Milo had a simple approach when anybody told him not to do something; he did it.
'What have you brought him?' He lunged closer, intending to look.
'His brother,' I said.
Then I crashed down the funeral urn on Milo's head.
XVII
About twelve miles south of Croton a headland called Cape Colonna rounds off a long stretch of desolate coastline at the north end of the Gulf of Scylacium. Right on the shore, in a typical Greek location, stands a huge Temple of Hera with an uplifting view straight over the aching dazzle of the Ionian Sea. It is a grand sanctuary in classic style – or to a man in trouble (say Curtius Gordianus, hotfoot from a narrow brush with the Praetorians), a good safe spot, a long way off from Rome.
Gordianus held the title of Chief Priest here. Great temples often have local patrons who sweep the poll at elections for their priesthoods. Until I terrified Milo's shrimp at the mansio, I had not expected to learn that the hereditary Chief Priest had lodged himself in active residence. For a senator, trimming up altars in person is hardly the point.
Even in glaring sunlight the cold clear air raised goose-bumps on my arms, while the fierce ocean atmosphere stretched the skin across my cheekbones and a strong breeze tore my hair back from the scalp. The Temple stood glazed with light from sea and sky. Entering the hot stonework of the Doric colonnade, its overpowering quiet nearly flattened me.
In front of the portico, at an altar in the open air, a veiled priest was conducting a private sacrifice. The family whose birthday or good fortune he was celebrating clustered round in their best clothes, pink-cheeked from the strong sun and the wind off the sea. Temple servants held fine boxes of incense and glittering censers to burn it in; sparky boy assistants who had been chosen for their handsome looks wielded bowls and axes for the sacrifice while they flirted thin moustaches at the family's young male slaves. There was a pleasant scent of apple wood to attract the goddess's attention, plus a nasty whiff of goat hair which the priest had just ritually singed in the altar fire.
They had a white she-goat standing by, with garlanded horns and a bothered expression; I winked at her as I jumped down from the colonnade. The goat met my eye; she gave vent to a frantic bleat, then bit her adolescent handler in his sensitive young groin and bolted down the shore.
Milo's shrimp launched himself after the nanny. The priest's assistants tumbled cheerfully after him. The heartbroken pilgrims whose great occasion lay in ruins propped their expensive laurel wreaths against the altar where they would not be stepped on, then streamed away along the beach as well. The goat had already spurted a stadium's length. I was wearing my religious robes; it would have been undignified to cheer.
It was going to be some time before the cavalcade returned. The Chief Priest exclaimed in annoyance, then walked to the Temple steps. I followed, though his attitude was discouraging; a poor start for my new diplomatic role.
Aulus Curtius Gordianus was in his late forties, slightly taller than me, with an untidy, ill-tended build. Like an elephant, he had large webby ears, small reddish eyes, and bald wrinkled skin with an unhealthy greyish tinge. We both sat on the edge of the platform hugging our robed knees.
The pontiff sighed irritably, shading his eyes as he squinted after the circus that had by now diminished into skirmishing dots a quarter of a mile away.
'Oh, this is ridiculous!' he fumed.
I glanced at him briefly, as if we were two strangers brought together by an amusing accident. 'The sacrifice must come willingly to the altar!' I reminisced helpfully. (I had been through a seriously religious phase when I was twelve.)
'Quite!' He was acting the cheerful social manner of a temple professional, but the tartness of an off-duty senator soon showed through. 'You have the air,' he remarked, 'of a messenger who expects his arrival to have been foretold to me in a dream!'
'I imagine you heard about me from the busybody on a donkey I just passed riding back to Croton. I hope you thanked him with a denarius. I hope when he gets back to Croton he finds it's a forged one!'
'Are you worth a denarius?'
'No,' I admitted. 'But the eminent personage who sent me rates quite a few.'
I waited until Gordianus swivelled to look at me properly. 'Who's that? Who are you? A priest?'
He was very abrupt. Some senators are. Some are shy; some were born rude; some are so weary of dealing with the ditherers in politics they sound intolerant automatically. 'Let's say I'm serving my turn at the altar for the state.'
'You're no priest!'
'Every man is chief priest in his own household,' I intoned piously. 'What about you? Self-exile at your rank is not allowed!' I could feel the sun's heat burning into me from the great stones behind as I continued to taunt him. 'Chief Priest here is a fine, honourable sinecure – but no one expects a senator with a million in his bankbox to carry out the daily grind of skinning goats in the raw sea air! Not even if serving the Lady of Olympus was bequeathed to you along with your family olive groves – or did you and your noble brother buy these priesthoods outright? Tell me; what's the premium now for a corking post like this?'
'Too much,' he interrupted, visibly restraining himself. 'What do you have to say?'
'Senator, with a civil war just ended, your place is in Rome!'
'Who sent you here?' he insisted coldly.
'Vespasian Augustus.'
'Was that his message?'
'No; that's my opinion, sir.'
'Then keep your opinions to yourself"' He moved gathering his robes. 'Unless divine intervention trips up that goat, I see nothing to stop her fleeing north round the whole Tarentine Gulf; we can discuss your business now.'
'Is it proper to interrupt a sacred occasion, sir?' I demanded sarcastically.
'The goat has done that,' he capitulated with an air of weariness. 'Assisted by you! These unfortunate people will need to start again tomorrow with another animal-'
'Oh, it's worse than that, senator.' In most temples a death in his family is held to pollute the priest; I told him quietly, 'Curtius Gordianus, they will need another priest.'
Too subtle: I could tell from his expression that he completely missed the point.
XVIII
The Chief Priest at Colonna had a house adjoining the Temple. It was a simple affair – in a spacious, sun-lit, well-appointed, seaside way. Outside, the stonework looked bleached and the balustrades weathered. The windows were small and protective; the doors heavily porched. Inside they had gilding on the candelabra, light furniture they could move outdoors on favourable days, and storm lanterns for blustery nights.
When the door slammed several slaves popped their beads out looking flummoxed, as if Gordianus had come home too early for lunch. The bright atmosphere did not reflect the style of the so-called steward Milo, so I guessed these busy females really ran the house. They had the whole place aired, as fresh as lavender. I heard brooms swishing on wet floors and noticed the scent of frying liver – perhaps titbits the pontiff had allocated himself in the course of a previous sacrifice. (Any priest who knows his business captures the choicest cuts: the best reason I know for doing your civic duty as a priest.)
Gordianus led me swiftly into a sideroom. Cushions lay everywhere, with little vases of wild flowers among the silver bowls and flagons on the sideboard displays. The wages of treason: an attractive country life.
'Sir, I'm Didius Falco.' No flicker of recognition showed. I presented my passport; he glanced at it. 'I've left your steward in Croton, tied to a bed.'
Gordianus threw of his robes. Still in charge so far, he looked pained. 'Will somebody find him?'