One Virgin Too Many (18 page)

XXVIII

PAST THE DUST and commotion of the huge building site for the Flavian Amphitheatre and then beyond the massive plinth for the Temple of Claudius, which Vespasian was also at last completing out of gratitude to his political patron, lay the Caelian Hill. This quiet, wooded haven looks south over the Capena Gate and the Circus Maximus. It is one of the most ancient, unspoiled parts of the city, the rocky hillside rich with springs. They were originally the province of water goddesses called the Camenae, but the nymph Egeria, saucy lass, rather usurped their dominance. Here is the famous grove where King Numa Pompilius consulted (his word for it) the darling nymph night after night while she (he alleged) dictated political edicts to him; here too is the spring named after his lovely, helpful muse, to which the Vestals daily traipse.

Egeria's Spring must have been extremely handy for the Palace of King Numa. He would not have had too long a stroll in his search for inspiration. (One more example, Helena explains to me, of a dumb but well-intentioned man in power being brought to greater glory than he ever deserved by a much more intelligent lady friend.) Egeria kept old Numa going strong to over eighty, anyway.

Constantia approached the ancient watering hole with the stately gait that her sisterhood cultivates. Carrying a water vessel on the head is supposed to improve the posture; it certainly draws attention to a full womanly figure in a way that is not supposed to happen with the damsels in white. Having a girdle tied in a Hercules knot right under a well-rounded bust is bound to draw attention to the bust. Generations of Vestals have probably been well aware of this. Constantia no doubt viewed such thoughts with disdain. She looked to be in her early twenties; she must have completed the first ten years of learning her duties and was now equipped to carry them out in a reverential--though slightly distracting--style.

While Constantia was filling the pitcher, Helena Justina took Cloelia by the hand and--with gestures to me to wait behind--they walked sedately forwards. Helena addressed the Virgin by name. The lictor immediately told Helena to get lost. Offered the threatening points of his ceremonial rods, she backed away.

Constantia, perhaps long practiced, had ignored the small flurry as her petitioners were discouraged. Now the pitcher was full it was much heavier; she needed to concentrate. She swung it up on to her head, straight-backed and superior. I began to appreciate that the complex arrangements of braids worn by the Virgins might actually make a coiled mat to support their water jars and save them bruised heads. Eyes straight ahead like a tightrope walker, the Vestal moved to retrace her steps back to the Forum. She held her free arm very slightly apart from her body for balance, but mainly swayed gently as women in far-off provinces do as they visit wells outside their mud-hut villages, appearing to enjoy their carrying skills.

The stones around Egeria's shrine were green with slimy algae. Constantia seemed to be prepared for trouble. When her foot slipped, she regained her balance with commendable aplomb. Only a little water slopped out of her jar. It probably happened every day--and every day, Constantia probably looked just as annoyed when her ankle turned.

Helena was still standing nearer than I was. I think what she muttered to me afterwards, keeping it quiet from Cloelia with a genuinely shocked air, must have been a mistake. She surely misheard what Constantia had gasped as she skidded.

"Well, you believe what you like, Marcus. You are so innocent, I expect you would have thought Numa Pompilius was just a man who liked to work with a female secretary. Egeria proved to be efficient, and of course he never laid a finger on the nymph . . . But I could swear that when the venerable Virgin nearly turned her ankle, she winced and cursed."

Little Cloelia looked up scornfully. "Of course she did, Helena. She said
'Balls!'
"

XXIX

WE TRAILED Constantia all the way back to the House of the Vestals, keeping at a safe distance in case the lictor got frisky with his rods. Helena, who could be sensationally persistent, went straight back to the door porter and asked if her request for an interview had been considered yet. Far too soon for an answer. Ladies who lead lives of traditional simplicity observe the traditional rules for correspondence too: they do not follow up messages until the feast has gone cold.

Constantia herself had an excuse: ferrying water from the shrine. But do not imagine the Virgins are so geared to simplicity they read letters from the public personally. They have a large staff, and it certainly includes secretaries.

No, of course I don't think they employ the secretaries to write their love letters. Saying that would be blasphemy.

* * *

We made our second attempt at going home. Leaving the enclosure on the Sacred Way side this time, we emerged onto the small Street of the Vestals opposite the Regia--once the grand Etruscan Palace of Numa Pompilius, aforementioned aficionado of nymphs. I shrugged off the swathes of my toga and slung that hot, hated garment over my shoulder casually.

The Regia had long ago ceased to be occupied domestically, and few traces now remained of whatever ancient buildings had once occupied the site. It was a sacred area, used for centuries by the College of Pontiffs. They know how to earmark good accommodation. Some consul had rebuilt everything in sight using his spoils of war, a plunder so magnificent he had been able to floor and wall the new edifice with solid white and gray marble. As a result, this strongly constructed area had survived the Great Fire when all the huge patrician houses farther along the Sacred Way had been swept to destruction. Facing us now were the Temple of Mars, containing the spears that generals shook before departing for battle; an integral vestibule; and the Temple of Ops, the old-fashioned goddess of plenty, which only the Vestals and Pontifex Maximus were allowed to enter. To our right, at the far end of the complex, was a small porch, under whose columns we saw a disturbance.

A litter with an eagle on top and purple curtains was being lifted by bearers, who set off at a smart pace. Noisily tramping ahead went a phalanx of plumed helmets: Praetorian Guards. As they spread across the road, looking for more scope to knock passersby aside, we knew we were witnessing the departure of the Emperor. Presumably, he had been there in his capacity as Pontifex, pootling around the priestly college on some religious business.

I would have thought nothing of it. But a crowd of hangers-on had been waiting for Vespasian to leave. As they now scattered, one man broke free of the rest; he was going at a fast lick. He saw me. A relieved expression lit his face. He slowed up.

"Falco! What a coincidence--I was sent out to find you. I thought it would take me half the day."

I recognized him. I last saw him in Lepcis Magna, just a few weeks back. A calm, sensible slave, he attended the Emperor's envoy, Rutilius Gallicus. At present the last thing I wanted was a social invitation from the man who gave the order to send my brother-in-law to the lions. But nobody issues their dinner invitations from the Regia. This was about something else. As I suspected, the message for me was to see Rutilius urgently--on official business. There had to be a religious connection. However, I did not suppose it would involve geese or chickens.

Helena kissed me and said she would go back to see her parents at the Capena Gate before taking Cloelia home. I rushed across the road with the attendant, hoping to find Rutilius still at the Regia in order to avoid chasing around after him.

He was there. He was wearing full senatorial purple. With a sigh, I resumed my toga as I approached.

His slave won a look of approval for finding me so speedily. I received a rather terse greeting. I knew this scenario. Vespasian and various officials had just held a meeting in the pontifical offices. Whatever the agenda, the action plan recorded in the minutes had been dumped on Rutilius Gallicus. Everyone else had now gone home for lunch, each congratulating himself on a successful discussion in which he dodged responsibility. My man from Libya was left in charge of some troublesome task.

I did not waste time or effort in sympathy. If he had sent for me, the next stage was as traditional and simple as the daily lives of the Vestals: the noble Rutilius would shed the burden; I would acquire it. Then
he
was going home for lunch. My eggs and olives would be fed to the dog tonight.

* * *

He started by looking around shiftily. Interviewing me at the Regia had not been his intention, and he wanted to find somewhere suitable. Even in a place where every scroll was automatically stamped as confidential, an office would not do, apparently. Bad news.

He led me out into the courtyard, an odd, triangular-shaped area, and also coolly paved in white and gray marble slabs. Around it were various old rooms used for meetings, and scribes' nooks occupied by the guardians of the archives and annals which were stored here. Cut off from the bustle of the Sacred Way by a wall with a muffling colonnade, it was quiet, congenial, unhurried. I could hear occasional low voices and the light footfall of sandals on feet that knew the interior corridors.

In the center of the courtyard was a large underground cistern, possibly an old grain silo from centuries ago when people actually lived in Numa's Palace. Rutilius led me here. Standing above it, as if inspecting the structure idly, we could talk without being approached or overheard. This was abnormal secrecy. My fears must be right: he had some ghastly job for me.

"Enjoying your return to Rome, Falco?" I smiled in silence. He could leave out the pleasantries. Rutilius cleared his throat. "Congratulations on your social elevation!" I tucked my thumbs in my belt like a true plebeian. "And Procurator of Poultry, too?" I nodded pleasantly; it was hardly an insult, even though my family all crumpled up in laughter whenever it was mentioned. "You are a man of many talents; well, I realized that in Africa. Somebody told me that you also write poetry?" For one ghastly moment it looked as though he were about to confess that he scribbled too, and would I like to have a look at his notebooks sometime?

I stopped smiling. Poetry? Nobody asked an informer about his intellectual life. Rutilius must be really desperate.

* * *

"We mentioned the other day that I am priest of the Cult of the Deified Emperors?"

"We did, sir. Sodalis Augustalis? Quite an honor."

It was hard to see how he achieved it. He was a first-generation rank-holder from the foot of the Alps; there must have been many a senator just as talented and much better known. His career, as I knew it, was a fair one with the usual civil and military service. Aedile; quaestor; praetor; consul. He had been governor of Galatia when the famous general Corbulo was swashbuckling around that arena. Nero had had Corbulo killed for being too good a soldier. Maybe the incoming Emperor, Galba, hoped to profit from any antagonism Rutilius felt towards Nero afterwards, and that was why he acquired his prestigious priesthood.

If so, Galba died too soon to enjoy any loyalty he tried to cultivate. But Rutilius also had personal connections with the legion Vespasian entrusted to his son Titus (the Fifteenth: my later brother's legion, so I knew just what a close-knit clique those braggarts were). When Vespasian became Emperor, Rutilius somehow pushed to the front, one of the first consuls of the reign. Nobody had heard of him. Frankly, I had taken no notice of the man either--until I met him out in Tripolitania.

What he did have was ambition. It made him a ferocious hard worker. He was stepping up the treads of power as niftily as a roofer with a shoulder hod of pantiles. This was the kind of official Vespasian liked: Rutilius Gallicus came with no awkward old debts of patronage. Galba was irrelevant; Rutilius had been made by the Flavians. He possessed energy and goodwill, and it was quite likely that whatever had been entrusted to him today he had volunteered for.

I knew I would not be granted the same option.

"I want to talk about a delicate issue, Falco. You are the first choice for the work."

"I usually know what that means, sir."

"It is not dangerous."

"Surprise! So what is it?"

Rutilius remained patient. He understood these were my own pleasantries, a way to brace myself for today's unwanted supplicant and today's sour job.

"There is a problem, one you already know about." He was brisk now. I liked him more. "A child who was to be submitted to the Vestal Virgins' lottery tomorrow has disappeared."

"Gaia Laelia."

"Exactly. You can see the tricky elements--granddaughter of an ex-Flamen Dialis, niece of a Flamen Pomonalis. Apart from needing to find her for humanitarian reasons--"

"They do count, then?"

"Of course! But Falco, this is extremely sensitive."

"I won't suggest the lottery result is already decided, but let's say, sir: if Gaia Laelia were chosen, she would be regarded as highly suitable?"

"Her family background would certainly mean that the Pontifex would feel confident she is fully prepared for a lifetime of service."

"That sounds like an official brief." Rutilius for once grinned in sympathy. "Rutilius, there is no need to dodge. You want me to find her?"

"Well, the Palace fixers are jumpy. The Urban Prefect raised the alarm." Wrong. Lucius Petronius had done that. "Her grandfather has now admitted to Vespasian that she is lost. Somebody learned of your interest. According to Palace records, you still work as a partner with a member of the vigiles. The records are out of date, as always! We had an interesting discussion at the meeting I just attended about how you managed the vigiles' support. Then Vespasian pointed out that your last known colleague was Anacrites, his own Chief Spy."

"More shrieks of outrage ensued?"

"By that stage you had achieved some notoriety, yes."

"So then you said, sir, that my current partner is Camillus Justinus so I no longer pirate my backup from the ranks of public servants. This makes me a responsible hound who can safely be enrolled to sniff out lost Virgins?"

"I said, Falco, you had my utmost confidence as a discreet, efficient operative. You may like to know Vespasian agreed."

"Thank you, sir. If I take this on, I will need entry to the Laelius house and permission to question the family."

Rutilius groaned. "I told them you would ask that."

I gave him a straight stare. "You would do the same." He was silent. "Rutilius, you would not be discussing the matter, had you failed to persuade your colleagues--including the Emperor--that it has to be done this way."

He took a moment before answering. "The Emperor left here on his way to inform Laelius Numentinus that you must be granted access."

"Right." I relaxed. I had been prepared for unacceptable conditions. This job had my interest; I would probably have taken it anyway. "I am not being offensive. You know why I lay down these rules. The child will probably turn up at home. I need to carry out a proper search, which I admit will be intrusive. It has to be. The first place I look will be in their baskets of dirty underwear, and it will get worse from there on. Besides, if her disappearance is no accident, the most likely cause is domestic. It will be vital to question the whole family."

"This is all understood."

"I shall, as you say, be discreet."

"Thanks, Falco."

We had started to move towards one of the courtyard exits, heading for the elderly, foursquare arch of Fabius Maximus over the crossroads on the Sacred Way.

"Why," I asked bluntly, "are we being so careful with this family? Surely it is not just a matter of status?"

Rutilius paused, then shrugged. I felt he knew more than he had said. He gestured to our right as we emerged. "Do you have the current address of the Laelii? Before Numentinus became Flamen Dialis and moved to the official residence, they used to live down there, you know--in one of the great houses that perished in Nero's Great Fire."

"Jupiter! The Sacred Way--the best address in Rome? I know where their new place is, thanks; on the Aventine. A decent house--though hardly the same."

"They were once a prominent family," Rutilius reminded me.

"Obviously. This quarter was favored by famous republicans: Clodius Pulcher, Cicero. And was there not a notorious house along here that was owned by a Scaurus--with those expensive red-black marble columns that ended up on the Theatre of Marcellus? My father is a specialist salesman, and he always cites its record price: fifteen million sesterces it changed hands for once. Gaia Laelia's father has Scaurus as his cognomen; is that significant?"

Rutilius shrugged again. His noble shoulders were working hard today. "There could well be a past connection. It is a family name, no doubt."

I felt my eyes narrowing. "Do the Laelii have money nowadays?"

"They must have some."

"Will I be allowed to ask them?"

"Only if it is very obviously relevant. They may not answer, of course," Rutilius warned. "Please remember, you are not interrogating Census frauds today."

I would have preferred that. Give me an honest cheat. Infinitely preferable to a devious and hypocritical so-called pillar of public life. "One more thing, sir: time is of the essence. I need support. I would like to bring in my friend and ex-partner, Petronius Longus."

"I thought you would say that too," Rutilius confessed. "Sorry; it is impossible. The Emperor decided that we should not involve the vigiles in direct contact with the family. The troops are to be ordered to search the city for the child, but the old Flamen is adamant that he does not want the big boys invading his home. Remember, Falco, for most of his life, Numentinus was bound never to look on armed men or to witness fetters. Even his ring had to be made from a broken band of metal. He cannot change. The paraphernalia of law and order still affronts him. This is the situation: he refuses to let in the vigiles; you have been put forward as the acceptable alternative."