One of the problems of having a living emperor as a deity is the possibility that the god may one day choose to visit his shrine in person. In Glevum the city fathers had solved the difficulty by building a small Imperial shrine within the courtyard complex of the temple of Jupiter.
There is an elegance in this solution which amuses me. Jove is generally worshipped together with Minerva and Juno — the so-called Capitoline Triad — so he is presumably accustomed to sharing temple space, while even Commodus can scarcely take offence at finding himself worshipped in such distinguished company. And, should the Divine Commodus ever deign to visit, an effective revelation of his godhead is ensured. There is apparently a private entrance at the back of the complex from the town house of the High Priest of Jupiter, so that any visiting deity could enter the precinct unseen and emerge dramatically onto the front steps of the great temple at a suitably theatrical moment — thereby dazzling the credulous. The chief priest does the same thing at every festival.
Even the irony of all this, however, did not make me smile today. There was something eerily amiss.
I looked around the courtyard. Gigantic statues of the gods stood in their accustomed places, gazing down from mighty plinths upon the open altars at their feet. The many-times-life-size faces of the immortals still looked thunderously down upon us from the pediment. But there was something missing. And suddenly I realised what it was.
The temple courtyard was empty. There was nobody in sight.
Chapter Three
Usually, of course, the place is thronged with people. But not today. Today there was not a priest, not a temple slave, not a worshipper — not even a money-changer or a seller of sacrificial birds. Only the stone gods and silent colonnades. I am not a superstitious man — I have more respect for the ancient gods of wood and stone than for the carved deities of Rome — but standing under the verandaed entranceway, alone with Marcus in that silent place, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. A hundred basalt eyes seemed to be upon me.
Even Marcus seemed momentarily uncertain, and his slave (who had finished paying the litter-carriers and just now arrived) looked around the courtyard and shivered visibly.
‘Dear Mercury!’ he muttered, and when he thought Marcus wasn’t looking he shifted the towel and bath slippers he was carrying and fished in his tunic for a coin. I heard the splash as he dropped a propitiatory as into one of the great stone water bowls at the door. It must have represented his tip for the entire afternoon.
As if in answer to the gesture a priest suddenly appeared from the temple. Not a sevir, by his robes, but one of the junior Priests of Jupiter, resplendent in a white toga praetexta banded in purple and gold, with a narrow circlet of silver around his head. He moved out of the shadow of the columns and came busily down the steps towards us. ‘I regret. .’ he began, holding up his hands as if to ward us off, but Marcus cut off his explanations.
‘I am Marcus Aurelius Septimus.’
The young man turned an embarrassed shade of puce. At the name, probably. Aurelius has become the commonest surname in the Empire, but Marcus is widely rumoured to be related to the imperial family itself and (given that patrician toga) the young priest hardly knew how to conduct himself.
‘Most honoured Excellence, of course — in normal circumstances. . But I have been instructed, Mightiness, that no one is permitted in the temple court today, for religious reasons.’
Marcus regarded him frostily. ‘The Sevir Meritus is expecting me. Would you be good enough to let him know I’m here?’
‘Ah! Then you know about the. .’ the young priest hesitated, ‘the unpleasant incident?’
‘Indeed! And who are you, and what’s your function here?’
‘I’m the sub-Sacerdos Trinunculus,’ the young man said. ‘The newest neophyte. The senior priests are busy with the rites — there has been a desecration of the shrine, and there will have to be a day of ritual cleansing. I am afraid, Excellence, I shall have to ask you, too. .’ he gestured apologetically towards the great urn and basin by the door, ‘if you would bathe your hands and face? This is such a dreadful omen, Excellence.’
‘Not least for the imperial ambassador,’ Marcus said dryly, but he made the ritual cleansing as requested.
Trinunculus — the very word means ‘beginner’ so whether that was his name or his official rank I could not tell — seemed oblivious of any irony. ‘I will tell the sevir you are here. If you would be good enough to wait. .’ He bowed himself away and, without finishing the sentence, scuttled off across the courtyard in a most unpriestly fashion.
We waited, under the painted roof of the arcade, looking out over the great courtyard. It was eerily quiet, with its dancing shadows and bloodstained altars and the smoke of sacrifice still hanging in the air.
There is a smell about temples which is unmistakable: part perfumed oils, part charring meat, part fragrant herbs, part abattoir. And hanging over the whole place like a pall, stronger than burning feathers and the smell of blood, there is something else: a scent of human sweat, and greed and fear. It is a potent mixture. I do not know that I have ever experienced it more strongly than that afternoon, standing in slanting sunlight in the colonnade and — ironic after an hour in the baths — rinsing my face in the cold water from the urn. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the water seemed unnaturally cold.
We waited for what seemed a long time, but at last Trinunculus came hurrying back. He was more apologetic than ever. ‘The Sevir Meritus regrets, Excellence, but he cannot come to greet you in person for the moment. He is engaged in a sacrifice of purification. However, if you would care to follow me. .?’ He began to lead the way towards the inner shrine.
I hesitated. This was as far into the temple as I had ever been. I had come here, of course, on days of festival as every citizen is expected to do, to attend the major public rituals — but only to the outer courtyard. The place is very different on those occasions, with half the populace cramming the steps and entranceway to see the processions — pipes, priests, pigeons, sheep and bulls — and standing on tiptoe to see the spectacle that followed — prayers, incense, invocations and the final dramatic moment when the High Priest of Jupiter gives the signal, and the knife is plunged into the creature’s throat so that the hot blood pours out on the altar-front. I have roared with the rest as the heart of the beast is cut out and burned with herbs and incense on the sacred hearth and cheered as the remainder of the carcass is dragged away — sometimes to be roasted and ritually eaten by the priests, sometimes even distributed to us.
But all this always took place in the safety of the outer courtyard, with the people watching from the ambulatory: only the great and mighty dared to approach the altars or mount the steps beyond. And there were always crowds of people then. Today there was only silence, and the smell of death, and I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing up at the thought of crossing the inner courtyard between those mighty shrines. Suppose this priest led us right up onto the podium and under the colonnade? That would take us to the real centre of the temple, its most sacred place, the cella of the divinity, which is not usually entered except by the most devout of worshippers. This was a Roman temple, not a Celtic one, and — on all but the rarest of occasions — for ordinary mortals the inner sanctum was a forbidden place. Only the priests and temple slaves could enter there.
Of course, I told myself, this was a rare occasion. And I was accompanying Marcus, who was a dignitary, with the religious honour due to rank. All the same, as the assembled gods scowled stonily down on me, I hesitated. The temple had already been desecrated. By trespassing into the inner shrine I was likely to desecrate it further. Marcus’s slave was obviously of the same opinion, and he hung back with me under the veranda.