The River God's Vengeance(71)

“A very pertinent point,” I said. “Actually, I am here to speak with the slave-priest Harmodias. Could you have him summoned?”

“I would be most happy to.” He beckoned for an acolyte and whispered something in his ear. The boy dashed off on silent, bare feet. “Might I inquire what this concerns?”

“I left a slave here in his care. The man was a survivor of the insula collapse three nights ago.”

“Oh, yes, I heard of the matter. The unfortunate fellow died and was taken away, I understand.”

“Exactly. There are some circumstances of his death I need to know about.”

It seemed that we had a little wait, and something the dutiful old priest had said was beginning to blossom in my mind. “Revered Gavius, you spoke of the ritual pollution of the City a moment ago.”

“Oh, yes, a most serious matter.”

“I agree, and I think something needs to be done about it. If I were to go to the Senate and propose that a special court be held to prosecute those responsible for this terrible state of affairs, would you and the other high priests and ?amines be willing to back me on this?”

“I think it is a splendid idea. Now, the Pontifex Maximus is away from Rome—”

“I think Julius Caesar, my uncle by marriage,” throwing that in for effect, “will approve. I’ll send a messenger to him at first light.”

“Then as soon as the condition of the City permits, I will call for a meeting of the priesthoods to discuss this matter. It is customary to convene such a meeting following a disaster anyway, since we must know how we have offended the gods.”

“Venerable Gavius, my report will detail exactly how we have offended Father Tiber.”

The boy returned, and Gavius bent low while the acolyte whispered in his ear. Everyone spoke quietly in this temple. The old man straightened. “This is strange. I am told that Harmodias went out to the fields on the west bank to find some healing herbs he required. He has not been seen since.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“That is most odd,” I said, thinking that it was not odd in the least. He had fied right after I’d spoken with him, afraid to be exposed for his part in the killing of the slave. I took my leave of the old man and went out through the broad front doors.

For a while I stood on the fine porch at the top of the steps. There were times when I found it difficult to believe in the gods, when they seemed like the childish creation of frightened peasants, trying desperately to control forces they did not understand. There were other times when the gods seemed very close. The river in this condition made them seem very close indeed.

I wondered what the gods wanted of us, and whether they were really pleased with the bribes we offered them: all those bulls and boars, the rams and horses and birds, the occasional dog. Did they really find this pleasing, or was it just blood and feathers and smoke?

Each May, the Vestals cast twenty-four straw mannikins off the Sublician Bridge as an offering to Tiberinus, imploring him not to fiood. Once, those had been human sacrifices. Maybe, I thought, we should go back to human sacrifice. I could think of several candidates to go into the first batch of twenty-four.

A sudden noise shook me from my reverie. The old slave had tossed another log into one of the bronze baskets. Again the plume of sparks rushed skyward.

“Why are you burning so much expensive wood, old man?” Hermes asked him. “There’s hardly anyone here to see it.”

“The man who restored the temple and donated these fine braziers here paid to have first-rate firewood burned in them all night for five years.”

“That’s extravagant,” I commented. “Is this to honor the god? Was the man granted a cure here?”

The old slave gave me a gap-toothed smile. It was the utterly cynical smile of the true Roman. “If you ask me, the rich bugger just wants to make sure everyone can read his name no matter what time it is.”

He jerked a thumb upward and the two of us raised our gazes. On the broad, low-peaked triangle of the pediment, surrounded by ornamental carving and smaller inscriptions, beautifully illuminated by the fiames was a name. It was spelled out in huge letters, as is the right of a man who has restored a public building:

M. VAL. MESSALA.

This explained a few things. Messala, the great benefactor of the temple, would have had the run of the place. No difficulty then to suborn as many low-level priests as he needed to carry out a murder in the temple and dispose of the body afterward.

We paused on the Island side of the Fabrician Bridge.

“What was that business about a special court?” Hermes wanted to know.