“Right,” I said. “The dead man was an Arval, and it happened in the Sacred Grove; the killer was a Vestal. Ventidius had been the lover of the previous Flaminica. That seems to have been common knowledge in Rome. Certainly most women knew. Then, to cap it all, the whole bunch is related to the child who has been picked out as the next Vestal.”
“So that was why a coverup was so readily agreed upon?” suggested Anacrites. “Influence?”
We stopped, on the heights just by the carefully preserved (that is, entirely rebuilt) supposed Hut of Romulus.
“Looks like it. Numentinus was definitely nagging the Arvals about something; he was at the Master’s house the next night, and they did not sound too pleased about it. They were even less pleased about us,” I said. “Everything would probably have worked very smoothly, if Aelianus and I had not started to poke about. The corpse was spirited away and a funeral held very quietly. Terentia is to be looked after and guarded, eventually no doubt at her own home, though my guess is that as a first move she has been taken in by Laelius Numentinus, perhaps out of some regard for his dead wife. She has been living in a guestroom, though when I turned up to search she had to be packed off hastily to the Vestals’ House, out of the way. As she is one of their own, the Virgins would agree to tend her.”
“Would her presence explain why Numentinus did not want the vigiles to come in after the child disappeared?” Anacrites asked.
“You heard about that?”
“I keep in touch,” he bragged.
“The vigiles might have sniffed out the scandal. And this explains the nonsense Laelius Scaurus told me about his aunt wanting a legal guardian. As an ex-Vestal, she would not need one, but arrangements are essential now. She must have been declared furiosa—not to be prissy, a raving lunatic. Somebody has to be her custodian.”
“Can she choose her own?” Aelianus asked.
“If she has moments of lucidity, why not?”
“But is she still dangerous?”
“After the way Ventidius was killed, she must be. That was not just an angry wife, lashing out with the nearest cooking knife. You cannot say it was a sudden act that she will never repeat. She planned it; she took the implements to the Grove; she dressed up in religious style; she murdered the man, and then carried out an extraordinary sequence of actions with his blood… .”
Aelianus shuddered. “Remember the cloth I saw covering the dead man’s face? Now I know about the rituals involved, I think it must have been one of those veils priestesses wear when they attend a sacrifice.”
“And Vestals,” I said.
“Vestals,” said Anacrites, picking holes as usual, “never actually cut throats.”
“Looks like this one learned to do it, once she got herself a husband.”
“A warning to all of us?”
“Oh?” I asked coldly, thinking about Maia. “Are you considering marriage then, Anacrites?”
He just laughed, the way spies love to do, and looked mysterious.
*
Anacrites left us when we reached the Aventine. For one thing, he was going to ingratiate himself with Ma, pretending that the rescue of her bonny boy had been all his own idea. I could set her straight. Not that my mother would listen to me when she could choose to believe Anacrites instead.
He had another plan too: “While you go back to the Laelius house, Falco, I’ll trot along to the House of the Vestals and see whether any sense can be extracted from Terentia Paulla.”
“The Virgins won’t let you in.”
“Yes they will,” he replied, gloating. “I’m the Chief Spy!”
I took Aelianus with me, but when we came to Fountain Court I asked him to join the early morning queue at the stall Cassius the baker ran, to buy some breakfast rolls. I wanted to go up ahead of him and see Helena on my own. He understood.
Helena must have stayed up all night. She was sitting in her wicker chair, beside the baby’s cradle, holding Julia as if she had been feeding her. They were both fast asleep.
Very gently, I lifted the baby from Helena’s arms. Julia awoke, wondering whether to cry or chortle, then greeted me with a loud cry of “Dog!”
“Olympus, her first word! She thinks I’m Nux.”
Startled by the baby’s exclamation, Helena roused herself. “She knows the dog. Her father is a stranger. I am disappointed, though. I have been trying so hard to teach her to say ‘Aristotelian Philosophy’—Where have you been, Marcus?”
“Long story. Starts in the House of the Vestals and ends in the death cell at the Mamertine.”
“Oh, nothing to worry about then …”
I sat Julia in her cradle. Helena was on her feet and clasping me to her with relief. I clung back, as if she was the only floating spar in the ocean, and I was a drowning man.
“I thought I would never see you again!”
“Me too, fruit.”
After a long time she leaned back, sniffing. For a moment I thought she was crying, but it was straight detective work.
“Sorry. I just stink of jail.”
“You do,” she said, using a special voice. “And of something else. I know you like to try out promising skin lotions, my darling, but since when have you dabbed iris oil behind your ears?”
I must have been still rather tired. “That would be what the Virgin Constantia wears off duty, I fear.”
“Really.”
“Cloying, but persistent. Survives even a night’s incarceration in the filthiest jail. Don’t be annoyed. I don’t chase after women.”
“You don’t need to. I gather they chase after you! And they catch you, I can tell.”
How fortunate that Helena’s dear brother arrived at that moment, releasing me from this awkwardness. He seemed to know what was wanted. As an assistant, Camillus Aelianus was shaping up in superb style.
I washed. We took in food and water. I kissed Helena good-bye; she turned her head away, though she just about let me near her. Nux, who had no qualms about my loyalty, ran up barking and hopefully brought me the rope that I used as her lead sometimes. I accepted the plea, in order to show Helena that I responded to love.
As we descended the stairs to the street, I saw Maia approaching. She was dressed demurely in white, with her curls fairly well taped down. She was holding hands with Cloelia, also kitted out like a religious offering.
“Marcus! We are just going to watch the lottery. We decided we may as well witness the flummery. There may be fascinating refreshments, we think, don’t we, Cloelia?”
“Did you find Gaia?” Cloelia asked me, frowning at her mother’s frivolity.
“Not yet. I am going back to search again.”
“Cloelia wants to tell you something,” Maia said, graver now.
“What’s this, Cloelia?”
“Uncle Marcus, has something bad happened to Gaia?”
“I hope not. But I am very worried. Do you know anything that might help?”
“She told me not to tell. But I think I ought to mention it now. Gaia has an aunt she thinks is mad. The aunt said she would kill Gaia. Gaia told her mother and her grandfather, but nobody seemed to believe her. Does that help you?”
“Yes. Thank you, Cloelia; it helps a lot. Was there anything else?”
“No, Uncle Marcus.”
Petronius Longus had come out of the laundry, on his way to work, and had walked across. “Maia! Want somebody to come with you today? I know you can’t expect support from this unreliable brother of yours.”
“No thanks,” Maia told him coolly. “I was married for years. I am quite used to dealing with family business on my own.”
She left. Petro scowled.
“Rubella has sent some of our lads to fetch that Scaurus,” said Petro in a level tone. “He should be with you later this morning, Falco.”
“Usual story,” I told him. “Mad aunt. Case solved—but unfortunately, no body.”
“If it’s a case with a body, there’s no hurry.” The vigiles have to hav
e a brutal outlook. “So it’s a mad aunt? I’m not surprised. With their snobbery and strict marriage requirements, the priestly colleges are inbred to the point of utter lunacy. It’s well known.” Petro looked Aelianus up and down. He did not even bother to be rude to him. He just said to me, “Let me know when you are ready to call in the specialists.”
“It’s all right,” I said, sneering back. “We are not expecting any fires.” He hated being regarded as just part of the fire brigade.
Taking Aelianus and the dog, I set off for the final time to the house of the Laelii.
LII
THE SCENT OF incense seemed stale today, like so many of the occupants’ relationships.
Drawn magically by the hint of trouble to gawp at, the builders had returned, bringing even their project manager, that mythical figure who normally just fails to order materials on time and who can never be contacted because he is always at some other, more important site.
In order to justify watching and listening to everything, the men were busily finishing the shrine in the atrium. The lower two-thirds of the shrine took the form of a cupboard with double doors, which were now receiving their final polish; the top section represented a temple, with ornately carved Corinthian columns at each side. Already someone had placed there the dancing Lares and Penates, poor little bronze gods who would have their work cut out bringing good fortune to this miserable household. On the shelves of the cupboard below were kept lamps and vases, and a selection of religious implements: spare flaminical hats, sacrificial vessels, jugs and bowls. Together on one side were items which must have been kept as a memorial of the late Flaminica: her conical purple hat and her sacrificial knife.
I lifted out the knife. It had a thick handle, in the form of an eagle’s head, and that special design, with a broad stumpy blade made of bronze, both sides of which were slightly curved, almost trowel-shaped.
“There is no sheath,” commented Aelianus. I knew what he meant.
“Lost it,” said one of the workmen. “Must have happened when they moved house. Terrible stink when they couldn’t find it. Of course,” he said, self-righteously, “we got the blame.”
“But you had nothing to do with it?” I knew they had not.
Aelianus handled the knife, being extremely cautious. It was finely sharpened, as it had to be in use. “You would think cutting animals’ throats was no job for a woman.”
“Oh, you soon get used to it.” We turned, startled, to see Statilia Laelia watching us. “My mother told me. She used to joke that you could tell a sacrificing priestess anywhere; they develop strong forearms.”
“I had always assumed that an assistant actually slew the beasts for the Flaminica,” I said.
Laelia smiled. “Women are far less squeamish than you think, Falco.”
She turned away. Then she spun back. “Juno! Is that a dog?” Nux wagged her tail. “We cannot have that here, Falco!”
“I have brought this dog to conduct a further search for Gaia. Anyone who has a ritual objection can go out for the day. The dog stays.”
Laelia bustled off, probably to complain to her husband or her father. Nux sat down on the atrium floor and scratched herself.
Aelianus gingerly replaced the knife. “Somebody has given this a splendidly good clean, Falco.”
“Got it to come up nicely, haven’t they?” the workman agreed.
Unlike us, he did not know that what had been cleaned off was probably the blood of the murdered Ventidius Silanus.
*
We took Nux to little Gaia’s bedroom. I let her sniff around, then showed her one of the child’s shoes. Nux lay down with her head between her paws, as if she was waiting for me to throw it.
“This won’t work,” scoffed my new assistant. He had a lot to learn. To start with: knowing when to shut up.
I gave Nux the shoe, which she agreed to carry while I led her downstairs and into the peristyle garden. The workmen were now mucking about with the pool, but they happily abandoned that and came to watch me. I led the dog around the colonnade. Nux liked that. She sniffed all the columns with interest. I turned her loose. She dropped the shoe and bounded off to explore the bags where the workmen were keeping their lunch.
I called her back. She came, sauntering reluctantly. “Nux, you are hopeless. Helena is a better sniffer dog than you. I wish I had brought her.”
“You want a proper hunting hound for this,” Aelianus said, sneering.
“Know anybody who owns one?”
“Plenty.”
“Here in Rome?”
“Of course not. People hunt in the country.”
“Well then, keep quiet until you can offer something useful.”
I showed Nux the clump of twigs bound together that Gaia had played with while pretending to clean out the Temple of Vesta. Puzzled, Nux shook it about in her teeth, then let it fall, waiting for a different game.
One of the workmen remarked, “The little sprat had a better mop than that. I made her one with real horsehair, like those the Vestals really use.”
Where was it?
*
I left Aelianus to talk to the men about the day Gaia disappeared. I could trust him with that. Presumably if they had anything useful to say, they would have offered it when the alarm was first raised.
I led my hopeless bloodhound to the other garden. Off the leash the scruffy bundle of fur wandered about, digging potholes, sniffing leaves, and looking back at me to see what behavior I wanted. I was still holding Gaia’s shoe, so I hurled it as far as I could into the undergrowth in the distance. Nux ran off and vanished. I sat on a bench, waiting for her to get bored.
No gardeners were about today. I was completely alone. Sometimes you have no idea what progress you are making with a case. Sometimes it all seems to be sorted, yet you find yourself niggled by the feeling that what looks straightforward cannot be that simple. I kept wondering what I had missed here. There were gaps in the story, gaps so well disguised that I could not even see where they existed, let alone try to fill them. I knew I was on the wrong tack. I just could not see why I felt that way.
It was still early morning, but now much warmer than when I was hauled out of the Mamertine. Blue sky was gradually deepening in color above me. Bees explored what long strands of herbage remained. A blackbird foraged among upended pots, wildly tossing aside unwanted leaves. I took one of those moments when I ought to have been busy, but hoped letting the quietness seep into my spirit might refresh me and bring me a bright idea. What could I do, anyway? I had searched yesterday as thoroughly as I knew how.
A woman came out from the house to my right. Someone I had never seen before. She was alone. A tallish, slim, middle-aged female, wearing gray in several layers, long full skirts and a graceful stole. She came straight to me and joined me on the bench. I noticed she wore a wedding ring.
“You must be Falco.” I made no reply, but glanced sideways uneasily, hoping for backup.
She had a face, bare of paint but probably well tended, which had gone past youth; her skin was still firm and her movements were easy. Gray eyes watched me with a bold, challenging air. She was unafraid of men. My guess was, she had never been afraid of anything. But then, courage is a form of lunacy. And of course, the woman who had killed Ventidius Silanus must have been both courageous and completely mad.
LIII
ODDLY ENOUGH, SHE looked perfectly sane.
Her eyes still considered me, lucid, serene, visibly intelligent. Women who have completed successful careers acquire a certain address. She was used to taking decisions, speaking out, leading the ceremonial.
Maybe it depends on your starting point. Maybe we are all mad in our own ways. Mind you, not many of us could slash the throat of another human. Not off the battlefield; not in cold blood.
“I understand you took a considerable risk last night, Falco, in order to speak to me.” I moved my head in assent. She was definitely the ex-Vestal, Terentia. “Some informer! You never found me
, never came near me.”
“No, I apologize.”
“I suppose you saw the other chit instead.” I looked mystified. “Constantia. You know who I mean.”
“Yes, I saw her.”
“What did you think?”
“A talented young woman. She should go far.”
“Or to the bad!” humphed Terentia. “A latter-day Postumia!”
“Postumia?”
“Don’t you know your history? She was tried for unchastity; she had dressed too elegantly, and spoken too freely and wittily. The Pontifex Maximus acquitted her of the sexual charge, but Postumia was warned to behave more becomingly, to stop making jokes and to dress less smartly.”
“I am shocked.”
“You are a clown, Falco. Someone else came badgering me this morning,” Terentia grumbled. “That dreadful man Anacrites.”
“Did you see him?”
“Certainly not. I left by the other door and came straight here. I do not communicate with spies.”
So much for Anacrites’ self-confidence! “He will follow you here.”
“Probably.”
She looked less mad than my own aunts, most of whom are contentious harridans with a tendency to throw burning-hot skillets around. All the same—well, perhaps because of my dear aunties—I did not relax.
“May I talk to you?” I asked meekly. “I am not a spy, merely a Procurator of the Sacred Geese, ma’am.”
“My name is Terentia Paulla, as you well know.” I thought to myself that proper lunatics were supposed to believe themselves to be Julius Caesar. Mind you, this one issued orders like a dictator, right enough. “As for you,” she said, “I imagine that after your escapade at the Vestals’ House, you will find it expedient to resign from your curation of the poultry.”
“No, no; I’ll stand my ground. I have learned to enjoy the post.”
“Vespasian will sacrifice your sinecure in the next round of public spending cuts.”
“I agree that’s a possibility.”
One Virgin Too Many Page 29