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 usuaclass="underline" 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.
FOUR
Once 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.’