Dark Omens (6 page)

There was sporadic clapping in some sections of the crowd but most people were looking at each other in dismay. The ‘venerable’ priest of whom my patron spoke was very old and frail and had ceased to officiate at public gatherings. This was officially because of failing health, but there had been an incident a year or two before when he almost forgot a portion of the ritual – which would of course have meant that the sacrifice was void – so if he had not been prompted (just in time) by a judicious cough from a watchful acolyte, the whole ceremony would have had to start again.

Today, however, he seemed in better form. When, a short time later – after the musicians had performed a song – he emerged from the inner cellum, duly washed and anointed with the sacred oil, he looked almost sprightly. He had buckled on a brazen belt over his long under-tunic, his fresh toga was of sparkling white, and when the pipes and flutes struck up again and he joined the procession towards the altar steps, he almost seemed to march along in time. Behind him came a pair of temple servants with the ram which, by contrast – perhaps perturbed by the golden collar and the wreath of leaves around its head – seemed most reluctant and was having to be tugged along by the gilded halter-rope. Last of all came the assistant priests, the
victimarius
who would wield the sacred knife, and the augurers to read the entrails afterwards. As they approached the altar steps Cantalarius stepped up to join them, as was now his due.

One of the temple officials swaggered to the dais and gave the exhortation, ‘Still your tongues,’ while the old priest pulled up his toga-folds to form a hood and stepped forward for the
adoratio
, reverently touching the altar with one hand. The opening prayer is an elaborate recital, beginning with Janus and working through the whole pantheon of gods, but he managed perfectly – although I noted that an acolyte was standing by, with the proper formula written clearly on a scroll.

Then it was time for the sacrifice itself. Sacred breadcrumbs, mixed with perfumed herbs, were duly sprinkled on the ram, and the sacerdos lifted up a cup of wine for all to see, took a symbolic sip himself and scattered the remainder on the animal. This is of course the prelude to the central act: the waiting victimarius had already raised his knife and the old priest’s attendant was stepping forward with the sacred golden vessel to collect the blood. But as the pipes and flutes began again, as loudly as possible to drown out any unpropitious sound, the sheep – presumably startled by the unexpected noise – panicked and decided to make a run for it.

It was a young, strong animal and if it had indeed been dosed with poppy-juice – as rumour says that sacrificial creatures are – then it was not enough. The sudden violent movement caught the old priest unprepared: he let go of the rope. The ram eluded the victimarius, leapt off the dais like a mountain goat and went charging off into the crowd – causing consternation as it went. Worse, the old man made a futile grab for it, lost his balance and went tumbling down the steps.

There could hardly have been a more dreadful augury. There were shouts and cries of anger, some against my patron (‘this is what comes of using a substitute as priest!’) and for a few minutes there was pandemonium. But the ram was captured finally and dragged outside the court (there would be no question of using that one now) and I saw Marcus and the priest in solemn conference, together with the commander of the garrison. Then the soldier left the sanctum with a temple slave while the old priest brushed his toga down and climbed the steps to speak to us. His voice was trembling.

‘It is clear the gods have chosen to reject the sacrifice. The augurers assure me that it is for the best, as the omens would be inauspicious if we’d killed that beast. It is not the result of any change of priest. No doubt the fates are angry with the donor of the ram. So there’s no cause for alarm. Keep your places. We will offer up a pig – as is required to propitiate the gods and cleanse the altar – and then we will attempt the sacrifice again. We are fortunate to have another ram available, personally donated for the festival by the commander of the garrison.’

There were some sullen mutterings and the pipes began again. I felt sorry for Cantalarius, who had been publicly humiliated now and was obliged to leave the temple in disgrace. Poor fellow, matters had gone from bad to worse for him and as he left the rostrum things took a nasty turn. Members of the crowd began to jostle him, and soon he was being buffeted and kicked and cursed and spat upon – though the incident had really been no fault of his. In the end a temple slave was sent to clear a way for him and he was able to make his way outside, followed by a chorus of angry jeers and threats.

The hubbub subdued into a muttering, supplanted by a cheer as the commander of the garrison returned. However, he was not followed by the attendant with the pig and ram – but by a dishevelled rider from the imperial post and a legionary soldier with his sword unsheathed. This was such an unusual event, inside the temple precinct, that there was a sudden hush. I felt a little tingle down my spine.

The men strode to the front and spoke to Marcus and the priests, but it was my patron who climbed on to the rostrum steps. It was clear that he was shaken. However, he was a skilful orator. His voice rang out with dreadful clarity. ‘Citizens, I have historic tidings to impart. We have just received a verbal message that the Emperor is dead. The details are not absolutely clear, and we are awaiting written confirmation which is following. When we have fuller information it will be announced.’

There was a general tumult – though nobody knew whether it was safe to cheer. Commodus had long been hated by the populace: not only for his overweening pride – renaming Rome and all the months in honour of himself – but for his lascivious lifestyle and capricious cruelty. But no one ever dared to say so openly; the man was also famous for his spies, and Commodus was said to have amused himself by inventing more and more ingenious techniques for the execution of his so-called ‘enemies’.

However, there are generally certain protocols which have to be observed following the death of any Emperor. No doubt there were still paid ears and eyes amongst us even now, so all the crowd could safely do was indistinctly roar.

Marcus raised his hand for silence, and went on again. ‘In the meantime, there is to be no public mourning of his death, no wearing of dark togas or rubbing ashes in your hair, and private feasting may take place as usual: the senate has issued a
damnatio memoriae
, a statement that the dead man does not deserve your tears. The name of the successor had not been formally ratified by the Senate when the original messenger left Rome, but it is likely that the Empire will be safely in the hands of Pertinax, the one-time Governor of Britannia.’

This time there was no mistaking the crowd’s shouts of joy.

Marcus let them celebrate a bit before he spoke again. ‘In the circumstances, this festival will have to be adjourned. The priests will perform the cleansing sacrifice but the rest of the ceremony is herewith postponed …’

He was interrupted by a general gasp and cries of ‘Dreadful omens!’ ‘We shall offend the gods!’

He raised his hand again. ‘Citizens of Glevum. Do not fear! The auguries are good. It was as if this news was blessed by Jupiter – it travelled so swiftly through the empire. It is the height of winter, but every pass was open, every wind was fair and every rider reached his goal with speed. There will be a special offering here this afternoon, praying fortune on the succession of our new Emperor – amalgamated with the ritual that should have taken place just now. However, this will necessitate a change of celebrant. The sacrifices – and there will be several, at that time – will obviously include an offering to Jove and all the major deities, and must therefore be conducted by the Capitoline priests, aided by the Servir of the Imperial cult who will naturally perform the Imperial offering. I shall be providing the animals myself.’

He stepped down to a smattering of applause and the garrison commander took his place. ‘There will be a formal announcement of all this from the steps of the basilica after the sounding of the midday trumpet and any further details will be announced. In the meantime, you should all go to your homes.’

He turned away. The crowd had been dismissed.

I turned to Junio, having to raise my voice above the hoots and cheers. ‘You realize what this means? No wonder that Marcus was looking shocked just now. Pertinax is his benefactor and his special friend. That means that my patron is likely to become not just the most powerful magistrate for miles, but one of the half-dozen most influential people in the world!’

But I was talking to myself. My son was being borne away, swept along in the crush of people rushing to the gate.

O
nce outside the temple I could not see my son nor, for that matter, the two councillors I had come to find: indeed it would have been hard to find anyone in the milling crowd. The whole forum was in pandemonium. People were already jostling for position near the basilica, and if it had not been for the presence of armed members of the watch the shoving and shouting might have turned into a riot. As I pushed my way through to the fountain at the end (which – in default of other arrangements – was our usual meeting place) I was elbowed and glared at by several of my fellow citizens, though others turned eagerly to babble of the news. It was obvious that rumours were flying everywhere. A complete stranger grabbed me by the arm to tell me that the Emperor had been wounded in the New Year Games.

‘You know he always liked to boast of taking part himself, especially in gladiatorial contests,’ my informant said, raising his voice to be heard above the hubbub. ‘Well he did it once too often; his opponent this time had a proper sword – instead of the wooden one he was supposed to use!’

I shook my head. ‘That isn’t possible. The New Year Games. That’s just eight days ago. No one could possibly have got the news to us by now.’

I spoke so loudly that the man in front turned round.

‘I don’t know so much. I heard the story from a member of the watch, just now. As soon as Commodus was dead, dozens of messengers were sent out with the news, and every army post along the way sent out relays of its own, until there were hundreds of the fastest horsemen, travelling day and night, changing mounts at every opportunity and requisitioning the fastest ships and ferry boats. My informant said exactly what his Excellence Marcus Septimus told us at the shrine: it was as if the gods had given the message wings. The slowest part was getting word from Dubris to here, apparently. And he confirmed that the Emperor was stabbed, though he said that there was poison on the blade …’

A ragged street-hawker had been sidling up nearby, attempting to peddle his unappealing wares – a brace of dead pigeons dangling from a string. It was a measure of the strange nature of the day that he dared to interrupt a group of citizens. ‘Poisoned, was he? And on the Kalends? Is that the truth of it? I had it from the sentry at the gate that Commodus was strangled at the plunge-pool in his bath the night before, by a slave he used to practise wrestling with.’

All eyes turned to stare at him, but no one took offence. After a moment someone even laughed. ‘Perhaps all three stories have an element of truth – the Emperor was said to be in league with the powers of the underworld so it wouldn’t be surprising if he proved difficult to kill. But even if he somehow managed to survive for hours, it seems that Justice got him in the end.’

‘You citizens had better be careful what you say!’ Another newcomer tugged at my toga urgently. ‘Someone just told me that he isn’t dead at all, and this is just a rumour that he put about himself, to see what people do – and woe betide you if you show disrespect.’

I left them arguing and went to find my son. I found him standing by the fountain with the slaves. He made a rueful face at me as I approached. ‘I am sorry, Father, we’ve lost your witnesses. They had litters waiting for them on the street. I saw them getting in and moving off, but we couldn’t get across the crowd in time to speak to them.’

I patted his shoulder. ‘Never mind. I doubt that they would have agreed to come with us just now in any case – I imagine all the members of the curia have gone somewhere private to discuss the news. I’ll simply have to find out what their town addresses are, so I can call there later on. If I can find Marcus, he might be able to tell me where to look for them: he’s on dining terms with everyone official in the area. Though I imagine he’ll have left by now as well.’

Junio made a little gesture with his hand. ‘On the contrary. Your patron is just coming from the temple now. I can see him on the steps – though he’s got that priest with him and the commander of the garrison. Perhaps the moment is not convenient.’

I turned and saw what he had seen, but I shook my head. ‘I think I’ll take my chance. As his protégé I owe him my congratulations anyway, since Fate has made him a favourite of the potential Emperor – and he may be feeling especially cheerful and cooperative today. Wait here a moment, while I try to catch his eye.’

It wasn’t easy forcing my way back to the temple steps, and I might have missed my patron even then, but fortunately I was not the only one to seek an audience. Cantalarius had already interposed himself between Marcus’s little party and the crowd below. There was clearly some kind of argument going on and when I got there I found my farmer-neighbour confronting the old priest, much to the amusement of the spectators.

‘Call yourself an experienced celebrant!’ He was so angry he was shaking both his fists. ‘You let that creature go! Don’t try to fob me off with talk of auguries. This wasn’t a judgement from the gods at all! It would not have happened if you’d simply held the rope. Well, I’m not satisfied. I paid good money to make that sacrifice, to lift a curse that has been placed on me, as you are well aware. Don’t try to turn away. The least that you could do is come out to the farm and make an offering at the household shrine to put things right!’