David Wishart - Last Rites

‘And it isn’t intelligent.’

‘You want to bet? That bastard’s smart. Burping’s just the next stage in its campaign of psychological intimidation. Get rid of it now or we’ll both regret it.’

‘Oh, Marcus!’

‘Believe me.’

There was a squeaking noise; not the clock, Bathyllus with the main course. I thought it might be the little guy’s hernia appliance, but it was the trolley wheels. Another of these clever-clever Greek gizmos: if Jupiter had wanted us to use trolleys he wouldn’t’ve given us the tray. Ah, well; you couldn’t stop progress. At least we hadn’t got as far as a revolving ceiling that buried you in rose petals or squirted you with perfume yet, although no doubt some over-sophisticated bugger would get round to inventing that sooner or later.

'Dinner is served, sir,’ Bathyllus said. ‘Enjoy your meal.’

I lifted the dish covers: poached bluegill with rosemary and mint, pork liver with bacon slices and leeks in a raisin sauce. Yeah, well; life could be a lot worse. Maybe I was hungry after all.

Mind you, we should’ve been having bulls’ testicles in cinnamon and nutmeg. With a visit to Cybele’s temple in prospect, that might’ve been more appropriate.

The Temple of Cybele’s pretty impressive, if you like the fancy ornate Graeco-Asian style, which I don’t. Mind you, when it comes to temples I’m not exactly turned on by the grand Etrusco-Roman style or the harsh clean-cut simplicity of Doric, either. If you want an architectural grand tour then tough. As far as I’m concerned a temple is a temple is a temple. And incense gets right up my nose.

I grabbed a passing acolyte in the porch and sent him scurrying for the duty priest. That turned out to be a fat Syrian with more rings on his fingers and bells on his toes than you can shake a stick at and hair smeared with unguent that smelled like a goat with serious personal hygiene problems. More ungulant than unguent, in other words. I liked the saffron robes, though; very fetching.

‘Yes, sir?’ he said. ‘How can I help you?’ Polite, for an acolyte.

I gave him my name. ‘I’m looking for a woman called Myrrhine, pal,’ I said.

He didn’t exactly clap hand to forehead and stagger backwards, but the little beady eyes buried in the rolls of flesh blinked.

‘Myrrhine?’ he said.

‘Yeah. You know her?’

He fizzed. ‘I think you’d better talk to the archigallus, sir,’ he said at last.

Uh-huh; this sounded promising. The name had definitely registered. And the chief priest himself, eh? Incidentally, I’ve always thought the title was on the unfortunate side, given these guys’ physical condition; at least if you took the second bit of the word as Latin, not Greek. Under the circumstances ‘First Cock’ has a kind of ironic ring to it.

He took me by the shoulder – it was like being mugged by a bolster – and led me into the temple proper. I’d never been inside the place before, naturally, but I had to admit I was impressed. The goddess at the far end was forty feet high if she was an inch, seated on a throne with two lions flanking her, and the three pairs of jewelled eyes followed us all the way, glinting through a fug of incense that had me coughing. The fat guy gave her a perfunctory bow and ducked through a curtained door just short of the Holy of Holies.

‘If you’ll wait here, sir, I’ll see if the Lord Attis is free to receive you.’

‘Uh, yeah; yeah, you do that,’ I said. Attis; the Living God on Earth. Jupiter, these guys were something else! The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. It wasn’t often I got to talk to a real live god, even if he was self-appointed.

God or not, he kept a pretty seedy antechamber. There were a couple of pegs with robes hanging on them and a pile of dirty dishes on a table in the corner. Despite the incense fumes that drifted in from the temple proper next door the place smelled of old socks. I kicked my heels in silence for a good five minutes, trying not to breathe too deeply.

The priest came padding back.

‘The lord will see you now,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’

I’d expected a study like Camillus’s, but I was shown into a room that could’ve doubled as a whore’s boudoir. Given that the whore had a thing about eastern art. Jupiter knew where they’d collected all this stuff from, but it was as full of overblown furniture and recherché knick-knacks as a Saepta curio shop.

The archigallus was lying on a damasked couch. If I’d thought the first guy was fat this one looked like a beached whale. The priesthood of Cybele obviously liked their home-grown divinities on the large side. Maybe the appointments went by weight.

‘Valerius Corvinus.’ He held out a plump hand. I took it. No bones; it was like holding a bag full of warm porridge. Scented warm porridge. ‘Sit down, please. I’m told you were asking about Myrrhine.’

‘Yeah.’ I pulled up a stool ornamented with gilded cats.

‘May I know why?’ The voice was like warm porridge too.

‘I think she may have killed a few people,’ I said. ‘Including a Vestal.’

‘Ah.’ No surprise; not a whisker. It could’ve been a by-product of omniscience, mind you. ‘Yes. Of course. I have heard about that. Dreadful; simply dreadful.’

‘She’s one of your devotees?’

‘Was,’ he said quickly; too quickly. ‘We haven’t seen Myrrhine in the temple for quite some time.’

‘Uh-huh. But you know who she is?’ That got me a long stare that had nothing of the divine ataraxia in it. I was beginning to feel slightly pissed off. ‘Come on, lord! I mention her name to a guy at the door and he blanches to his toenails and brings me straight here, no questions asked. How many of your flock merit the full five-star treatment of an introduction to the boss?’

He smiled. ‘Very few. Nor does the archigallus know every woman who comes to worship the Mother by name. You’re quite right, Valerius Corvinus; I know exactly who Myrrhine is. However as you’ll see an enquiry about her does demand a certain amount of indulgence on your part. And a certain degree of reticence on mine.’

‘Okay.’ I folded my arms. ‘Consider yourself indulged. So who is she?’

He shifted his bulk on the couch. The woodwork creaked. ‘She is – was – the slave of a gentleman named Gaius Considius Proculus. I can’t remember his address offhand, but he lives, I think, on the Pincian near the Flaminian Gate. Not that that will help you much because she’s no longer there. Of her current whereabouts you know as much as I do. Or as he does.’

‘He freed her?’

‘Not exactly.’ I was still getting that considering look. ‘Myrrhine is a Thracian, from Perinthus on the Propontis. She was brought up as a devotee of Bendis who has, as you’re no doubt aware, close similarities to our own Lady Cybele. Her parents sold her to a slave merchant as a very young child and she was bought by Proculus who was then attached to the governor’s staff in Athens. Since she showed a certain aptitude for music, he had her trained as a flutegirl.’

Full-scale biographies I could do without. ‘Could we get to the point, please, sir?’

‘Indulgence, Corvinus.’ He hadn’t raised his voice. ‘This is all relevant. You asked; let me answer.’

Fair comment. I said nothing.

‘When Proculus returned to Rome he brought the girl with him. At a certain stage – she was, I think, sixteen at the time – she became, with her master’s permission, one of our devotees. Eventually, one of our most fervent devotees. Her fluteplaying skills made her a most welcome addition to our ranks, and she performed regularly in the rites of the Megalensia. The temple – we – became her second family, perhaps her first. This is important.’