One Virgin Too Many

by Lindsey Davis

  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.

&
nbsp; “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.”

  “He may not accept me.”

  “He will.”

  Worst luck.

  XXX

  FIRST, THE HOUSE.

  It looked as dreary as when I came here first with Maia. I felt today’s errand was likely to be just as abortive. Visiting for the second time, now that I knew more about the family, I viewed their unappealing home with an even more gloomy sense of mistrust.

  Somebody was leaving, just as I arrived. A litter emerged, ebony colored, with heavily drawn gray curtains. It was not the one with the Medusa boss that the Laelii themselves used. A well-wisher, perhaps. Whoever it was, they appeared to be accompanied by their laundry: a short train of slaves followed, one with a bulging clothes hamper and others with smaller baggage items. I refrained from asking the escort who this was; off-putting lads with pug noses walked alongside the litter. They paid as much attention to checking that the half doors were closed and the dark curtains kept tight as they did to surveying the street for menaces. Some husband who did not want his wife leaping out to buy too much from jewelry kiosks, I joked to myself.

  After they left, I walked up to the house, thoughtfully. The porter’s peephole was shuttered so I stood with my back to the front door as if waiting. Passersby would suppose I had knocked and was waiting. Instead, I listened. This was a house where a young girl had gone missing. There should be panic inside. Every footfall on the front doorstep should make somebody rush to investigate.

  Nothing.

  *

  I rang a bell which hung on its bracket so stiffly I had to wrench at it with a strength that seemed discourteous. Well, I am a delicate fellow. After an age of extra silence a thin, pale porter answered—a different man from the one who had dismissed Maia and me. I recommended a light application of low-grade olive oil to the bell.

  “Don’t use fish oil. It stinks. You’ll be plagued with cats.” H
e stared at me. “My name is Didius Falco. Your master is expecting me.”

  He was the kind of slave who only needed firm orders. Any burglar could have effected an entry just by speaking with bravado and a sweet accent. He had no idea what I wanted. I could have been any cheap confidence trickster about to offer the patrician householder a fake set of cheap Greek vases, stolen turnips, or this week’s special in curses, guaranteed to rot your enemy’s liver within five days or your money back.

  I was wearing my toga again. It must have helped. The porter had no sartorial discernment or he would have seen that this garment had once belonged to the army’s most disreputable centurion, and that the crumpled moths’ delight now spent its idle time on a crude hook which had left a large poke in the wool, just where the swathe was so elegantly flung over my left shoulder.

  Whoever he supposed I was, he set off to lead me straight to the old man. Now I was inside at last, I could sense the presence of a large staff. There had to be a steward or chamberlain, yet the porter never thought of consulting a superior about me. It argued a lack of regular dealings with visitors. Still, this saved time.

  As I followed my guide, I made rapid observations. After a standard curtained nook where the duty porter sat, we crossed a small hallway tiled in black and gray, then traversed a dark corridor. I could now hear the normal morning noises of a large house: brooms, voices giving domestic instructions. The voices were low, though not exactly hushed. I heard no laughter. No bantering old cooks or larking youths. No dog, no cat, no caged finches. The house was clean, though perhaps not spotless. No bad smells. No particularly pleasant ones either. Neither sandalwood boxes, potted white lilies, nor warm rose balsam bath oil. Either the kitchen was in another part of the house, or today’s lunch must be cold.

  We had first traversed the atrium. It was old-fashioned and open-roofed, with a small rectangular pool, dry at present. That was because—their first sign of humanity—the Laelii had builders in. Perhaps this was where Gloccus and Cotta bunked off to whenever Helena needed them. If so, here too they were conspicuously absent today, though they could have been sent away because of the trouble over Gaia.