‘So,’ I said, trying to disguise my growing interest, ‘any one of you might have come out into the courtyard and opened up the back door to the shrine? While the others slept?’
‘I suppose so, citizen,’ he answered doubtfully, taking up his taper again and holding it up to look at the offending bolt with lugubrious interest. ‘But no more so than any of the slaves. Or Trinunculus, for that matter: he lodges with the pontifex, and the house backs directly onto the temple enclosure. I suppose it would have been an easy matter for any of them to slip in here unseen.’
Or Aurelia, I thought. Or even – with her help – Optimus. I sighed. There seemed little hope of finding a solution here. Then I remembered something. ‘But the front entrance to the shrine was locked. Who held the key?’
‘Meritus, usually. But last night Hirsus should have had it, since he was to open up the shrine at dawn . . .’ He hesitated.
‘You say he
should
have had it,’ I prompted. ‘That suggests he didn’t.’
Scribonius’s prim face flushed. ‘You are quite right, citizen. He was terrified of even touching it. In the end Meritus put it on top of the storage chest where the robes are kept – and as far as I know it was there all night.’
‘Is that in the room where you were sleeping?’
‘We slept in different chambers, citizen. Meritus was in the inner cubicle, and Hirsus and I had partitioned spaces in the slaves’ quarters. The chest is in the robing room between the two.’
‘So anyone could have reached that, as well?’
‘Anyone who had access to the temple, and knew where it was put.’
‘And who was that?’
‘The pontifex, certainly – Meritus asked him where the key could properly be left – and I believe that Trinunculus was there, as well. Or any of the slaves, again.’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Is there anything else you wish to ask me, citizen? I should not be absent from my duties for too long.’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘In that case, citizen, if you will permit . . .?’ He was on his feet in an instant, going through his elaborate performance at the shrine again.
I stood up myself, put out an automatic hand to help myself – and narrowly missed touching the bloodstained plinth once more. Suddenly, for no reason that I could explain, the full horror of the last two days came over me, and I was overwhelmed by a desire to get out of there – away from disappearing corpses, mysterious bloodstains and supernatural reappearing rings.
I made the sketchiest of obeisances to the Imperial Divinity and hurried out, gulping the honest clean fresh air like a prisoner released from a fetid dungeon.
Scribonius was looking at me in astonishment, and I felt abashed. Out here in the daylight my fears seemed laughable. I tried to regain my dignity.
‘Of course, I may need to call upon your help again,’ I said.
‘It would be a pleasure, citizen,’ he assured me, although his tone said otherwise. He had not missed my moment of superstitious fear, and was clearly losing confidence in me.
‘I won’t forget to speak to the pontifex,’ I said, attempting to reassert what credibility I had. ‘I think you said there was a back way from his house into the temple. Can you take me there?’
Scribonius gave me a look which said more clearly than any words that I was not dressed for visiting the high priest. ‘If you are certain, citizen?’
‘I don’t mean to call on him like this. Only I should like to see the route. It may help me to work out what happened here last night.’
Scribonius still looked doubtful, but he took me there. Behind the central temple on its plinth, a narrow path led to a small gated opening in the perimeter wall. The gate was slightly open even now – only an inch or two, but by peering somewhat inelegantly through the gap I could see that it led into a peristyle garden beyond: a very ornate affair with fountains, arbours, statues, shrubs, a pool and narrow ornamental beds. I craned my head a little further round to get a better view, and drew back instantly.
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.
‘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.