The Legatus Mystery Read Online Free PDF

if in answer to the gesture a priest suddenly appeared from the temple. Not a sevir, by his robes, but one of the junior Priests of Jupiter, resplendent in a white
toga praetexta
banded in purple and gold, with a narrow circlet of silver around his head. He moved out of the shadow of the columns and came busily down the steps towards us. ‘I regret . . .’ he began, holding up his hands as if to ward us off, but Marcus cut off his explanations.
    ‘I am Marcus Aurelius Septimus.’
    The young man turned an embarrassed shade of puce. At the name, probably. Aurelius has become the commonest surname in the Empire, but Marcus is widely rumoured to be related to the imperial family itself and (given that patrician toga) the young priest hardly knew how to conduct himself.
    ‘Most honoured Excellence, of course – in normal circumstances . . . But I have been instructed, Mightiness, that no one is permitted in the temple court today, for religious reasons.’
    Marcus regarded him frostily. ‘The Sevir Meritus is expecting me. Would you be good enough to let him know I’m here?’
    ‘Ah! Then you know about the . . .’ the young priest hesitated, ‘the unpleasant incident?’
    ‘Indeed! And who are you, and what’s your function here?’
    ‘I’m the sub-Sacerdos Trinunculus,’ the young man said. ‘The newest neophyte. The senior priests are busy with the rites – there has been a desecration of the shrine, and there will have to be a day of ritual cleansing. I am afraid, Excellence, I shall have to ask you, too . . .’ he gestured apologetically towards the great urn and basin by the door, ‘if you would bathe your hands and face? This is such a dreadful omen, Excellence.’
    ‘Not least for the imperial ambassador,’ Marcus said dryly, but he made the ritual cleansing as requested.
    Trinunculus – the very word means ‘beginner’ so whether that was his name or his official rank I could not tell – seemed oblivious of any irony. ‘I will tell the sevir you are here. If you would be good enough to wait . . .’ He bowed himself away and, without finishing the sentence, scuttled off across the courtyard in a most unpriestly fashion.
    We waited, under the painted roof of the arcade, looking out over the great courtyard. It was eerily quiet, with its dancing shadows and bloodstained altars and the smoke of sacrifice still hanging in the air.
    There is a smell about temples which is unmistakable: part perfumed oils, part charring meat, part fragrant herbs, part abattoir. And hanging over the whole place like a pall, stronger than burning feathers and the smell of blood, there is something else: a scent of human sweat, and greed and fear. It is a potent mixture. I do not know that I have ever experienced it more strongly than that afternoon, standing in slanting sunlight in the colonnade and – ironic after an hour in the baths – rinsing my face in the cold water from the urn. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the water seemed unnaturally cold.
    We waited for what seemed a long time, but at last Trinunculus came hurrying back. He was more apologetic than ever. ‘The Sevir Meritus regrets, Excellence, but he cannot come to greet you in person for the moment. He is engaged in a sacrifice of purification. However, if you would care to follow me . . .?’ He began to lead the way towards the inner shrine.
    I hesitated. This was as far into the temple as I had ever been. I had come here, of course, on days of festival as every citizen is expected to do, to attend the major public rituals – but only to the outer courtyard. The place is very different on those occasions, with half the populace cramming the steps and entranceway to see the processions – pipes, priests, pigeons, sheep and bulls – and standing on tiptoe to see the spectacle that followed – prayers, incense, invocations and the final dramatic moment when the High Priest of Jupiter gives the signal, and the knife is plunged into the creature’s