Rosemary Rowe
The vestal vanishes
ONE
It was the Emperor’s birthday, so — like every citizen in Glevum who valued life and limb — I was at the temple for the public sacrifice. Not that I actually inwardly believed that Commodus was a deity at all, let alone the living reincarnation of Hercules, as he claimed, but it was not wise to say so. Our Imperial ruler might not really be a god, but he is certainly the most powerful man on earth and he has ears and eyes in every part of town. Casting doubt on his presumed divinity was likely to prove fatal in most unpleasant ways.
So I was there, with all the rest of my fellow citizens, dressed in my best toga and cheering right on cue. I had proffered the obligatory little flask of perfumed oil — bought for the purpose at a special booth — and had it accepted by the attendant priest to be poured out on the altar at the proper time. I drew the line at paying a whole denarius to buy a withered branch of palm, though the streets around the temple were crammed with stalls of them.
I had learnt my lesson at last year’s sacrifice. Palms did not grow in this most northerly of provinces, and the ones that were imported in honour of the day were not only expensive, but so dry and fragile they had a tendency to crack if they were waved too hard. Moreover, some of them looked suspiciously like plants I recognized, carefully slashed to resemble the traditional frond — though I could be wrong, of course, I have never seen a proper palm tree in my life. So I’d ignored the traders this time and contented myself with finding a safe spot at the back of the temple court beside the colonnade where any lack of waving was inconspicuous. (We were in the Capitoline temple for the spectacle — the Imperial shrine was in a smaller building in a grove within the grounds, but there was not room for everybody on a day like this.)
However, I was quite prepared to cheer. The birthday ceremony gave us a real excuse for that. After the sacrificial animal was killed, its blood was offered up as an oblation to the gods, but when the immortals had imbibed their fill and the priests had made a ritual meal of the proffered entrails, the rest was generally taken off and cooked and shared out among the congregation as a feast. And judging by the animals lined up for sacrifice this year, there was going to be a generous distribution later on.
Of course there was always a competition on a day like this, with wealthy men attempting to impress the populace and trying to out-do their counterparts by offering the most perfect and expensive specimens. Quite a tradition had grown up locally — not one birthday offering, but a whole string of them: pure white calves and spotless goats and sheep, as well as the more humble pigeons, larks and doves. No doubt the donors hoped that news of their devotion and generosity would (given the fact that spies were everywhere) reach the Imperial ears.
Today, however, there was an even more impressive sight than usual. Someone had provided an enormous bull with gilded horns — a splendid creature, white from head to tail. One of the attendants had just appeared with it, and was leading it by a scarlet halter around its neck, at the head of a procession of civic dignitaries followed by a choir singing loyal hymns of praise and a young minstrel strumming on a lute. They moved towards the altar where the chief Imperial priest, the sevir Augustalis, stood awaiting them: a hooded figure in a reddish-purple robe, with the bronze diadem of his office barely visible beneath the hood. The sevir raised his knife. There was a sudden hush.
The temple was so crowded that it was hard to move, but a man on the step beside me — a citizen-trader whom I slightly knew — caught my eye and nudged me sharply in the ribs.
‘Just look at that, Libertus. A perfect sacrifice. That must have cost somebody an enormous sum!’ he whispered gleefully.
‘Almost as gigantic as the animal itself!’ I murmured in reply. ‘Someone hoping to impress the Emperor no doubt, and hoping for preferment at the Imperial court.’
‘Then I hope his prayers are answered,’ he retorted with a grin. ‘I shall feel he deserves it, if we get a piece of that.’
A stout man in a woollen toga, in the row in front, turned round and frowned warningly at us. ‘Don’t be so disrespectful. Don’t you know who gave the bull? It was Publius Atronius Martinus — that visitor from Rome. So just be grateful and keep your inauspicious comments to yourself. Suppose the priest had heard you, and all this had gone to waste!’ He snapped his head away and went back to watching the ongoing spectacle.
He had a point, of course. Any inappropriate noise or sight which reached the priest — or even a trivial error in the rite, like putting the wrong foot forward — would stop the sacrifice and the whole of the ceremony would have to start again, most likely with a different animal, since this one would be ill-omened by that time. But it seemed that all was well. The celebrant was pouring wine between the horns, and scattering the salsa mola — the sacred bread that only Vestal Virgins make — onto the creature’s head. Obviously the singing of the choir, which was designed to drown out inauspicious noise, had drowned us out as well. That was fortunate. Interrupting the sacred ritual today, and causing the Emperor’s birthday rite to stop, was likely to prove ill-omened in more ways than one.
My trader-friend, though, was undeterred by this. He made an unrepentant little face and mouthed silently at me, ‘Who is Publius Martinus?’
I was so startled that I almost answered him aloud, but I controlled myself and only muttered from the corner of my mouth, ‘You must have heard of him! He’s come to Britannia to collect a wife — the very Vestal Virgin who made the sacred cake. Though of course she’s now retired.’
He pulled his face down in a goggling mask. ‘A Vestal? Then he must be seriously rich.’
‘One of the richest men in Rome, apparently. So you’re wrong in one respect. Publius Martinus might have bought the bull, but not because he’s seeking patronage.’ I was still speaking in an undertone. ‘More likely a celebration that his bride agreed the match, especially since the girl has money of her own.’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘Well, of course she would have. Vestals all come from patrician families.’
Perhaps it had been an unnecessary remark, but I whispered stubbornly, ‘I meant that she wouldn’t have to marry just because she has retired. And it must have been her choice. Vestals are not like other women — they can make contracts and manage their affairs without the consent of any relative.’
He made a little face. ‘That’s true. Yet she can’t have met this Publius, if he comes from Rome. I wonder what made her decide to give up her special status and all the privileges that go with it? Perhaps she simply longed to have a family life — they say some women do.’ He sniggered mockingly.
I thought of my own wife, Gwellia, who would have loved to have a child. It made me answer rather acidly. ‘Is that so very strange? The bride has done her thirty years of service to the flame. She reached the anniversary only recently and now she’s free to do as she thinks fit. This Publius is a widower with three daughters and son — maybe she thought he looked a likely match.’
My neighbour nodded. ‘No doubt you are right. But if he is merely a visitor from Rome, why should he come here to Glevum and donate this sacrifice? There isn’t a Vestal temple anywhere near here.’
‘Her family lives nearby, apparently. I understand that she is on her way, herself.’
He looked impressed, then puzzled. ‘How do you know all this?’ he whispered. His expression cleared. ‘Oh, from your wealthy patron, I suppose. I’d forgotten that His Excellence Marcus Aurelius Septimus told you everything. I suppose as the most important man in the colonia, he’s likely to hear the gossip about everyone who comes. And… here he is in person.’ He nodded towards the group of celebrants.
My patron had joined them on the temple steps, together with the High Priest of Jupiter. They had emerged dramatically from inside the building, to the general amazement of the crowd, though there was really nothing remarkable in this: there was a hidden passage from the priest’s house to the shrine, especially to facilitate appearances like this. However, they were greeted with an approving roar and certainly they made an impressive sight. The priest of Jupiter was all in spotless white, while Marcus was resplendent in a toga with a broad patrician stripe, with a wreath of gilded laurel round his head and a heavy gold torque around his neck. These two were joined a moment later by a stout, bald, red-faced man who was clearly out of breath and had his wreath askew — presumably from unaccustomed scrambling through the passageway. He looked quite unimportant in comparison, but his toga’s purple edge announced him as a patrician of some consequence. Obviously this was Publius Martinus himself.