Rosemary Rowe - The Legatus Mystery

Of course, I told myself, this was a rare occasion. And I was accompanying Marcus, who was a dignitary, with the religious honour due to rank. All the same, as the assembled gods scowled stonily down on me, I hesitated. The temple had already been desecrated. By trespassing into the inner shrine I was likely to desecrate it further. Marcus’s slave was obviously of the same opinion, and he hung back with me under the veranda.

‘Libertus?’ Marcus had stopped and was gazing back towards me. He sounded exasperated.

The possible irritation of the gods seemed suddenly preferable to the certainty of my patron’s wrath. I thrust my damp towel towards the slave and followed Marcus and Trinunculus. Somewhat to my relief, our guide did not lead us into the inner temple, but round the side of the complex towards the Imperial shrine.

Through the little grove of trees which fronted it, we could see it clearly now: elegant marble pillars forming an outer passageway around the tiny shrine. The outer walls were decorated with magnificent wall paintings in vibrant colours, depicting the Emperor in heroic guise. There was a mosaic, too (of intricate design but indifferent workmanship), forming a path in the space created by the pillars. The entrance was a heavy wooden door flanked by life-sized marble statues in niches, and edged by carved posts in richly gilded wood. Lead curse and blessing tablets were nailed to the posts — only a few petitions, compared to other temples I had seen, but even the Imperial gods, it seemed, are worth a try in an emergency. One supplicant, ‘Lucianus the wretched’, had left a whole cluster of petitions, and there was the glint of gold among the coin offerings in the water basin, perhaps offered as additional inducement for the gods’ attention.

The door of the sanctuary was closed, and in front of it a priest in mauve and reddish-purple robes was burning something on an outdoor altar while two — clearly lesser — priests stood by. Clouds of aromatic smoke arose, and there was the chanted rhythm of a prayer. The priest raised his hands and wafted the smoke towards the temple, then towards himself, and finally towards his attendants. Then he scattered something onto the altar from a silver flask, and all three prostrated themselves upon the ground. I could not help noticing, as they revealed their feet, that all three were wearing exquisite shoes of costly soft purple leather. Of course, I thought, all Augustales were wealthy men!

There was a short pause, and then the chief sevir rose, pushed back the part of his robe with which he had covered his head — as required for the ceremony — and came striding towards us. He walked slowly and impressively, and I had to resist a temptation to fling myself to my knees in his presence.

Tall, broad-shouldered, swarthy-skinned, with the bronze diadem of an Imperial priest pressed down upon a riot of dark curly hair — this could only be the sevir Meritus who had been described to us. He was, certainly, a commanding figure. There are tall men in Glevum, but this man was one of the tallest that I have ever seen. He might have been as much as six feet tall — perhaps even a little more — and he was commensurately broad. The hands which he was extending to us in welcome were the size of dinner bowls, and the muscles in the brawny arms were evident even under the heavy folds of the draped robe he wore.

His voice, too, made the columns ring.

‘In the name of the Immortal Commodus Britannicus, Emperor of these islands and of the provinces across the sea, I welcome you to this unhappy temple.’

Marcus’s voice seemed muted in comparison. ‘This is where the ambassador was killed?’

‘Where he was found,’ the sevir said, in a more normal tone. ‘As for killed, I cannot say. There was no weapon, no sign of any struggle, simply the body lying on the floor. I found him, myself, this morning when I went in to read the noontime auguries.’

I saw Marcus stiffen. There is an official auspex , of course, in any major town, to warn of evil omens and auspicious days — but reading auguries is a particular calling. Men are especially trained to it, and decisions on what should be done as a result are usually made in conjunction with a senior magistrate. No doubt this fellow was a skilled hirospex , entitled to read the entrails of sacrificed animals to judge the pleasure of the gods, but even so the idea of a Sevir Augustalis presuming to read other omens at the temple was something clearly not to Marcus’s taste.

‘And what did the omens tell you?’ Marcus said.

Meritus refused to be snubbed. ‘I could not read the signs with that ill portent there, Excellence. I covered the body with a cloth, and then came out at once and locked the door. I called for my assistant priests and we began the purification rites immediately. And I sent for you — it was not clear to me what we should do with the body.’

‘You are sure the man was dead?’

Meritus looked at him pityingly. ‘I am quite certain, Excellence. He was not breathing and he was quite, quite cold.’

‘And you are convinced it was an ambassador?’

The sevir frowned. ‘I believe so, Excellence. He had a sealed warrant at his belt, and an imperial ring on his finger. I did not touch the document, of course. I felt that — with respect, Excellence — that was your affair.’

I could understand his decision — tampering with an imperial seal is in itself a capital offence. ‘An imperial warrant?’ I enquired.

‘I am no expert, citizen, but it looked like one to me.’ He turned to Marcus. ‘I am sure, Excellence, that you would be a better judge of that than I am. The document is still hanging at his belt. Come and examine it for yourself.’

Marcus nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said with a sigh. ‘We had better see this body, I suppose. Libertus, come with me. You too, Meritus. I shall want a witness if I break the seal.’

The sevir selected a key from his belt and offered it to Marcus. Together we skirted the still-smoking altar and approached the door. One of the assistant priests scraped a little warm ash from the fire and spread it reverently on our foreheads as we passed.

Marcus fitted the key to the lock and the door swung open. The shrine was a tiny building, no more than a few feet square. There was a small silver statuette of Augustus in a niche, a life-size bronze statue of Commodus in an alcove at the back, and a small marble altar in the centre. Nothing else.

Of the body of a legatus there was no sign whatever.

There was a stunned silence.

Marcus whirled around. ‘What is the meaning of this disgrace,’ he demanded, but Meritus was staring at the altar and shaking his head in disbelief. Astonishment seemed actually to have diminished him in stature.

‘Excellence,’ he stammered, ‘this is impossible. I left him here and locked the door myself. I spoke to you, Trinunculus, as soon as I came out.’

Trinunculus nodded. ‘That is so, Excellence. I was attending at the door.’ He turned to Marcus. ‘The sevir sent me off to find a temple slave, while he went to find the Priest of Jupiter.’

‘So for a few moments there was no one at the shrine?’ my patron said, looking at me with the triumphant air of a viper-tamer producing an unexpected snake from his sleeve.

Trinunculus looked as though his face would crumple. ‘On the contrary, Excellence, Hirsus and Scribonius were outside all the time. Oh, by all the deities. .’

The sevir quelled him with a look.

‘Hirsus and Scribonius. .?’ Marcus asked.

‘My two assistant Imperial priests,’ Meritus explained, with some return to his previous confident manner. ‘They were already standing by, preparing the noontime sacrifice. It is the custom to offer a small bird, or something similar, but today there was to be a bigger sacrifice, because the auguries were to be read.’