“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 have 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 trowelshaped.
“There is no sheath,” commented Aelianus. I knew what he meant.
