One Virgin Too Many

by Lindsey Davis

  “So what’s Aelianus up to with these characters today?”

  Decimus explained in his typically dry way: “The Arval Brothers—we have learned this as we applied ourselves in a groveling manner to winning them over—are busy in May. They hold their annual election for their leader and celebrate the rites of their special deity over a period of four days—on the second of which nothing significant happens, in fact. My theory is that after the first bout of unrestrained feasting they have to take a break; subdued by a day with a bad hangover, they proceed more carefully.”

  “These are grown-up boys! Who is the deity?”

  “Dea Dia, the lady otherwise known as Ops.”

  “In charge of crops since time began?”

  “Since Romulus ploughed the city boundary.”

  I glanced down at Julia, but she was contentedly examining one of her own tiny sandals. She had gripped her little fat ankle and pulled up her toes, with an interested expression that meant she was thinking about eating her own foot. I decided to let her learn from empirical research.

  Decimus continued his tale: “The first day of the rites takes place in Rome at the house of the Master of the Arvals—the chief Brother for that year. They offer fruits, wine, and incense at sunrise to the Dea Dia, anoint her statue, then hold a formal feast at which further offerings are made and the Brothers receive gifts in return for attending.”

  Travel and subsistence, eh? A nice clique to join.

  “The most important rites—today’s—see the election of the next Master in the Sacred Grove of the Dea Dia. I am hoping this will be the cue for them to hint at whether Aulus has been successful. I expect that the newly elected Master has some say in who will be taken on under his leadership.”

  “I wish you well. It would be a great coup. Being an Arval Brother is one of the honors given to the highest in society.”

  I did not exaggerate. Young males in the imperial family, for instance, would expect automatic cooption to the Arvals as super-numeraries. Probably our current princes, Titus and Domitian, had joined already. Normal membership totaled twelve only. Vacancies must be keenly sought after. I reckoned the Camilli were probably overstretching when they put up Aelianus for this, but it was not the moment to criticize.

  Mildly affected by the wine, even the senator seemed ready to admit the real situation. “We don’t stand much chance, Marcus. Bloody snobs!”

  “Have they actually voted?” I asked carefully.

  “No. That takes place in the Temple of Concord in the Forum and seems to be kept separate.”

  We perused our cups and thought about the inequalities of life.

  *

  It was at this point that, against expectations, the young man under discussion appeared in the study doorway. His white festival outfit was badly crumpled, and he looked flushed. He was probably tipsy, but his face never gave away much.

  Aelianus was more sturdily built and less fine featured than his sister and younger brother. A good chunk of Roman manhood, in his way: athletic and possessing good reflexes. He left his sister to be the reader in the family, while his brother was the linguist. Straight sprouting hair, cut rather longer than suited him; dark eyes; a sallow complexion at present: too many nights out with the boys. I would have envied him his lifestyle, but even though he was given too much freedom, he was plainly not happy.

  “Yes, I’m here! Still, cheer up, Aulus.” He hated his sister living with an informer. Now Helena and I had made it permanent, I enjoyed teasing him.

  Aelianus just stood there, neither coming in to join us nor storming off in annoyance. His father demanded to know any news about his cooption.

  “I didn’t get in.” He could hardly bear to say it.

  Decimus asked who was elected. His son forced out a name I did not know; Decimus exclaimed in disgust.

  “Oh, he’s a good fellow,” Aelianus managed to mutter, surprisingly mildly.

  I murmured sympathy. “Helena will be very sorry to hear this.” She would realize that it was one more slapdown for a brother who might be spoiled for good unless he soon bagged some public achievements.

  More than his failure with the Arvals was bothering him. Both his father and I belatedly stared harder at Aelianus. He looked as if he was going to throw up. “Buried your face in too many goblets?” He shook his head. I grabbed a tasteful ceramic from a shelf with a vase collection and proffered it anyway. Just in time.

  It was an Athenian cup, featuring a boy with his tutor, a nice didactic subject for one who seemed to have overindulged himself. The vessel had decent proportions for a sick bowl, and two handles to grip. Wonderful antique art.

  After he stopped retching, Aelianus made an effort to apologize.

  “Don’t worry; we’ve all done it.”

  “I’m not drunk.”

  His father hauled him to a couch. “And we have all produced that finely honed poetic line as well!”

  Aelianus stayed lost in a heavy silence. While Decimus fielded the Athenianware and shunted it elsewhere for some poor slave to find tomorrow, his son sat, oddly hunched. Experience told me he had passed the risk of being ill again.

  “What’s up, Aulus?”

  His voice was strained. “Something you know all about, Marcus Didius.” Decimus moved abruptly. I lifted an eyebrow, signaling that we should let the lad take his time. “I found something.” Aelianus now looked up and wanted to talk. “I stumbled over something horrible.”

  He closed his eyes. His face told me the worst. In the grim business of informing, I had seen more than enough people wearing this expression. “There has been an accident?” I was being optimistic.

  Aelianus braced himself. “Not exactly. I fell over a corpse. But whoever it is, it’s very clear he did not die by accident.”

  VIII

  “ALL RIGHT; TAKE your time, son.” The senator had found a jug of water and a beaker. Aelianus rinsed his teeth and spat into the beaker. Patiently I emptied it into the Athenianware he had already used, rinsed the beaker, then poured fresh water, which I made him drink.

  “So,” I said firmly. “Your father told me you went to partake in the main day of worship amid the corn wreaths and dinner napkins. Stuffing your face in the cause of new growth at the Arval Brothers’ Sacred Grove—was that where this happened?”

  Aelianus sat up straighter and nodded. I chivvied him, brisk as a legionary commander taking details from a scout: “The Grove is where?”

  “Five miles outside the city on the Via Portuensis.” He had served in the army and civil government. He could give a reliable report when he chose.

  “Are we talking about some verdant circle of venerable trees?”

  “No. It is more like a forum complex. It has a circus, several temples, and a Caesarium for the deified emperors.”

  “How modern! Silly me, I had expected some rustic haven.”

  “The Emperor Augustus brought the rites up to date. The cult had fallen into abeyance rather—”

  “Of course! He interfered in everything. So just set the scene for me.”

  “There has been a day of worship, followed by games and races.”

  “Members of the public?”

  “Yes.”

  “All men?”

  “No.”

  “Is the revelry over?”

  “People are hanging on. Most of the Brothers have returned to Rome for another feast at the house of the current Master.” He paused. “Well, except for one of them.” I noted that remark, but let him carry on. “I came home early. People who had been at the Games were still enjoying themselves in the Grove.”

  “What made you leave early?”

  Aelianus sighed. “One of the Brothers had taken me aside and warned me that they felt I was not quite ready for the burdens of election to such a demanding cult. He obviously meant I was not important enough.” Aelianus dropped his gaze; his father compressed his mouth. “I felt low. I tried to continue with a brave face, but I kept hearing the snide basta
rd saying what a good impression I had made, and how sincerely the Brothers hoped I would find some other way to apply my supposed talents… . I could not bear the way people looked at me. I know I should have braved it out… .”

  He paused for a moment, leaning on his elbow with one palm covering his mouth. The splayed fingers had bitten nails. I put a hand on his shoulder. Where my thumb touched skin under the edge of his tunic it felt cold. He was in shock.

  Aelianus continued in a quiet voice, “My horse was just outside the Grove, where they had set up a picket line. To get back there I had to walk past a pavilion for the Master, a big temporary tent. I heard a group of people coming out, so I dodged quickly around the back to avoid them. I stumbled over one of the guy ropes; then I literally fell onto the body.”

  He stopped again briefly. “I assumed the man was drunk. I don’t know what made me anxious. But I felt my heart race even before I looked properly. The people I had heard all went off in another direction. Silence fell. Nobody was about. I could hardly take in what I saw. It was horrible. He was lying in his own blood. His clothing was drenched in it. His head had been covered with some kind of cloth, which was sopping too. His wounds looked terrible—one great gash across the neck especially. He had been cut down with a sacrificial knife. It was still lying alongside him.”

  “He was definitely dead?” asked Decimus.

  “No doubt.”

  “Did you know him?” I murmured.

  “No. But a corn chaplet with the white ribbons was lying by him, dragged off in the struggle presumably—he was one of the Arval Brothers.”

  “Well, that creates another vacancy!” I sucked in air through my teeth. “I take it you then reported your find?”

  A narrow look crossed the young man’s face.

  “Oh, Aulus!” groaned the senator.

  “Papa, I was badly shaken. There was nothing I could do for him. It was a ghastly scene. There was no sign of the killer, or I would genuinely have made an effort to apprehend him. One worry I had was that if anyone turned up and found me alone with the body I might be suspected of killing him myself.”

  At once I asked, “Could the corpse have been the man who told you that you were unacceptable to the Arvals?”

  Aelianus met my gaze, wide-eyed. He considered this. “No. No, Falco. Wrong build, I’m sure of it.”

  “Good! So what did you do?”

  “Got out of there fast. Ran for my horse. Rode back here as quickly as I could.”

  “And came to ask our advice,” I suggested, guessing he had hoped to forget the whole incident.

  He pulled a face. “All right. I’m a fool.”

  “Not entirely. You have reported your grim find to your father, a senator, and to me … That’s acceptable” Acceptable—but not enough. I tightened my belt and pushed my tunic down under it. “We have two choices. We can pretend we know nothing about it—or behave like reputable citizens.”

  Aelianus knew what I meant. He stood up. He wavered a little, but was probably fit for the job: “I have to go back there.”

  I grinned at him. “Don’t imagine you get all the fun. You will have to take me too. Catch me sitting here with a flagon when I can jump on a horse and give myself indigestion pounding five miles into the countryside—all to learn that somebody else has by now found your piece of butchery and nobody thanks us for reporting it a second time.” I turned to his father. “I can handle this. But you will have the awkward job: explaining to Helena and your wife why we have bunked off—”

  “I think I can distract them,” Decimus said, springing up with a start. He bent down and led out my baby daughter from behind his couch, holding her by her chubby little arms as she proudly demonstrated how she could now be walked along.

  What a sight. I had known she could stand. It was a new trick. I had completely forgotten that it put her within reach of new attractions and dangers. I winced. Julia had somehow laid hands on the senator’s inkstand—a two-tone job, apparently; her face, arms, legs, and her smart little white tunic were now covered with great stains in black and red. There was ink around her mouth. She even had ink in her hair.

  She grabbed at her noble grandfather so he had to pick her up, immediately covering himself in red and black as well. Then, sensing trouble, her eyes filled with tears, she began to wail, at first just mournfully but with a steadily increasing volume that would soon bring all the women of the household rushing to see what tragedy had befallen her.

  Aelianus and I got out of it and left the senator to cope.

  IX

  IT WAS STILL light. Helena and I had dined early with her parents so we could return home with the baby before the streets became too dangerous. By the time her brother and I rode off, however, dusk was starting to fall. Time was not on our side.

  The Via Portuensis travels out towards the new harbor at Ostia on the north bank of the Tiber. We had to cut into the city first, in order to cross the river on the Probus Bridge. Anacrites and I had started our Census inspections out this way and had usually been ferried over from beside the Emporium, but with horses that was impossible. I hate riding, though I noticed Aelianus had a good seat and seemed at ease. We could have borrowed the senator’s carriage, but in view of the hour we required speed. I had declined an escort too. It would only attract attention. We were armed with swords under our cloaks, and would have to rely on our own good sense.

  As we passed Caesar’s Gardens, there were already suspicious characters abroad. Soon we were trotting by the menagerie where, six months ago, my social rise began as I investigated Census cheats among the arena suppliers. The establishment was locked and silent, no longer echoing to the bustle of gladiators after their evening meal or the unexpected roars of lions. Farther out in the country we passed one or two travelers who had misjudged their timing, making a late arrival from the coast. When they ambled into town they would fetch up in the Transtiberina, a quarter that seasoned locals avoided, and for strangers bound to end in robbery or worse. Later still, we met occasional corn-bedecked members of the public who had been to the Games in the Sacred Grove. Aelianus reckoned most people had either left much earlier or would stay until dawn. That seemed wise.

  As best he could, while riding, he had told me of the day’s events: early morning sacrifices by the Master; the Brethren’s ritual search outside the goddess’s temple for ears of corn; sharing laureate bread (whatever that was) and turnips (at least the Arvals were not snobs when they chose their vegetable side dishes); anointing the image of the Dea Dia. Then the temple was cleared and its doors closed while the Brothers tucked up their tunics and performed a traditional dance to the strains of their ancient hymn (which was so obscure they all had to be handed sets of instructions). Next came the election of a new Master for the following year, a distribution of prizes and roses, and an afternoon of Games over which the Arval Master presided in ceremonial garb. With good appetites by then, the Brethren returned to Rome to change into dinner robes for more feasting.

  “At what point did the supercilious corn dolly take you aside and dismiss your talents?”

  “During a break in the Games. I met him at the latrines, actually.”

  “Nice timing.”

  “Oh, I am the sophisticated one in our family!”

  “Yes; your life is assuming remarkable elegance.” I was smiling over his bitter quip, which had a wry note that was typical of all the Camilli. “So tell me, Aulus: at that point there had been a lot of noise, and folk milling about the complex?”

  “Yes.” Aelianus immediately saw what I meant. “There were trumpets and applause from the Games too—a scuffle behind the pavilion would have been well muffled.”

  We spoke no more until we arrived at the Grove.

  *

  There were trees. Over the centuries these had been reduced to a straggly windbreak around the complex. The Arval Brothers were not keen foresters. Even routine lopping of the sacred boughs called for elaborate religious procedures; whenever d
ecay or lightning strikes necessitated felling and replanting, major solemn sacrifices had to be performed. This was inconvenient and had had the result that the trees which stood around the sanctuary were in a gnarled, half-rotted condition. The Brethren might worship fertility, but they should have been ashamed of their arboretum.

  Its buildings were a different matter. In decor and taste, the temples with their clean styling could have leaped straight from an architect’s classical pattern book. The most refined lines and crispest details belonged to the Caesarium, the shrine for the deified emperors; every triglyph and antefix had a superior Augustan smirk. It looked as if the imperial family had plied the edifice with imperial money to ensure they were sufficiently honored. Very astute.

  Aelianus led me straight to the Master’s pavilion. It was a lavish marquee erected once a year on festival days, a far cry from the ten-man leather tents used by the legions in what I called camping. This large, fanciful party piece boasted prong-topped poles and tasseled ropes. Its roof was formed from stitched sheets the size of cornship sails; elaborate side walls were attached all around, and there was a porch, above which hung wreaths of corn and laurel leaves. New torches had just been set up outside the entrance, though nothing was going on inside.

  I crossed the porch extension and glanced into the tent. The air temperature rose sharply. The hot, humid atmosphere took me straight back to the army. There was the familiar suffocating smell of warm, trodden grass. A few oil lamps were lit. A portable throne stood opposite the entrance. Before it, fine cloths covered a low table where only crumbs remained. Cushions were piled against the back wall of the tent, behind the throne. Attracted in by the light, moths and long-legged insects knocked against the roof. Nobody else was there.

  I pulled out one of the torches. Dew dampened our bootstraps as we made our way behind the tent. Aelianus was starting to look apprehensive. Whatever he had seen earlier, he wanted never to see again.

  As it happened, somebody had obliged him. When we turned around the corner to where he told me the corpse had been lying, it was no longer there.