One Virgin Too Many (28 page)

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.

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.

There was no time to wonder. They all seemed to be expecting us. We had packed into the room with little formality. I was still held by the Guards. Anacrites tried to merge into the wall fresco, looking like a very dead still-life duck. Young Aelianus stepped forward. At a nod from the Flamen, he made a short prepared speech. It was much like the plea for mercy that he made to the Chief Vestal last night. With time to consider what he was doing, he had become more hesitant, but he acquitted himself decently.

Before replying, the Flamen Dialis leaned towards Numentinus as if to confirm his agreement. They exchanged a low murmur, then this time they both nodded. The Praetorians stepped aside from me. The Flamen Dialis struck a pose and affected to notice me. He started and covered his eyes theatrically. Assuming a sudden air of horror, he cried in a loud voice, "A man in chains! Strike them off in accordance with the ritual!"

* * *

I believe that sometimes criminals are freed formally from fetters by sending for a blacksmith who cracks open the links. That must be a satisfying form of release. But Anacrites had always been a cheapskate. (It was not his fault. Shortage of resources went with his job.) He had originally secured the fetters with a padlock, and on the Flamen's word, he undid them carefully with the proper key, so they could be kept for reuse.

The ironmongery was then carried from the room, and we all waited in silence until we heard the racket as it was hurled off the Flaminia's roof. There were metallic scuffles afterwards, as the links were gathered up frugally. Anacrites winked at the Praetorians, who gave a smart salute in unison, then removed themselves, their boots thumping scratchily on the floorboards. The Flaminica winced. Perhaps it was a ritual that she went on her knees and applied the beeswax herself. Perhaps she was just a careful housewife with a respect for antique carpentry.

"You are a free man," confirmed the Flamen Dialis.

"Thank you," I said to everyone.

As I rubbed my bruised limbs, the new Flamen spoke gravely from the curule chair. "Marcus Didius Falco, I have decided you should receive an explanation of certain matters."

He asked his attendants to leave the room. He and his wife, together with Numentinus, remained. So did I. So, at a gesture from the Flamen, did Camillus Aelianus. He came and stood alongside me. He looked pleased with himself, and I did not begrudge him that.

Out of unwilling respect for the other man who had helped save my life, I said, "I would like Anacrites to hear this too." He was allowed to stay. He kept well back, looking humble. Well, as humble as it is possible to be if you are a lousy-natured spy.

The Flamen Dialis addressed Aelianus and me. "You two have been attempting to discover the identity of the Arval Brother who was murdered in the Sacred Grove of the Dea Dia."

We said nothing.

"His name was Ventidius Silanus."

Less experienced than me, Aelianus was on the verge of bursting out that we already knew as much. I gripped his arm unobtrusively.

It was Laelius Numentinus, staring ahead fixedly, who then volunteered to tell us what I had privately guessed: "Ventidius Silanus was married to Terentia Paulla, my late wife's sister."

It seemed courteous not to comment; it would have been difficult to do so tactfully at first. I breathed slowly, then somehow ignored the scandalous aspects and said in a deferential tone, "We offer our commiserations, sir." I breathed again. "That gives us a lot to think about. However, with respect, it does not alter the urgent need to find your little granddaughter. I hope you will still accept help to search for her?" Numentinus inclined his white head stiffly. "Then I shall go home quickly now to see my wife. When I have washed off the stench of prison, I shall return to your house and continue where I left off yesterday."

Nobody said the obvious: according to what the Master of the Arval Brethren had let Aelianus and me believe, Terentia Paulla, wife to the late Ventidius, was a crazy murderess.