I turned towards him, intending to say something reassuring, but he drew back with such a sharp gasp of alarm that I thought better of it, and simply allowed him to guide me to the shrine.
Meritus was there, with Scribonius, and a whole team of temple slaves with lighted brands. They were ranged around the outer altar once again, and from the mingled smell of burning feathers, blood and fur, it was clear that they were offering continuous sacrifice.
Meritus looked up at our approach — or rather, looked towards us. In this intermittent light he looked bigger and more powerful than ever, as if one of the stone statues had climbed down from its plinth. He did not hurry, but completed the sprinkling of oils that he was engaged in, so that the altar flame leapt up and the sharp smell of frankincense mingled with the other odours on the air. Only then did he pull back his hood and come slowly towards us, moving with that dignified calm which gave him such solemnity.
‘You have come back, citizen,’ he said. ‘I had feared, with the crowds. .’ He smiled, but even in the torchlight I could see the tension in his face. ‘I am glad to see you safe. You have heard of the latest dreadful discovery to afflict us here?’
I nodded. ‘I was in the pontifex’s house. Hirsus and my slave brought word. A bloodstained body, I believe.’
Scribonius had finished muttering at the shrine, and joined us in time to hear my words. ‘Blood-soaked would be a truer description!’ he said, with feeling. ‘I have slit a sheep’s neck for a sacrifice and seen less blood than that.’
‘Or a man flayed.’ Meritus nodded sombrely. ‘I’m afraid that’s true.’
‘It’s fresh blood, I understand?’ I said. ‘Marcus believes that this may be the legate’s messenger. If so this could be very serious for us all. And if he is still bleeding, the man may not be dead.’
‘Of course!’ the sevir said. He looked surprised. ‘Why did that not occur to me? I’m sorry, citizen, I ordered that the shrine be sealed. I suppose, after the last time, I assumed the worst.’ Another strained smile. ‘I shall have to send Hirsus for the key. I wanted to contain the evil, as it were, keep it away. . And, if I am honest, to make sure that the body could not disappear again — by mortal means, at least.’
It was my turn to look astonished. In the light of everything that had happened, why had that possibility not occurred to me? I looked at him weakly. ‘I think we’d better have Hirsus fetch that key.’
Meritus nodded. ‘Hirsus, see to it.’
For a moment I really thought the red-headed priest was going to protest, so unwilling did he look, but in the end he bowed his head and walked reluctantly away, accompanied by one of the servants with a torch.
The sevir turned to me. ‘I did not know whether to open up the shrine again and get the little statue out or not. It would be wanted for the ritual parade, but in the circumstances. .’ He sighed. ‘I hoped for instructions from the pontifex. You know that he ordered a procession here?’
‘I did. He wanted me to be a flagellant.’ For a moment, I had a foolish hope. Perhaps, now, the procession would be cancelled and I’d be spared. But as soon as I had formed the thought, I knew that it was doomed. With another body at the shrine, the pontifex would think my penance more desirable, not less. And as for the crowds, when they once heard of it. .! I listened to the rumbling murmurs in the street and shuddered. Was it my imagination, or were they louder now?
The sevir gave a thin smile. ‘Well, we shall see. Let’s hope that your famous reasoning is right, and that this unfortunate man is still alive. Though, I confess, I see no hope of it. Here is Hirsus coming now. I see he has the key.’
The sub-sevir was hurrying towards us, carrying the key on a metal tray. Even then he was handling it gingerly, holding it with the tips of his fingers and away from his body, as if it had been in the fire and was too hot to hold. He was clearly anxious to be rid of it, but Meritus did not take it from him. Instead he signalled for a lighted torch, then, holding the flame above his own towering head, led the way around the altar to the shrine.
We followed him, like a small procession in ourselves: Hirsus — still carrying the key — Scribonius, the other two torch-bearers and myself. The sevir made directly for the door, and the rest of us would have followed him, but Scribonius paused at the water bowl.
‘Forgive me, sevir,’ he said, in his pedantic voice, ‘but we must not neglect the rituals. Particularly now!’
A look of impatience crossed Meritus’s face, but he returned, and handed the torch back to a waiting slave. Hirsus, meanwhile, had plunged his hands into the water as if he could not wait to cleanse himself, but as he brought them out again he gave a wail.
‘Merciful Apollo! What have I done to deserve all this? Look! Look! Oh, Mercury!’ He had fallen to his knees and was sobbing wretchedly, his hands outstretched and real tears coursing down his face.
The rest of us looked at each other uneasily, and then Meritus gave a cry. ‘By Great Jupiter! He’s right! Look at the water there!’ He seized the torch again, and in its light we saw what he had seen. The liquid in the bowl looked merely dark and shadowed, but Hirsus had plunged his hands in it and cupped them to bring water to his face. Streaming between his fingers in the torchlight was a little slippery string of something darkish and congealed, and round it the water was faintly tinged with red.
There was blood in the ritual cleansing bowl again.
Hirsus had turned away, retching, and I thought that he was about to repeat my morning’s desecration of the grove. Meritus ignored him. He motioned for Scribonius to pick up the key which Hirsus had set down beside the water urn, and strode up to the door, still brandishing the torch.
‘Open it,’ he commanded, and we watched while Scribonius fumbled with the complicated lock. At last we heard the levers tumble, and Scribonius turned to look at us. His face in the torchlight was grim and set. ‘Sevir,’ he said desperately, ‘the rituals! We none of us are cleansed.’
‘Stand aside!’ Meritus’s voice was thunder. ‘Stand aside, I tell you. What have you to hide?’
Scribonius looked despairing, but looking at Meritus’s face he saw that it was hopeless to resist. He said helplessly, ‘On your authority, then. So be it, Sevir Meritus. But if there is catastrophe, don’t say I did not warn you. We defy the rituals at our peril.’
He looked back towards the water basin, as if he intended to wash his hands as a sign that he ritually cleansed himself from responsibility, in the way that priests and magistrates sometimes do. But — one could almost see the process in his face — the memory of what was in the bowl dissuaded him. In the end he simply fell back, and allowed Meritus and me to pass.
I admit that my heart was pounding and my throat was dry as the sevir pushed back first one door and then the other. In the interior, the embers of the altar-fire still glowed faintly, but the rest of the shrine was by now completely dark. He raised the torch, and I was almost reassured to see the faint glimmer of something pale and motionless, lying there huddled on the floor. Something covered in a cloth, a lifeless bundle at the altar’s foot. Not a disappearing corpse, this time, at least. I felt a surge of something like relief.
‘Let us have some more light, here!’ Meritus commanded. Despite his fierce attempt at self-control, this ordeal was having its effect on him. His face was a mask of tension and alarm.
But he still held authority, and — although there was a dreadful chill about the place — the two temple slaves came in at once, holding their torches so that we could see. One of the boys, I noticed, was quivering so much that he could hardly hold the flame steady.