“Lost it,” said one of the workmen. “Must have happened when they moved house. Terrible stink when they couldn’t find it. Of course,” he said, self-righteously, “we got the blame.”
“But you had nothing to do with it?” I knew they had not.
Aelianus handled the knife, being extremely cautious. It was finely sharpened, as it had to be in use. “You would think cutting animals’ throats was no job for a woman.”
“Oh, you soon get used to it.” We turned, startled, to see Statilia Laelia watching us. “My mother told me. She used to joke that you could tell a sacrificing priestess anywhere; they develop strong forearms.”
“I had always assumed that an assistant actually slew the beasts for the Flaminica,” I said.
Laelia smiled. “Women are far less squeamish than you think, Falco.”
She turned away. Then she spun back. “Juno! Is that a dog?” Nux wagged her tail. “We cannot have that here, Falco!”
“I have brought this dog to conduct a further search for Gaia. Anyone who has a ritual objection can go out for the day. The dog stays.”
Laelia bustled off, probably to complain to her husband or her father. Nux sat down on the atrium floor and scratched herself.
Aelianus gingerly replaced the knife. “Somebody has given this a splendidly good clean, Falco.”
“Got it to come up nicely, haven’t they?” the workman agreed.
Unlike us, he did not know that what had been cleaned off was probably the blood of the murdered Ventidius Silanus.
We took Nux to little Gaia’s bedroom. I let her sniff around, then showed her one of the child’s shoes. Nux lay down with her head between her paws, as if she was waiting for me to throw it.
“This won’t work,” scoffed my new assistant. He had a lot to learn. To start with: knowing when to shut up.
I gave Nux the shoe, which she agreed to carry while I led her downstairs and into the peristyle garden. The workmen were now mucking about with the pool, but they happily abandoned that and came to watch me. I led the dog around the colonnade. Nux liked that. She sniffed all the columns with interest. I turned her loose. She dropped the shoe and bounded off to explore the bags where the workmen were keeping their lunch.
I called her back. She came, sauntering reluctantly. “Nux, you are hopeless. Helena is a better sniffer dog than you. I wish I had brought her.”
“You want a proper hunting hound for this,” Aelianus said, sneering.
“Know anybody who owns one?”
“Plenty.”
“Here in Rome?”
“Of course not. People hunt in the country.”
“Well then, keep quiet until you can offer something useful.”
I showed Nux the clump of twigs bound together that Gaia had played with while pretending to clean out the Temple of Vesta. Puzzled, Nux shook it about in her teeth, then let it fall, waiting for a different game.
One of the workmen remarked, “The little sprat had a better mop than that. I made her one with real horsehair, like those the Vestals really use.”
Where was it?
I left Aelianus to talk to the men about the day Gaia disappeared. I could trust him with that. Presumably if they had anything useful to say, they would have offered it when the alarm was first raised.
I led my hopeless bloodhound to the other garden. Off the leash the scruffy bundle of fur wandered about, digging potholes, sniffing leaves, and looking back at me to see what behavior I wanted. I was still holding Gaia’s shoe, so I hurled it as far as I could into the undergrowth in the distance. Nux ran off and vanished. I sat on a bench, waiting for her to get bored.
No gardeners were about today. I was completely alone. Sometimes you have no idea what progress you are making with a case. Sometimes it all seems to be sorted, yet you find yourself niggled by the feeling that what looks straightforward cannot be that simple. I kept wondering what I had missed here. There were gaps in the story, gaps so well disguised that I could not even see where they existed, let alone try to fill them. I knew I was on the wrong tack. I just could not see why I felt that way.
It was still early morning, but now much warmer than when I was hauled out of the Mamertine. Blue sky was gradually deepening in color above me. Bees explored what long strands of herbage remained. A blackbird foraged among upended pots, wildly tossing aside unwanted leaves. I took one of those moments when I ought to have been busy, but hoped letting the quietness seep into my spirit might refresh me and bring me a bright idea. What could I do, anyway? I had searched yesterday as thoroughly as I knew how.
A woman came out from the house to my right. Someone I had never seen before. She was alone. A tallish, slim, middle-aged female, wearing gray in several layers, long full skirts and a graceful stole. She came straight to me and joined me on the bench. I noticed she wore a wedding ring.
“You must be Falco.” I made no reply, but glanced sideways uneasily, hoping for backup.
She had a face, bare of paint but probably well tended, which had gone past youth; her skin was still firm and her movements were easy. Gray eyes watched me with a bold, challenging air. She was unafraid of men. My guess was, she had never been afraid of anything. But then, courage is a form of lunacy. And of course, the woman who had killed Ventidius Silanus must have been both courageous and completely mad.
LIII
ODDLY ENOUGH, SHE looked perfectly sane.
Her eyes still considered me, lucid, serene, visibly intelligent. Women who have completed successful careers acquire a certain address. She was used to taking decisions, speaking out, leading the ceremonial.
Maybe it depends on your starting point. Maybe we are all mad in our own ways. Mind you, not many of us could slash the throat of another human. Not off the battlefield; not in cold blood.
“I understand you took a considerable risk last night, Falco, in order to speak to me.” I moved my head in assent. She was definitely the ex-Vestal, Terentia. “Some informer! You never found me, never came near me.”
“No, I apologize.”
“I suppose you saw the other chit instead.” I looked mystified. “ Constantia. You know who I mean.”
“Yes, I saw her.”
“What did you think?”
“A talented young woman. She should go far.”
“Or to the bad!” humphed Terentia. “A latter-day Postumia!”
“Postumia?”
“Don’t you know your history? She was tried for unchastity; she had dressed too elegantly, and spoken too freely and wittily. The Pontifex Maximus acquitted her of the sexual charge, but Postumia was warned to behave more becomingly, to stop making jokes and to dress less smartly.”
“I am shocked.”
“You are a clown, Falco. Someone else came badgering me this morning,” Terentia grumbled. “That dreadful man Anacrites.”
“Did you see him?”
“Certainly not. I left by the other door and came straight here. I do not communicate with spies.”
So much for Anacrites’ self-confidence! “He will follow you here.”
