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.”
