One Virgin Too Many mdf-11

by Lindsey Davis

  This was a door in the interior of the residential block, so there was no climbing out. Increasingly apprehensive now, I worked my way once more to the central garden area. Here too, the gate had now been secured by somebody. Keeping deep in the shadows, I sidled back for my ladder. All went well. I was extremely tired, but I took care how I lifted and carried it. More or less in silence, I made it back to where I first climbed over and set the ladder gingerly against the wall. Up I went, once again within sight of freedom.

  Needless to say, when I reached the top, the ladder I had left beside the shrine on the other side was no longer there. No use hoping for help from Aelianus. He would have removed himself from this dangerous scene.

  I could lower myself onto the shrine's roof, then drop carefully. I had done worse. Alternatively, I could sit astride the wall, and try to raise the inner ladder up enough to heave it over. I was still debating when I heard troops marching outside, coming towards the temple enclosure. I stepped down a few rungs again, keeping out of sight. Then somebody below on the ground behind me grabbed the back of my left calf.

  Thinking it was Constantia about to grope me again, I turned to protest, only to find myself looking down into the ferocious scowls of three lictors. Normally they have nothing much to do; today was now their best day ever. For perhaps the first time in history they had caught an intruder. They were thrilled.

  The man who had hold of me jerked my foot outwards. I fell off the ladder, luckily on top of him. It gave me a soft landing, though it seemed to annoy him.

  My captors did then courteously allow me to put on my toga. I would be formally attired for my interview with the Chief Vestal. That's the interview I was now compelled to have, where she would sentence me to death.

  XLIX

  What a horrendous woman.

  She looked as if she had been boiled in milk for too long. She was in full garb, with the white, purple-bordered veil that they wear at sacrifices, its two cords pinned under her double chin with her special Vestal's brooch. I recognized her outline and deportment from seeing her at the theater and at festivals. One of the well-built, statuesque variety. One with truly Gorgonesque features. Religious devotion oozing from her. This time the sacrificial beast was a captured informer; that did seem to give her pleasure.

  "A man! And what are you doing here?" she enunciated sarcastically.

  I left Constantia out of it. She was watching. All of the four lesser Virgins had appeared and were jostling behind their leader excitedly, owl-eyed; Constantia was conspicuous by the yellow hem hanging down under the white robe that she must have flung on top of her lounging wear.

  "I merely wanted to ask some vital questions of Terentia Paulla," I decided to say. Nobody present looked identifiable as Terentia. She had retired from her duties, so she was allowed to see men; anyway, she could say that I had never found her. Would that let me off?

  Also present at my humiliation was a full set of lictors, and their other prize: Camillus Aelianus. "This man, a respectable senator's heir, saw somebody lurking suspiciously, ma'am."

  "Is this the felon you saw?"

  "Oh no. That was a tall, handsome, fair-haired man." Good try.

  "Thanks for exonerating me, young sir, but if you don't regard me as handsome, let me give you the name of a competent oculist."

  "You have defiled the House of Vesta." Something about the slow, deliberate way the Chief Vestal made her pronouncements was beginning to draw my attention.

  I suppose after my visit to Constantia I should have been prepared for anything. The Chief Vestal was a forty-year-old, iron-hard, prudish, dictatorial image of moral purity. And something else: Jupiter! She had the slack eyelids of a drear toper who had really been hitting the amphora. The rich evidence hung on her breath. On close inspection, anyone could detect that she was a hesitant, sozzled, soused, fuzzled, bung-licking, dreg-draining, secret Bacchanalian.

  Why mince words? The Chief Vestal was a lush.

  ***

  In the time it was taking for the woman's thoughts to broach the grape-clogged path from brain to speech, I managed to invent and try out various sickly protests about the official nature of my mission, the high level of support I could command, and the urgency of finding Gaia Laelia, through whatever unorthodox means it took. I made myself out to be, in this search, actually a servant of the Vestals. Reduced to the lowest depths, I even muttered that old sad plea about no harm having been done.

  Indubitably, a waste of breath.

  Then Aelianus came up with a winner.

  "Ma'am…" His tone was meek and respectful. He knew how to playact, apparently. I would never have thought it; he had always seemed so bad-tempered and prim. "I am a mere observer brought to this scene by chance"-Overdoing it, Aulus!-"but the man does appear to have an official mission; his need to collect information was urgent and desperate. His efforts on behalf of the small child are completely benign. If his motives were well meant, can I appeal to you? Am I not correct that if a Virgin meets a criminal she has, by ancient tradition, the power of interceding for his reprieve?"

  "You are correct, young man." The Chief Vestal surveyed Aelianus through those heavy lids. "There is a condition, however, or the Vestals would be subject to constant harassment by convicts. It has to be proved that the meeting between the criminal and the Virgin was a complete coincidence." She turned back to me, triumphant with spite. "Breaking into the House of the Vestals with ladders makes this meeting far from coincidental. Take him to the Mamertine Jail-the condemned cell!"

  It had been a good try by Aelianus, but I could see her point. Without more ado the lictors and their henchmen massed around me, and I was marched out.

  "What an absolutely terrible woman!" Always be friendly to your guards. Sometimes they find you a better cell.

  Her personal lictor leered at me. "Lovely, isn't she?"

  I barked my shin on a builder's trestle. "Having some work done? Progress seems slow. Don't tell me Vespasian is reluctant to pay for it?"

  "The Chief Vestal has a full set of working drawings for complete remodeling. She'll wait. She'll get exactly what she wants one day."

  "I'd like to see that."

  "What a shame!" They guffawed as they dragged me along the Sacred Way, knowing that I only had about one day's life left to me.

  When we arrived under the Gemonian Stairs in the shadow of the Capitol, it took them hours to find and fetch the custodian, who was not expecting customers. All too soon, though, I was being installed in the dungeon which normally houses foreigners who have rebelled against Roman authority, that bare, stinking hole near the Tabularium from which the public strangler extracts his victims when they pay the final, fatal price for being enemies of Rome. My arrival dismayed the jailer, who normally makes a small fortune from showing tourists the cells where barbarians are so briefly dumped at the end of a Triumph. He would still admit the gamblers, but he realized that for the short time I was in occupation before I was exterminated, I would expect to share the fees. He went off gloomily, back to wherever he had been enjoying himself.

  The Mamertine is a crude prison. Strong stone walls enclose irregular cells that used to form part of a quarry. Water runs through it. At least the jailer's lack of interest meant he just left me in the upper cell, not shoved down through the hole in the floor into the fearsome lower depths. It was pitch dark. It was chilly. It was solitary and depressing.

  This was still, just about, the eighth day before the Ides of June. Behind me lay the longest day I could ever remember, and now I was facing death. I toyed with a few none-too-serious plans for escaping. Once I would have had a go. The problem with being the well-known equestrian Procurator of the Sacred Geese and Chickens was that I could never again merge into anonymity. If I did escape, either I would have no life, even on the Aventine, or I would be recognized by the public and thrown straight back in here.

  In the absence of anything optimistic to contemplate, I rolled myself up in my toga and went to sleep.r />
  L

  Dawn straggled over the Palatine and the Capitol, ushering the seventh day before the Ides of June. At last. It had to be less tiring and depressing than the eighth. I hoped the journey to the Styx would be an easy one.

  Had I been at home, my calendar would have reminded me it was the start of the Vestalia. Today Vespasian would hold the lottery for a new Virgin. Today, that is, but only after some frantic rejigging of the favorites list by clerks in the pontifical offices, to take account of the absence of Gaia Laelia. Today, perhaps, the Emperor would be told about me.

  Perhaps not. I was history.

  Light hardly managed to penetrate this hole. Running with water, the walls bore no messages from previous prisoners. No one could see enough to carve a plea for help. Nobody ever stayed there long enough. The stench was appalling. I woke stiff and cold. It was easy to feel terrified.

  I left my mark by relieving myself in a corner. There was nowhere else. I was plainly not the first.

  Helena would know by now exactly where I was. I wondered what her brother had done after I was dragged away. They would have compelled him to dictate a formal statement. Then what? He must have told his father what had happened. The Camilli knew. Helena must know. I would not be executed without a great deal of fuss first being made in the marble-floored halls of officialdom. Maybe the Sacred Geese would honk a bit in protest too.

  Helena would go to Titus and throw herself on his mercy. She would do it, even though the last words she had spoken to him in the Golden House were deliberately rude. He was famously good-natured. The sight of her desperation would overcome any grudges he felt.

  He had no power to help her. Nobody could extract me from this. I had offended against the Vestals. I was a dead man.

  ***

  Somebody was rousing the jailer.

  I woke myself up enough to take an interest. Whatever negotiations were required to gain admittance took ages. I wondered if the agent who had come on my behalf was short of money. Apparently not; he was just an amateur.

  "Aelianus!"

  "The last person you expected, I suppose?" He could be wry, like all of his family. "I'm not just a spoiled brat, Falco. Well, I daresay, even you have good qualities that you hide under a cloak of modesty."

  "Being in a cell is bad enough without the punishment of other people's mordant wit. Back off, before I knock a hole in your head."

  More coins chinked, and though the jailer was curious, he condescended to leave us alone. Aelianus raised a small oil lamp, looked around, and shuddered.

  I kept talking to stop my teeth chattering. "Well, it's pleasant of you to come visiting me in my trouble. You must be very frightened of your sister!"

  "Aren't you?"

  In the light of his one pathetic hand lamp, the young and noble Camillus appeared ill at ease; he had not realized that when the jailer left, he too would be locked in. He was in a nice clean tunic, dark red, with three lavish rows of squiggly neck braid.

  "You look very smart. I like a man who enjoys casual fashionwear. Especially when he is visiting the death cell. A reminder of normality; such a thoughtful touch."

  "Always there with the repartee, Falco." He was pale and tense, keyed up with some restless expectancy. This was out of place. I was the one who was facing a demanding day. Mine had a bier and an urn at the end of it. "We went into this together," he told me pompously. "Obviously, I shall do my utmost to get you out of it. I brought you something."

  "I do hope so. The traditional gifts are a sword to kill the jailer and a large set of skeleton keys. A really well-organized rescuer includes a passport and some cash."

  He had brought me a cinnamon pastry.

  "Breakfast," he murmured huffily, on seeing my face. I said nothing. "If you don't want it, I can eat it for you."

  "I am telling myself I am just dreaming."

  "Falco, I have been working hard all night on your behalf. I hope it's fixed. Someone will be coming soon."

  "A stuffed vineleaf seller? A chickpea specialist?"

  He was eyeing the pastry. I snatched it and ate it myself.

  I had barely wiped the crumbs from my chin with a corner of my toga when we felt muffled reverberations caused by heavy boots. Aelianus jumped up. I saw no urgency. Execution could take all the time in the world coming. There was no hope of delaying my date with Fortune, however. The jailer's ugly face appeared, and I was fetched from my cozy cell to the cruel light of day.

  Outside, at first I shuddered even more, before the faint warmth of the dawn sunlight in the Forum started to revive me. My eyes took time to readjust. Then I realized my honor escort was the best I could ever have requested: a small but spankingly turned-out detachment of the Praetorian Guard. "Now that's class, Aulus!"

  "Glad you like it. Here's our contact."

  Next minute I nearly regurgitated my flavorsome breakfast all over the Gemonian Stairs. Accompanying the tall fellows in the shiny plumed helmets, I saw, was Anacrites.

  "Right!" He had some gall. He was actually giving orders. Well, as he was Chief Spy, his official next of kin had always been the Guards. His remit was protecting the Emperor, just as theirs was. In the strict hierarchy of the Palace, Anacrites was on assignment to them-yet little was made of it, and I had never known him to exercise Praetorian rights. They certainly never invited him to their mess dinners. But then, who would? "Chain him up!" He was really enthusiastic about hurting and humiliating me. "Pile the fetters on. As many as possible. Never mind whether he can walk in them. We can drag him along."

  "May I," I remonstrated while I was being trussed, "be allowed to know whither I am to be dragged?"

  "Just keep quiet, Falco. You have caused enough trouble."

  I glared at young Aelianus. "Do something for me, lad. Ask your sister where my mother lives, and when this is all over, make sure you tell Ma that it was her treacherous lodger who delivered her last living son to his fate."

  "Ready?" Anacrites, ignoring me, for some reason addressed himself in an undertone to Aelianus. "I can get him there, but you'll have to do the talking, Camillus. I don't want this fiasco ever showing up on my personal record!" Sheer amazement colored my view of this queer situation. "Right, lads. Follow me. Bring this disgraceful felon up to the Palatine."

  I had had a nice sleep and been treated to breakfast. I just went along with it.

  ***

  As I was hauled in front of the Temple of Concordia Augusta, where the Arval Brothers held their elections, it was still far too early for most people. The Forum lay deserted, apart from one drunk sleeping it off on the steps of the Temple of Saturn. The streets contained debris from the night before, rather than any promise of the day to come. A mound of crushed garlands half blocked our way as we marched under the Arch of Tiberius to the Vicus Jugarius. Loose petals stuck in one of my boots, and as I kicked out to get rid of them the Guards almost lifted me bodily and carried me along.

  I imagined we were heading for the administration area of the Palace. This turned out to be incorrect. Had we gone up the Arx or the Capitol I might have feared that the plan was to hurl me down on the traitors' route, from the top of the Tarpeian Rock. Whatever torture was intended must be more refined.

  We seemed to approach a private house. All the Palatine had been in public ownership for many years. Augustus had had the good fortune to be born there in the days when anybody rich could own a private home on the best of the Seven Hills; he then acquired all the other houses and used the whole Palatine for official purposes. In among the temples stood his own abode, a supposedly meager piece of real estate where he had claimed he lived very modestly; nobody was fooled by that. There was another extremely smart dwelling, the preserve of the imperial women, which bore the name of the dowager Empress Livia. And there was the Flaminia-the official residence of the currently serving Flamen Dialis-an ordinary house to look at, though affected by odd ritual covenants such as that fire might never be carried out of it, except for religious purposes.<
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  Suddenly, Anacrites whipped a toga around his thin shoulders. Aelianus donned one too. Then they wheeled into the Flaminia while the Paretorians carried me after them, shoulder high, like the main roast at a feast.

  The scene which ensued was curious. We were admitted at once to the presence of the Flamen and his stately wife. I was set on my feet, hemmed in by Guards. Various white-clad attendants lined the walls of the room respectfully. Scented oil wafted from a patera after some libation to the gods.

  The Flamen wore handwoven robes identical to those I had seen Numentinus parade in, topped off by the bonnet with the olive prong. He was holding his sacrificial knife, in its case, and his long pole to keep folk at a distance. His wife also carried her knife. She wore a thick gown of antique styling, with her hair bound up even more intricately than that of the Vestals. To match his leather hat she had a conical purple one, covered with a veil. She was, I knew, bound by almost as many restrictions, including one that said she must never climb more than three steps (lest someone see her ankles). She may have been an attractive woman, but I felt no temptation to ogle her.

  The Flamen Dialis appeared to be slightly nervous. He at least had the advantage that he knew the plan.

  The priestly couple sat enthroned on curule chairs, the backless folding items with curved legs that were formally used as a symbol of office by senior magistrates. A third had been placed near the Flamen. Alongside on this third seat was a familiar figure: Laelius Numentinus, though for once he was not wearing priestly robes. Perhaps a visit to the home of his successor had finally prevailed on him to abandon his lost glory. He was bareheaded. White hair surrounded a bald pate. I felt a shock of recognition. I glanced quickly at Aelianus. He too now saw that this was the haughty elderly man we had both witnessed leaving the house of the Master of the Arval Brethren when we went there to report the corpse. The man we thought had gone there to persuade them to maintain their silence about the killing-the man we assumed to be a close relative of the murderess.