After a moment he climbed down again and came to stand demurely at my side. ‘There they are,’ he murmuring, gesturing. ‘Right down at the front, with all the other councillors, close to the altar where the sacrifice will be. Your neighbour Cantalarius is there as well.’
I stood on tiptoe to see the area that he was pointing at and made out the pair, resplendent in their togas and their coloured cloaks, standing in the area which had the closest view, along with a lot of other local dignitaries. Even the commander of the garrison was there.
I grinned at Junio. ‘We’ll catch them afterwards. We’ll never fight our way down there before the ritual. But we’re going to need them, by the look of it. There’s no sign of Genialis anywhere. Or of my patron either, which is rather strange. If Cantalarius can get here on a mule, you’d think that Marcus would manage on a horse — he is a splendid horseman and he does not lack for mounts.’
‘Unless he is in the cella of Juno with the priests?’ Junio nodded towards the inner sanctum of the temple, where the public could not go. ‘I can hear the flutes, so the ritual must be almost ready to begin — and they would not start without him, would they? He’s the most important guest and wasn’t he bringing the officiating priest?’
I nodded. ‘I believe that was the plan. The man was travelling from Aqua Sulis to attend and was due to lodge with Marcus overnight.’ I looked at Junio. ‘You don’t suppose … Ah, but here’s my patron now! And he wasn’t in the temple. He’s just come from the street!’
The clamour of voices had faded to a breathless murmuring and Marcus Septimus Aurelius was striding down the central aisle in the direction of the altar at the front, flanked by a pair of slaves. They were impressive in their crimson uniforms but he himself was quite magnificent. His patrician toga, with its broad purple stripe, had never looked more dazzling, and round his shoulders he had draped a white cape of finest fur, which swung open at every step he took to reveal the scarlet lining underneath.
The spectators who had crammed into the courtyard for the feast, so tightly that — a moment since — there seemed barely room to breathe, somehow contrived to melt away to either side to let him through.
A bevy of priests came out of the inner room as he approached, all robed and hooded for the sacrifice, and there was a hasty conference at the rostrum steps. The crowd was silent, suddenly — all whispering had ceased and even the flautists and recorders had stopped their tootling.
Then Marcus strode up the steps on to the central dais, accompanied by a temple slave on either side. It hardly needed the lituus-player to herald his address: attentive silence had already fallen before the crooked horn rang out.
Marcus turned directly to the crowd. ‘Citizens of Glevum, Romans, friends. I am the bearer of disappointing news. The high priest of Juno from Rome, whom we had hoped to welcome here today, has not been able to reach us in the snow. As you may have known he was supposed to stay with me last night, but we received a messenger from him only yesterday, to tell us that his carriage had been unable to proceed — and indeed had only with difficulty managed to take refuge in an inn.’
There was a murmur at this. There are strict observances required of a priest, which would not be easy in a common hostelry.
Marcus was still speaking. ‘Even the messenger on horseback had trouble getting through. So our hoped-for celebrant will not be with us for today.’
There was a louder murmur. People were muttering about ill omens getting worse, but Marcus held his hand up and uneasy silence fell.
‘Fortunately there is no problem with the Janus sacrifice,’ he went on. ‘You will know that the duty by tradition falls to the most senior priest available, so we are lucky in having another venerable celebrant, the former High Priest of Diana, and of Luna and Fortuna too — to act as our ‘rex sacerdotum’ and perform the sacrifice. He has agreed to do so, and as soon as he has performed the ritual ablutions and prepared himself, the ceremonial procession will begin. In the meantime, the flautists and singers will perform for us.’
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.’