Rosemary Rowe - The Legatus Mystery

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.’