The Legatus Mystery by Rosemary Rowe Page B

Marcellus without delay. Otherwise who knows what disasters might befall.’
    The chief priest looked at his young acolyte with disfavour, and the thin, dry voice was drier than ever. ‘The imperial ambassador was to honour this temple. And a flamen of the Imperial cult was coming here to lead the sacrifice. Special ceremonies and processions – I was to assist him – it was all arranged. And there would no doubt have been donations to the shrine. Dear me! It is most unfortunate. The Emperor’s legates can be generous. It would have meant a great deal to the city.’
    ‘And if anything happens to the legate, it will mean a great deal more to the city – most of it unpleasant!’ Marcus put in impatiently. ‘I don’t need to remind you what happened last time . . .’
    The old priest sighed. ‘Indeed! Indeed! Well, I’ve no doubt you’re right. I can scarcely ignore an augury like this.’ He looked up to the pediment once more. ‘As you command, O Mightiest and Best.’ Another sigh. ‘It seems a pity, that is all. Nevertheless, I suppose that we must send to Fabius Marcellus at once. To tell him that he should not come, you think?’
    That was addressed to Marcus, and deliberately. It is up to the priests to interpret omens, but it is technically the responsibility of the state to decide what averting action should be taken. And – in the absence of the Senate or the governor – that meant Marcus, in this instance. It was clear what the pontifex was up to. By publicly appealing to Marcus, he had astutely ensured that my patron, rather than himself, would be the one responsible if the Emperor’s direct orders were countermanded. Marcus looked at me.
    ‘To advise him, rather?’ I suggested. ‘Inform him of what’s happened, and suggest he doesn’t come – but perhaps the final decision should be his?’
    Marcus nodded and the pontiff said, ‘As you suggest, citizen.’ There was an audible stirring of relief.
    ‘I will see to it, revered one,’ Marcus said, all courtesy again now that a formal decision had been reached. ‘And if you would add your messenger to mine . . . If the ambassador decides not to arrive, presumably we should let that Imperial flamen from Londinium know. I am aware that the Emperor has written asking him to come here, but if there are bad omens in the temple, perhaps he would prefer not to attend either.’
    Was it my imagination, or did the eyes of the pontifex flicker with satisfaction? Of course, being a flamen to the Imperial cult was by no means the same thing as being the Flamen of Jupiter. Every emperor had his own flamen these days, and no doubt this visitor had merely been the flamen of one of the earlier Aurelians, retired to the provinces when his reign was done. But I suspected that, despite his words, the old man had not relished the prospect of taking second place to a flamen of any kind, especially in his own temple.
    ‘Very well, I’ll send to him this very afternoon,’ the pontifex replied, with the ghost of a smile. ‘As soon as I’ve made that sacrifice I vowed. Or should I wait until you’ve heard from Fabius Marcellus? It is possible that he will take no notice of your warnings. Dear me. Always a headstrong fellow. I knew him once.’
    ‘You did?’ Marcus was surprised.
    ‘Commanded a garrison over to the west. I was called upon to make some altar offerings – at the burial, you know.’
    We nodded. Even I had heard of this. Of course a pontifex cannot look upon a corpse – as he had just told us himself – but it was not a body they were burying. Jupiter was a favourite with the army and every year there was a major festival in which their old altar was interred with great ceremony in an unmarked place at the edge of the parade-ground – presumably to save it from desecration if the garrison moved on – and a new one was set up close by.
    ‘I am sure even Fabius Marcellus will heed the warnings of the gods,’ Marcus said. ‘Especially if