IMPIETY? I was innocent. My views on the gods might not be flattering, but I kept those views to myself.
My post as Procurator was ludicrous, but I carried out my duties at the temple, more or less. The job showed the world that the Emperor had recognized me. And besides, it carried a salary.
No one could spot any fiddles. I was a market gardener’s grandson. Country matters were in my blood. The Sacred Geese and the Augurs’ Sacred Chickens were safe in my hands. If, after tending them, I carried home stolen eggs, I knew how to stuff them in my tunic invisibly.
But there was a problem. Last year, I could not deny it, there had been a long period—over six months—when I did not oversee the geese at all. I was in Britain. I was working for the Emperor. I had a genuine excuse—but one I could not use in open court. The whole point of the tasks I had carried out in Britain was that Vespasian wanted them kept secret.
I could hardly summon the Emperor to vouch for me. One alternative existed: Anacrites. If he swore I was away on imperial business, nobody would need to know why. Even the praetor would shrink from querying the Chief Spy. But if Anacrites was my only solution, I would rather be condemned.
Helena tried to calm me down. “Procreus, and his manipulator Silius, know perfectly well you are innocent. Making the charge is a ploy. You dare not ignore an accusation of impiety, let alone in a position that was your personal gift from the Emperor.”
“Too right. Tomorrow I shall be pacing the corridors, waiting for an appointment with the praetor. Something tells me he will be in no hurry to oblige me. I know just how they will fix it. Procreus won’t show; without him to state his evidence, I’ll be stuck in limbo.”
“Well, Marcus, if he really never shows, there is no charge . . . You must convince the praetor there is no case to answer—and demand a retraction.”
“I won’t get that! But you understand, my darling. I have to put this right before I can show my face in court again. We cannot have Paccius Africanus helpfully pointing out to the jury that one of Calpurnia’s accusers has been denounced for offending the gods.”
Today was wasted. I had just made the best speech of my life—and instantly the professionals had wiped me off the board.
“It was a good speech,” agreed Helena approvingly. “I was proud of you, Marcus.”
She gave me a moment to bask in her sweet praise. She held me and kissed me. I knew what she was doing, but I melted.
Then, having soothed me, Helena whipped out a calendar and a clean note-tablet, so she could work out my past visits to the Temple of Juno in order to rebut Procreus’ charge.