my shoulder to this day. All the same, I shook my head.

  ‘Not every master brands his slaves, Trinunculus. And as for Aquae Sulis, his story may be true. After all, as manager he was engaged in trade. He must have travelled to many towns.’

  ‘You may be quite right, citizen. And as I say, it is not in Meritus’s nature to confide. Not like Hirsus, for example, who will talk about his wretched childhood to anyone who will listen. Now, he was a pet slave, though never to a man. He was given to his owner’s grandmother – her lucky talisman, she said. She was a superstitious woman – always consulting oracles – and mean as a tax-collector, by all accounts. But she promised him his freedom when she died, and a handsome pension with it. Hirsus had hopes of settling down – there was an attractive slave he knew, apparently, whom he hoped to buy and free and set up a household with.’

  ‘But his mistress broke her promise?’

  Trinunculus laughed. ‘Not at all. Her will set him free, with a substantial sum. But he had to wait a long time to collect it. The old woman lived to an astounding age – outlived all her sons and daughters – she must have been quite eighty-five when she died. Yet she would never part with Hirsus while she lived. And then, of course, it was too late. The slave he had fallen in love with had been sold on, and at forty-five Hirsus was getting to be an old man himself.’

  ‘He must have inherited a goodly sum and used it well, to have been made sevir here.’

  ‘His investments flourished, certainly. The gods were smiling on him, he believed.’ Trinunculus grinned. ‘Though it is my belief he was just extremely cautious. He’s like a woman in his ways sometimes. The old lady had him from a child, and instilled in him such a fear of omens that he will hardly change his sandals without consulting the auguries.’

  ‘I thought all you priests were much the same in that?’ I said. Foolish! I meant it lightly but I saw the young priest flush. He had seen my words as a rebuke, again. I tried to repair the damage. ‘Scribonius, for example, is a stickler for the rules. Why is that, do you think? You said that he felt he had to prove himself.’

  Too late. Trinunculus had put a halter on his tongue. ‘I talk too much,’ he said. ‘It is a fault of mine. The pontifex has had occasion to rebuke me for it before now. I am sorry, citizen, I have already said too much. I was accompanying you to the gate, I think.’ He drew his robes around him, and walked purposefully on.

  I did my best. I walked beside him, cajoling, flattering, urging. I even found myself pleading that, as a Capitoline priest, it was his duty to assist the governor – and I was the representative of his representative. To no avail.

  ‘My duty as a priest,’ Trinunculus replied, in a sing-song voice, ‘is to save my tongue for sacred purposes, and not to talk about my fellow priests.’ The little speech was obviously a formula, and I guessed that the high priest had obliged him to repeat those words many times as part of a penance. And that was all I could get out of him, all the way across the courtyard to the gate.

  At least, I thought, as I stepped out into the commercial hubbub of the forum, and began to make my way home through the busy streets, this time there had been no infernal wailing to speed me on my way.

  Chapter Seven

  So I was going home. And Gwellia would be waiting for me. I could still hardly believe it. After years of searching for the woman who had once been my bride, I had been reunited with her less than a month ago, and that was in Londinium. This was the first time I had left her alone in my little workshop-cum-apartment in Glevum, and I had been much longer than I intended. I found that I was worrying about her a little as I hurried back. Would she be anxious because I was late?

  Ridiculous of course, but my heart gave a little skip; never, since I had been granted my freedom, had anyone but my slave Junio worried about me – except my patron, when he needed me. As I had said to Marcus, Gwellia was no longer legally my wife, but I found myself hurrying home like a new bridegroom as I turned into the little alley where my workshop lies.

  I found myself looking at it with new eyes.

  I rent a building in part of that straggling western suburb which has sprung up outside the city walls over the last hundred years. No fine Roman pavements or towering columns here, only a collection of ramshackle buildings huddled together along haphazard lanes, the gutters often running with filth and slime and the stinking mud from the river margins. Perhaps it is not the most congenial of places. But it’s my home, and I’m attached to it. The rooms are humble but adequate, the rent’s affordable, and – despite the presence of a tannery on one side and a candlemaker’s on the other – the place has never actually caught fire or collapsed, as other buildings in the area have been known to do. And my work had prospered. Some of the wealthiest men in Glevum had come here to order pavements – or at least sent their servants here on their behalf.

  Why did I suddenly find myself needing to defend it to myself? Because it was not the situation I’d dreamed of for my wife. Ah, well! I picked my way down the alley, waved aside a turnip-seller and his donkey, and under the bold eyes of a woman hawking pies stepped over a large pile of dirt and rubbish in an entry, and came to the open shopfront which was mine. There was nobody about. I frowned.

  I had expected my slave boy, Junio, to be attending customers.

  ‘Junio?’ I stepped over the piles of stone and tile which were my stock-in-trade, and went round the partition to the inner room.

  And stopped. I would hardly have recognised the place.

  The inner workroom had been scrubbed and swept. The dusty piles of coloured tesserae which usually lay in heaps around the floor had been scooped up and placed in what looked like brand-new baskets and my tools were now ranged neatly along the wall. The shelves in the alcove had been dusted and arranged, and the meagre contents – oil, candles, cheese and bread – looked even more meagre now. Even the table had been washed and the fire – which we’d had such trouble to ignite – had been damped down, the hearth stones had been swept of ash and something was bubbling in a clean pot on the embers.

  The place w
as sweet and clean, and like a home again, although I shuddered to think how much effort it had cost – and how much precious water must have been fetched to do all this. And there was still no sign of anyone.

  ‘Junio?’ I hardly trusted my voice.

  But he did not answer. Instead it was Gwellia who scrambled down from the makeshift space above, her hair full of cobwebs and her arms full of the reeds and rags which formed my customary bedding.

  ‘Is that you, Jun— Why, Libertus! Master!’ She looked around for somewhere to put down her load and made a sort of modest bob in my direction. It wrenched my heart. I hated this – yet it was a kind of progress in itself. When she first came back to me, she’d had a tendency actually to abase herself in my presence, as her previous owners had demanded. I’d persuaded her out of that, at least, and we’d come to this uncomfortable compromise. It was not a sign of slavery, she argued; many Roman wives greet their husbands in that fashion, and – since it made her comfortable – I’d reluctantly agreed.

  She bobbed again. ‘Master, I was not expecting you so soon.’

  That semi-curtsy still distressed me, when all I wanted was to take her in my arms. But I knew that would just embarrass her, so I said, ‘Where’s Junio?’ Suppressed emotion made me sound quite brusque.

  She misinterpreted it as a rebuke. I saw the look of horror on her face. I’d forgotten how vulnerable she had become. I tried to soothe the hurt. ‘You have been very busy here,’ I said, more gently.

  ‘It was the rats, master. I found another nest of them down here. I thought . . .’ She looked around helplessly. ‘I’m sorry, master. I wanted to make myself useful. Of course, I realise I had no right to touch your possessions or do any of this without your instructions.’

  I reached out a hand and touched her arm. ‘But you have done exactly as I asked you to! I insisted that you were still effectively my wife, and you have attempted to behave like one. If I did not wish my habits to be disturbed, I should have instructed you to keep your place.’