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Authors: Rosemary Rowe
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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
‘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
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