The Vestal Vanishes

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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.

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