'Depends how often the mansio staff count their blankets.' He became more thoughtful. '
'You overcame Milo?
'I hit him with a lump of stone.'
'Whatever for?'
'He thought I was a spy,' I complained, letting the priest see that his steward's incompetence made me seethe with rage. 'Milo is a credit to his cheap gymnasium, but his brain needs exercise! Being a Palace messenger is a thankless task. I have been set on by the Homeric heroes who sell chickens in Croton market, then assaulted by your dim-witted staff-'
I was enjoying this tirade. I needed to establish my authority. His noble birth meant Gordianus could always count upon the senate to support him; I worked for Vespasian, and if I upset a senator – even a traitor – I could not count on his Caesarship- at all.
'Milo claims you will not see me. With respect, sir, that is pointless, and insulting to the Emperor. Shall I go back to Rome with nothing to tell Vespasian except that his townships in Magna Graecia need a good stamping on while the pontiff at the Temple of Hera is too stubborn to hear his elder brother's fate?'
'What fate?' Curtius Gordianus was glaring at me with contempt. 'Is my brother a hostage? Does Vespasian send me threats?'
'Too late for that, sir. You and your brother picked a quarrel with someone far less delicate.'
Then, having finally achieved his full attention, in one brisk sentence I described the Temple fire.
He was sitting in a long casual chair. His awkward body tended to sag into the nearest place he could prop himself with minimum effort. As I told him Curtius Longinus was dead he jerked involuntarily, swinging his heavy legs to the floor. Then he was crippled by an onslaught of emotion at his brother's appalling end. He stayed, twisted uncomfortably, unable to absorb the tragedy with a stranger watching him.
Adopting good manners, I went out quietly, leaving him alone while I fetched the porphyry urn. For a few moments I stood outside beside my mule, stroking the beast quietly while I watched the sea and soaked in the sun. The bereavement that had struck this house was nothing to do with me, yet announcing it left me feeling drawn. I removed the twine that was fastening the two parts of the great vase, peered inside, then replaced the lid hurriedly. The ashes of a human being look very slight.
As I re-entered, Gordianus struggled to his feet. I cleared a small table in order to set down his brother's funeral urn. A flush of anger coloured him but then he readjusted his face to hide his distress.
'Vespasian's response?'
'Sir?' I was looking round for somewhere to deposit the inkpots and bowls of pistachios which I had shifted to accommodate the urn.
'My brother was called to Rome to explain our position-'
'The Emperor never spoke to him,' I interrupted. I edged the clutter onto a shelf. 'Vespasian ordered your brother an honourable funeral, and he himself,' I mentioned drily, 'paid for this urn. When you can bear it, I'll try to explain-'
The Priest of Hera seized a small bronze handbell which he rang with bitter violence. 'Remove yourself from my house!'
Well, I never expected to be asked to stay to lunch.
Members of his household were tumbling into the room; they stopped at the intensity of the priest's agitation. Before he could order them to frogmarch me out, I made him hear the facts:
'Curtis Gordianus, your brother fell victim to a freedman connected with Atius Pertinax Marcellus. You will be aware how Pertinax died. Apparently blaming his old master's associates, this Barnabas has killed your brother, he may come for you next! Sir, I am here to convey Vespasian's offer of his good will. You will need the nine days of formal mourning; I hope to see you after that.'
Out in the hall I bumped into Milo, just arrived. He had a gloomy bruise surrounding a vivid cut.
I tutted gently, 'That's a nasty knock! Don't worry about the urn; I washed off the blood!'
I bounced out of the door before he could reply.
I reappeared at the Temple as a tired procession stumbled up the beach. The goat was leaning back obstinately all the way. Something about her predicament aroused my fellow feeling; I too spent most of my life bleating and being led towards certain doom.
There was nobody else in authority, so the senior suppliant consulted me.
'Go home,' I commanded, inventing cheerfully. 'Sweep out your house with cypress twigs-'
'What about the goat?'
'This goat,' I pronounced with dignity (thinking of tasty ribs, roasted in the open air with sea salt and wild sage), 'is sacred to the Goddess Hera now. Leave her with me!'
The pilgrims collected their wreaths then trekked away homewards; the acolytes scampered into the Temple to get up to whatever horrible young servitors play at together when they find themselves unsupervised. With a grin, I took charge of the goat.
The animal shuddered woefully on a long piece of rope. She was a pretty little thing. Luckily for her, although I had nothing to eat, as a priest I suddenly felt much too pure-minded to contemplate devouring Hera's sacred goat.
Better own up; I was incapable of slaughtering any creature who looked up at me with such melting, mournful eyes.
XIX
I can never remember if the nine days of formal mourning apply from when a person dies or from when you hear the news. Gordianus reckoned the latter; wretched for my hygiene, but it gave him longer to recuperate.
For nine days I roamed the foreshore, while my goat investigated driftwood and I lectured her on the finer things in life. I survived on goat's milk and wheatcakes off the altar. To sleep I snuggled in between my mule and the goat. I bathed in the sea, but I still smelt of animals and there was nowhere for a shave.
When people visited the Temple I kept out of the way. No one wants to find a shrine they are attending for religious reasons inhabited by a bearded derelict and a runaway goat.
After two days a deputy priest turned up to stand in for Gordianus. By then I had organized the acolytes into handball teams and was running a league on the beach. Once the lads were exhausted, I used to sit them down and read aloud from my Gallic Wars. Fresh air and Vercingetorix kept them out of trouble for most of the day though I preferred not to investigate their habits at night.
After dark when everywhere lay silent, I usually went into the Temple alone and sat before the goddess of Matrimonial Love, thinking about nothing while I munched her wheaten cakes. I requested no favours, and the Lady never destroyed my scepticism by appearing as a vision. She and I had no need to communicate. The goddess Hera must have known that Zeus, her thunderous husband, had failings in common with private informers; too much free time – and too many fancy women suggesting ways of using it.
Sometimes I stood at the sea's lisping edge with my feet in the water, thinking about Helena Justina who knew this too. Remembering that young porter at the Senator's house refusing me admission on a flimsy excuse, insight smote me; she was sensible and far-sighted. Helena Justina had left me!
I strode back into the Temple and stood angrily before the goddess of Matrimonial Love. The Queen of Olympus surveyed me with a face of stone.
On the tenth morning, when I was light-headed with starvation and solitude, one of the acolytes came down the shore to see me. This sinful little minnow was called Demosthenes – a typical altar boy, old beyond his year yet visibly unwashed behind the ears.
'Didius Falco, people are getting bad ideas about you and your goat!'
'Nonsense,' I rallied miserably. 'This goat is respectable!' Demosthenes gazed at me with fathomless eyes in a handsome, untrustworthy face. So did the goat.
The acolyte sniffed. 'Curtis Gordianus is at the Temple, Falco. He says you can use his private baths. Want me to scrape your back?' he suggested offensively. I told him accepting favours from him would only cause me problems with my goat.