recently. It could be assumed that the killer has in fact struck twice.” Still no reaction. “Terentia, the Master of the Arval Brethren let me believe that Ventidius Silanus was slain by his wife.”
“He’s a fool.” Terentia Paulla gazed at the sky with her head back. She leaned forwards, with her face in both hands, rubbing her eyes. Were they the eyes of a deranged woman? Or merely one who was sinking under a morass of male incompetence? She growled to herself, a low, desperate noise at the back of her throat, yet I felt strangely unafraid.
“If the Master is right, how courageous you are!” she suggested sarcastically after a moment. “Sitting here alone with me… I have killed neither Ventidius nor Gaia. I love the child dearly, and she knows it. I am merely the stubborn, benevolent sister of her grandmother, who has been trying to protect her.”
I watched the woman carefully. She must be under great stress. The questions I was now asking would tax anyone, even the innocent. Especially the innocent. Terentia knew she could not simply accuse me of an informer’s impertinence. So she had been dragging out for me what she believed to be the truth, much of it embarrassing to repeat to any stranger. If I accepted the Master’s hint, she was accused of a dreadful crime. If Terentia Paulla was the type to break out and run crazy, this was the time for it to show.
She looked back at me with arrogance, anger, and high feminine scorn. She wanted to rage at me, probably to strike me. But she did nothing.
“It was somebody else,” she said. “Somebody else killed my husband. Apprehended and bloodstained, she raved at the Master that she was the dead man’s wife, and the Master believed her at the time. Men are so unobservant and easily suggestible. Besides, if you know anything about marriage, her claim seemed perfectly feasible. Later, of course, pretending that a wife had killed him seemed a good way to deter you and that Camillus boy from poking your noses in. But she was simply a past victim of Ventidius, whom he had dropped-at my insistence-and who went wild when she felt rejected.”
“Not you, then?” I confirmed softly.
“No, it was not me. I could never, ever do any such thing.”
Of course, all cornered killers say that.
Sadly, I nodded, letting Terentia know that I would not be coerced into protecting the real killer. Not while there was any doubt about the fate of little Gaia.
Then two things happened.
My dog came to look for me. Nux suddenly rushed out of the far undergrowth, barking, though her yelps were muffled by what she was carrying in her mouth. She brought it to me: a piece of clean white wood, a new stave, to which had been nailed long strands of horsehair to make some kind of brush.
And from the house stepped Aelianus. He looked startled when he saw Terentia, but what he had to say was too urgent to put off.
“Falco, you ought to come.” I was already on my feet. “The vigiles have just delivered Scaurus here, and everyone is going absolutely wild. It seems more than just a quarrel. If they aren’t stopped, I think somebody is going to be killed.”
I picked up the dog and ran.
LIV
THE FUROR was occurring in the atrium. Very traditional. The center of a true Roman house. The hearth, the pool (still dry, in this instance), and the household gods.
There were people everywhere. The first one I recognized was Anacrites. He was vainly attempting to shepherd slaves and builders away from the fuss, while they tried to push past him and ogle. Aelianus joined in, shoving the crowd back down a corridor.
“Anacrites! Quickly-what’s happening?”
“Madness! The vigiles brought the son-”
“Scaurus?”
“Yes. I had just arrived and was attempting to gain admittance to see the ex-Vestal.” His eyes lingered upon Terentia. “The old man had come to argue with me. When he saw his son, apparently under arrest, Numentinus seemed to have expected it. He was furious. He went at Scaurus, berating him, saying that Scaurus had only had to do what he had been told, and everything could have been sorted out. I don’t know what Scaurus’ orders were-”
“To keep quiet!” Terentia elaborated. Then she fumed, “Numentinus could have done the same.”
Anacrites obviously guessed who she was, and still thought she was the lunatic who had killed Ventidius. He looked nervous; I no longer was. I had no time to explain. “Then a woman rushed in,” he told me. “ The son yelled at her-he was demanding, what had she said to get him brought here like this? She went hysterical-”
“Falco-” Terentia began urgently.
“It’s Laelia-yes, I understand.” I gave her a straight look. I needed to hear no more. I shoved the dog into Anacrites’ arms. If Nux bit him, so much the better. I rushed ahead into the atrium. Terentia Paulla was close on my heels.
They were all there. Numentinus appeared to have had some kind of seizure. Caecilia Paeta was bending over the elderly man, trying to fan his face with her hands. Ariminius was on the floor. He had blood all over him, though I could not see where he was hurt. He was alive, though curled up and gasping; he needed help, and in the next few minutes.
A couple of vigiles were trying to drag Scaurus to safety while his sister Laelia wielded the late Flaminica’s sacrificial knife. Laelia must have snatched it from the shrine. I cursed myself for having ever left it there. Athene, Gaia’s horse-faced nurse, was making a brave attempt to hold Laelia back; she must share the duties of caring for and guarding the lunatic. In great danger herself, she was nonetheless hanging on although Laelia was fighting her off with obscenities and violence. As I approached, Laelia started beating the nurse, luckily with her free hand, not the one that held the knife. Athene acquired yet more bruises on top of those she had had when I interviewed her, yet she doggedly took the punishment.
Every time his sister lunged near enough to Scaurus, she stabbed at him wildly. Instead of retreating, Scaurus was waving his arms at her, and yelling. He was fueling her agitation. It almost looked deliberate.
One of the watch fastened both arms around Scaurus from behind and would have carried him off backwards, but a fierce knife stroke from Laelia slashed into the man’s forearm, and he let go, cursing and pouring with blood. Another vigilis rushed to support his wounded colleague and pull him away from danger.
Caecilia Paeta now saw what was happening. With a scream, she left the old man and ran to her husband, crying at Scaurus to stop before he was killed. Oblivious, Scaurus only concerned himself with goading his sister. She looked radiant, exultantly jeering at him, and encouraging him to risk himself on the wide sweeps of the wicked bronze knife. She tossed Athene to one side; the poor girl fell heavily, and as I broke through the crowd I signaled her to keep away.
Caecilia had caught at the front of Scaurus’ clothing, trying to deter him from approaching his crazy sister. With great determination, his still-loyal wife hung on to him and held him back. Nobody else seemed willing to help.
“Dear gods, what a mess!”
I keep a dagger in my boot. Half the time I never used it, and it would not achieve much now. I was the only person here who would have any sort of weapon, except possibly Anacrites, and he was still in poor health, unreliable in a ruck. This was a household of priests; for them, swords were what antique heroes hung up in temple sanctums prettily adorned with laurel twigs. Even the vigiles, as civil troops, are unarmed. So it was up to me.
Laelia was now really raving. Apart from Athene’s and Caecilia’s efforts, only his sister’s uncontrolled mania had saved Scaurus from real harm. Nobody dared approach her, but she had no aim and only half an intention. Flecks of froth showed around her mouth. A manic grin was transfixed on her flushed face. She was dancing from
