household,' I intoned piously. 'What about you? Self-exile at your rank is not allowed!' I could feel the sun's heat burning into me from the great stones behind as I continued to taunt him. 'Chief Priest here is a fine, honourable sinecure - but no one expects a senator with a million in his bankbox to carry out the daily grind of skinning goats in the raw sea air! Not even if serving the Lady of Olympus was bequeathed to you along with your family olive groves - or did you and your noble brother buy these priesthoods outright? Tell me; what's the premium now for a corking post like this?'
'Too much,' he interrupted, visibly restraining himself. 'What do you have to say?'
'Senator, with a civil war just ended, your place is in Rome!'
'Who sent you here?' he insisted coldly.
'Vespasian Augustus.'
'Was that his message?'
'No; that's my opinion, sir.'
'Then keep your opinions to yourself"' He moved gathering his robes. 'Unless divine intervention trips up that goat, I see nothing to stop her fleeing north round the whole Tarentine Gulf; we can discuss your business now.'
'Is it proper to interrupt a sacred occasion, sir?' I demanded sarcastically.
'The goat has done that,' he capitulated with an air of weariness. 'Assisted by you! These unfortunate people will need to start again tomorrow with another animal-'
'Oh, it's worse than that, senator.' In most temples a death in his family is held to pollute the priest; I told him quietly, 'Curtius Gordianus, they will need another priest.'
Too subtle: I could tell from his expression that he completely missed the point.
XVIII
The Chief Priest at Colonna had a house adjoining the Temple. It was a simple affair - in a spacious, sun-lit, well-appointed, seaside way. Outside, the stonework looked bleached and the balustrades weathered. The windows were small and protective; the doors heavily porched. Inside they had gilding on the candelabra, light furniture they could move outdoors on favourable days, and storm lanterns for blustery nights.
When the door slammed several slaves popped their beads out looking flummoxed, as if Gordianus had come home too early for lunch. The bright atmosphere did not reflect the style of the so-called steward Milo, so I guessed these busy females really ran the house. They had the whole place aired, as fresh as lavender. I heard brooms swishing on wet floors and noticed the scent of frying liver - perhaps titbits the pontiff had allocated himself in the course of a previous sacrifice. (Any priest who knows his business captures the choicest cuts: the best reason I know for doing your civic duty as a priest.)
Gordianus led me swiftly into a sideroom. Cushions lay everywhere, with little vases of wild flowers among the silver bowls and flagons on the sideboard displays. The wages of treason: an attractive country life.
'Sir, I'm Didius Falco.' No flicker of recognition showed. I presented my passport; he glanced at it. 'I've left your steward in Croton, tied to a bed.'
Gordianus threw of his robes. Still in charge so far, he looked pained. 'Will somebody find him?'
'Depends how often the mansio staff count their blankets.' He became more thoughtful. '
'You overcame Milo?
'I hit him with a lump of stone.'
'Whatever for?'
'He thought I was a spy,' I complained, letting the priest see that his steward's incompetence made me seethe with rage. 'Milo is a credit to his cheap gymnasium, but his brain needs exercise! Being a Palace messenger is a thankless task. I have been set on by the Homeric heroes who sell chickens in Croton market, then assaulted by your dim-witted staff-'
I was enjoying this tirade. I needed to establish my authority. His noble birth meant Gordianus could always count upon the senate to support him; I worked for Vespasian, and if I upset a senator - even a traitor - I could not count on his Caesarship- at all.
'Milo claims you will not see me. With respect, sir, that is pointless, and insulting to
'Too much,' he interrupted, visibly restraining himself. 'What do you have to say?'
'Senator, with a civil war just ended, your place is in Rome!'
'Who sent you here?' he insisted coldly.
'Vespasian Augustus.'
'Was that his message?'
'No; that's my opinion, sir.'
'Then keep your opinions to yourself"' He moved gathering his robes. 'Unless divine intervention trips up that goat, I see nothing to stop her fleeing north round the whole Tarentine Gulf; we can discuss your business now.'
'Is it proper to interrupt a sacred occasion, sir?' I demanded sarcastically.
'The goat has done that,' he capitulated with an air of weariness. 'Assisted by you! These unfortunate people will need to start again tomorrow with another animal-'
'Oh, it's worse than that, senator.' In most temples a death in his family is held to pollute the priest; I told him quietly, 'Curtius Gordianus, they will need another priest.'
Too subtle: I could tell from his expression that he completely missed the point.
XVIII
The Chief Priest at Colonna had a house adjoining the Temple. It was a simple affair - in a spacious, sun-lit, well-appointed, seaside way. Outside, the stonework looked bleached and the balustrades weathered. The windows were small and protective; the doors heavily porched. Inside they had gilding on the candelabra, light furniture they could move outdoors on favourable days, and storm lanterns for blustery nights.
When the door slammed several slaves popped their beads out looking flummoxed, as if Gordianus had come home too early for lunch. The bright atmosphere did not reflect the style of the so-called steward Milo, so I guessed these busy females really ran the house. They had the whole place aired, as fresh as lavender. I heard brooms swishing on wet floors and noticed the scent of frying liver - perhaps titbits the pontiff had allocated himself in the course of a previous sacrifice. (Any priest who knows his business captures the choicest cuts: the best reason I know for doing your civic duty as a priest.)
Gordianus led me swiftly into a sideroom. Cushions lay everywhere, with little vases of wild flowers among the silver bowls and flagons on the sideboard displays. The wages of treason: an attractive country life.
'Sir, I'm Didius Falco.' No flicker of recognition showed. I presented my passport; he glanced at it. 'I've left your steward in Croton, tied to a bed.'
Gordianus threw of his robes. Still in charge so far, he looked pained. 'Will somebody find him?'
'Depends how often the mansio staff count their blankets.' He became more thoughtful. '
'You overcame Milo?
'I hit him with a lump of stone.'
'Whatever for?'
'He thought I was a spy,' I complained, letting the priest see that his steward's incompetence made me seethe with rage. 'Milo is a credit to his cheap gymnasium, but his brain needs exercise! Being a Palace messenger is a thankless task. I have been set on by the Homeric heroes who sell chickens in Croton market, then assaulted by your dim-witted staff-'
I was enjoying this tirade. I needed to establish my authority. His noble birth meant Gordianus could always count upon the senate to support him; I worked for Vespasian, and if I upset a senator - even a traitor - I could not count on his Caesarship- at all.
'Milo claims you will not see me. With respect, sir, that is pointless, and insulting to
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