His appearance, as he tottered towards us in his pale robes, certainly merited the description. He could not avoid the purple border on his toga, of course, since all Capitoline priests must wear that patrician stripe as a sign of their position, but apart from that he was entirely robed in white. His under-tunic was of purest wool, with only a suggestion of decoration at the hem, and that stitched in the palest gold and silver thread. Under his diadem of office he wore a white embroidered cap, very like the one the flamen must wear out of doors on all occasions. It even had the characteristic little strap beneath the chin, though he had not gone as far as having a copy of the flamen’s famous little metal rod sticking up at the back. His hair — such as could be seen of it — was the merest straggling wisp of dusty white. So was his beard. His face was the colour of chalky ash, and he was generally so thin and frail that it seemed as if — like cinders — he would disintegrate to dust if stirred too enthusiastically with a stick.
His voice, too, was as fragile, dry and brittle as a fragment of burned parchment. He was hard of hearing, and notoriously chose to compensate by speaking in the merest murmur so that everyone else, also, had to strain their ears to hear. Today was no exception.
‘Excellence!’ he breathed, in that rustling ghost of a voice. ‘I am sorry I was not here to greet you. But there were rituals. . you understand.’ He had reached us now, but we all found ourselves bending forward a little to catch his words, Marcus included.
The pontifex chose to misinterpret this. He extended the sacerdotal staff of office in his ringless hand (another ostentatious choice, since flamines cannot of course tolerate the constriction of rings on their fingers, any more than they can permit knots anywhere on their person) and Marcus, for once, was forced to bend forward and kiss it reverently. It was not unheard of — even the mighty often choose to pay homage to the Rod of Jupiter — but I was sure that Marcus had not intended it. But it was an adroit way of establishing religious precedence. The old man was not as foolish as he looked, I thought. Meanwhile I dropped hastily to one knee. It would never do for me to remain standing while my patron bowed.
‘All homage be to Jupiter, Greatest and Best, and to his priests who serve his temples.’ Marcus muttered the formula dutifully, and straightened up again as quickly as protocol allowed. I followed suit, and grinned inwardly to see the forced smile on my patron’s lips. But Marcus was not easily subdued. ‘I was hoping to speak to you, most revered one,’ he went on, speaking to the old priest firmly, but deliberately slowly and loudly, as though in deference to infirmity. I knew my patron; he was reasserting his authority. Sure enough. . ‘As representative of the governor, I have to make a decision. I felt I should at least ask your opinion. About these unfortunate events this morning.’
The pontifex nodded slowly, but it was some moments before he spoke. The deliberation, and his frail appearance, gave him an air of thoughtful dignity. The dice were back in his cup. No wonder he was widely half revered as well as affectionately mocked. The old priest might need a discreet nudge from his acolytes at public festivals when it was his turn to speak, and mutter the rituals so that nobody could hear, but he knew how to impose himself when the occasion demanded it. I found myself wondering how much of his deafness and apparent dithering was a conscious choice.
‘The body?’ He did not avoid the ill-omened word, as Marcus had so carefully done. ‘Alas, unfortunate events indeed. It is as well I did not go into the shrine myself. It is not permitted for a pontifex to set eyes on such a thing — but I heard that one had been found. A dreadful portent.’
‘You heard that now it has disappeared?’
‘What did you say?’ No careful pauses now. The question seemed startled out of him, and the creaking voice was clearly audible.
‘Dis-ap-peared, Mightiness,’ Trinunculus repeated helpfully, stressing each syllable. ‘Gone. Not there.’ He outlined briefly what had happened since we arrived at the temple.
‘But that’s not possible,’ the old priest said.
‘Not humanly possibly,’ Trinunculus supplied.
The pontifex looked startled. ‘Indeed.’ The pale eyes flickered with sudden animation. It might have been anxiety, or amusement. ‘Dear me. A sign from the gods right here in my own temple. We haven’t had a proper sign for years.’ He clasped his hands solemnly and raised his eyes to the symbol of the sun god on the pediment. ‘Great and Immortal Jove, I am honoured,’ he intoned. ‘I vow a thank-offering to you this afternoon.’ He unclasped his hands and refocused his attention on the assembled mortals. ‘Well, this is very unexpected. A sign! Dear me.’
Marcus looked at me and raised an eyebrow, but when he turned back to the priest he was still resolutely smiling. ‘And then there was that sound. .’
‘Sound? And when was this?’
‘That appalling moaning. Only a few minutes ago. And I believe it happened once before, earlier this morning.’
The old man frowned. ‘I think I was aware of something, now you mention it. Dear me. Another sign perhaps. Most odd.’
‘But,’ Marcus said, with increasing irritation, ‘the question is, revered one, what it was a sign of. What was the meaning of it? Trinunculus here thinks these things are warnings.’
The pontifex nodded, the little cap dancing in sympathy. ‘Oh, a warning, certainly. Clearly a warning.’ He regarded us benevolently. ‘They almost always are, you know. Warnings. I remember, when I was a young priest-’
This time Marcus cut him off. ‘A warning, perhaps, to Fabius Marcellus? The ambassador from Rome? Trinunculus suggests that we should warn him not to come. After all, it was a legate’s body that was found.’
The thin voice was no more than a rustle. ‘Are we sure of that?’
‘The sevir Meritus swears that the man was dressed in ambassadorial dress, and this was found beside the altar.’ Marcus passed the ring to Trinunculus, to hand on to the old man. ‘A seal-ring with an imperial eagle’s head. That looks like a legate’s ring to me.’
The old priest did not take it. He looked at it a moment, standing well back as though too close a contact with a ring might contaminate him, and gestured to Trinunculus to put it out of sight. ‘Who was it who found the ring?’ he said at last.
‘The Citizen Libertus.’ Marcus indicated me, and as the pale eyes flicked towards me in surprise I became uncomfortably aware of my disreputable attire. I had come dressed for an informal visit to the baths, not for an interview with the chief priest in his own temple. Marcus was obviously following a similar train of thought. ‘I am his patron,’ he said with dignity. ‘He has assisted me many times with solving mysteries. He was at the baths when I was summoned here, and I asked him to accompany me, hoping he could help. And he has already done so, as you see.’
The pontifex produced another of his silences. I felt myself colour, and wondered again at the force of the personality disguised in that frail frame. Until a moment ago, I had not given a thought to the fact that I was inappropriately dressed. Of course, until Marcus identified my rank, the old priest must have mentally dismissed me as some kind of slave, and I had been effectively invisible.
‘A citizen,’ the old man murmured at last. ‘I see. Well, citizen, what is your opinion? What is your explanation of events?’ The tone was ironic, but he was admitting my existence by addressing me directly.
I felt that something concrete was expected. ‘I do not have an explanation, Mightiness, but I do have a proposal. It has already been suggested that a message should be sent to Fabius Marcellus, warning him against visiting the city. In the circumstances, I think that would be wise — at least until we have cleared up this mystery.’ That sounded unfortunate, in a temple, and I hastened to add, ‘If there is a mystery. If this is a warning from the gods, that is all the more reason to prevent him coming.’