One Virgin Too Many

by Lindsey Davis

  With an upheaval of purple, Titus Caesar, all curls and chubby chops, rushed from a dais to welcome us. He was typical of the Flavians, thickset and almost stout, apparently an ordinary fit countryman, yet conscious of his dignity.

  “Helena Justina—how wonderful to see you! Falco, welcome.”

  Titus looked ready to burst with pride in his conquest—or at being conquered by such a wonder. Understandably, he was eager to show off his new royal girlfriend to a senator’s daughter who once cold-shouldered him. Helena responded with a quiet smile. Had he known Helena well, Titus would have restrained his enthusiasm at that point. If she had smiled like that at me, I would have returned to my couch, rammed my knees together, clasped my hands, and kept quiet for the next hour in case I had my ears blasted.

  Being the son and heir of an emperor, Titus assumed he was in charge here. Queen Berenice, if I am any judge, detected more complex undercurrents. She had followed him down to us, shimmering. A neat trick. Silken robes help. Then it’s easy to do (Helena told me afterwards) if your sandals are difficult to walk in, so you have to sway sinuously in order not to fall over when traversing low steps.

  Attendants placed us all informally on couches off the dais. The cushions were packed so hard with down, I nearly slid off mine. Like all architect-designed mansions, the whole place was dangerous; my boot studs had already skidded a few times on over-polished floor mosaics. There was so much to look at, I could not decide where to feast my eyes. (I refer to the exquisite paintwork—that on the walls and the ceiling vaults, of course.)

  “Falco—you are very quiet!” chuckled Titus. He was reeking with happiness, poor dog.

  “Dazzled, Caesar.” I could be polite. After today’s efforts, however, I may have been openly flagging. Physically I was wrecked. I hoped it was temporary. I ached worryingly. Age was catching up. My hands and fingernails felt rough; the dry skin of my face felt stretched. Even after a fast steam and scrape in the baths, the contents of that lavatory were still arousing unpleasant nasal memories.

  “Marcus is exhausted,” Helena told Titus, settling herself elegantly. Though a private lass, in company she sometimes produced a composure that startled me. I knew when to shut up, anyway. I was too tired, so she was crisply taking charge. “He has spent all day searching for the little girl at the Laelius house. When I tracked him down for you, he was filthy, and I am sure they had given him nothing to eat—”

  Berenice responded at once to the cue. (So the rumors were true; she had taken over the domestic keys already … ) Rubies flashed as she waved a languid hand to call for sustenance for me. Helena beamed thanks in her direction.

  “No luck?” Titus asked me. He looked very keen for a reassuring answer.

  “No sign of her, unfortunately,” Helena said. Trays of dainties had arrived. I started to pick at them; Helena weighed in like a food taster, then selected from the silver bowls and popped morsels into my mouth almost as fast as I could deal with them. Fortunately, my well-wound toga stopped me slumping. Propped up in its hot woollen swathes, I succumbed to being tended like an invalid. This was nice. A comfortable palace. Helena did the talking. There was plenty for me to stare around at while I let her run the interview.

  I wondered what the home life of the imperial family would be like nowadays: young Domitian, aping Augustus seizing Livia, had snatched a married woman and announced himself married to her; that was after seducing every senator’s wife he could persuade to favor him—before his father came home and clipped his wings. Titus (once divorced, once widowed) had now been joined—perhaps unexpectedly—by his exotic royal piece. Vespasian had previously lived openly with an extremely astute freedwoman. Antonia Caenis, my late patroness (was it coincidence that Berenice had delayed her arrival in Rome until after the death of Vespasian’s sensible, influential concubine?). There were a couple of very young female relations—Titus’ daughter, Julia, and a Flavia. Vespasian himself had now decamped to live in the Gardens of Sallust in the north of the city, near his old family house. But even without the old man, communal breakfasts must be riveting affairs.

  “I suppose your father must have considered whether to continue with the Vestals’ lottery?” Helena was asking Titus.

  “Well, we feel there is no choice about tomorrow. There are twenty perfectly good candidates—”

  “Nineteen,” I mumbled, between mouthfuls.

  “Gaia Laelia may yet be found safe and well!” Titus reproved me.

  “One other little girl has had to be withdrawn,” Helena informed him calmly. “Her father died.” Titus pulled up, seeing she knew more about this than he did. “If the lottery is held,” Helena explained for the Queen’s benefit, “all the candidates must be present. It is essential that when the Pontifex Maximus selects a name, he can continue with the ritual: he must then take the girl by the hand, welcome her with the ancient declaration—and remove her at once from her family to her new home in the Vestals’ House.”

  The Queen listened, making no comment, but watching with dark, heavily etched eyes. I wondered what she made of us. Had Titus told her who he had sent for? If so, how did he describe us? Did she expect this low-born man with tired limbs and chin stubble, bossed into easy submission by a cool creature who spoke to the Emperor’s son like one of her own brothers?

  Helena continued to include the Queen: “We are talking about a symbolic ceremony in which the chosen girl leaves the authority of her own family, and abandons all her possessions as a member of that family, then becomes a child of Vesta. Her hair is shaved off and hung on a sacred tree—though of course, it is afterwards allowed to grow again; she dons the formal attire of a Vestal Virgin, and from that day begins her training. If the chosen child were not present when her name was called, it would be very awkward.”

  “Impossible,” said Titus.

  I chewed thoughtfully on a lobster dumpling. Tut, tut; the chef had left a piece of shell. I removed it with a pained expression, as if I expected better here.

  “I thought Rutilius Gallicus was your commissioner in the search for Gaia Laelia?” Helena asked Titus, perhaps reproving him for interference. I caught the eye of the young Caesar and smiled faintly. Time was, he had had me on the hop whenever he summoned me to a meeting. Well, I was respectable now; I could bring along my talented, well-bred girlfriend to defend me like a gladiator’s trainer choreographing a fight.

  She had waved up an attendant with a wine flagon, but when the boy reached us, she took the vessel from him and poured my drink herself. The attendant looked startled. Helena flashed him a smile, and he jumped back, unaccustomed to acknowledgment.

  “Yes, well …” Titus was hedging. I had always reckoned he could be devious, so this was unlike him. I sipped the wine. Helena leaned forwards, as if waiting to hear what Titus had to say. Her flimsy stole had slipped down her back. Curled tendrils of her hair wafted on her neck. I reached out my free hand and tugged one of the soft tendrils so she sat nearer to me again. In defiance of protocol, I put my arm around her.

  “Some extra dimension, Caesar?” Now the authoritative tone was mine. I thought Berenice sharpened her gaze slightly, wondering whether Helena would accept my takeover. She did, of course. The refined and elegant Helena Justina knew that if she gave me any trouble I was going to tickle her neck until she collapsed in fits.

  “This is rather sensitive, Falco.” It would be. I might be Procurator of the Sacred Geese, but I remained the fixer who was given all the rough jobs. “I just want to beg you to do all you can.”

  “Marcus will continue until he has found the child.” Long practiced, Helena had worked free of my restraining arm.

  “Yes, of course.” Titus looked submissive. Then he looked at Berenice. She seemed to be waiting for something; he seemed embarrassed. He admitted, “There has been some bad feeling about the Queen and me.”

  I inclined my head politely. At my side, Helena took my hand. Surely, she cannot have imagined I would say something rude? The man was in
love. It was sad to watch.

  “Ridiculous!” scoffed Titus. In his eyes, Berenice could do no wrong, and anyone who suggested there were problems was being unkind and irrational. He should have known better—as his father had done, when Berenice first tried her wiles on the old man himself.

  The lovers were insulated here; they might have convinced themselves everything was fine. This would carry Titus through a great deal of public disapproval. But he would have to face the truth when Vespasian himself decided to bust up the love nest.

  Murmurs of discontent must have already reached the romantic pair. “As you may know,” Titus told me in a firm, formal voice, as if he were speech-making, “the last time the missing child, Gaia Laelia, was seen publicly was at a reception which was given to allow all the young lottery candidates to meet Queen Berenice.”

  “Gaia Laelia spent part of the afternoon on the Queen’s lap,” I said. “I’m glad you raised this, Caesar—I understand there was some kind of commotion?”

  “You are well informed, Falco!”

  “My contacts are everywhere.” He thought about that. I regretted saying it.

  “This may be important,” Helena said to Berenice. “Can you tell us what the fuss was?”

  “No.” Titus answered for the Queen. “All the girl talked about was her pleasure in being selected—I mean, being subjected to the lottery.”

  I was beginning to wonder if Berenice lacked Latin. However, this was the woman who, while sharing the Judaean kingdom with her incestuous brother, had once protested volubly against the barbarity of a Roman governor in Jerusalem; she was a fearless orator who had appealed for clemency for her people barefoot, though in danger of her life. She could speak out when she wanted to.

  And now she did. Ignoring Titus studiously, she appeared to override his instructions to keep her mouth shut: “The child was rather quiet. After I seemed to win her confidence, she suddenly exclaimed, ‘Please let me stay here. There is a mad person at home who is going to kill me!’ I was alarmed. I thought the child herself must be crazy. Attendants came forward immediately and took her away.”

  To her credit, the Queen looked disturbed by remembering the incident.

  “Did anyone investigate her claims?” I asked.

  “For heaven’s sake, Falco,” snapped Titus. “Who could believe it? She comes from a very good family!”

  “Oh, that’s all right, then,” I retorted caustically.

  “We made a mistake,” he admitted.

  I had to accept it, since so had I. “Gaia also talked at some length, that day and I believe on a subsequent occasion, to the Vestal Constantia,” I told him. “Would it be possible for you to arrange officially for me to interview Constantia?”

  He pursed his lips. “It is thought preferable not to allow that, in case it should give the wrong impression. There must be no suggestion of any specific link between one particular child and the Vestals. We would not want to compromise the lottery.”

  That clinched it for me. I had no doubts now: the lottery was not just compromised, it was a cold-blooded fix.

  “With Gaia Laelia mysteriously missing, the reception has had unforeseen and rather unfortunate consequences,” Titus said. The food was starting to revive me, but I was still so tired I must have been slow. “It has been seized on by scandalmongers.”

  Belatedly, I caught up. “Surely the Queen is not being linked to the disappearance of a child she had only met once, and then formally?”

  As soon as I said it, I could see the predicament. Slander need not be believable. Gossip is always more enjoyable if it looks likely to be untrue.

  Berenice was Judaean. It was believed that Titus had promised her marriage. He may indeed have done so, though his father was unlikely ever to allow it. Ever since Cleopatra, Romans have had a horror of exotic foreign women stealing the hearts of their generals and subverting the peace and prosperity of Rome.

  Titus spoke harshly. “Madness!” Maybe. But an accusation that Berenice was a child-killer—or a Vestal Virgin abductor—was just the kind of ridiculous rumor that fools would want to believe. “Falco, I want this girl found.”

  For a moment, I did feel sorry for them. The woman had to go home again—but it ought to be for the proper reasons, not because of some sleaze dreamed up by political opponents. Instead, the Flavians would have to show that they understood what Rome required and that, if he were to become emperor one day, Titus was man enough to face his responsibilities.

  To lighten the atmosphere, I said gently, “If I do find Gaia safe and alive, and if it is too late for the lottery, I have just one request—can somebody else have the task of explaining to the weeping child that she will not be a Vestal Virgin after all?”

  Titus relaxed and laughed.

  *

  Helena, who had been quietly munching the tidbits while I talked, now jumped to her feet and pulled me after her. Visitors were supposed to wait until they were dismissed by royalty, but that did not bother her. Until I was made middle-class, it would not have bothered me either—so I reached back shamelessly for another lobster knickknack. “He needs to rest,” my beloved told Titus.

  Titus Caesar rose, then came and clasped my hand. He had the good fortune to choose the nonfishy one. “I am extremely grateful, Falco.” The one benefit of my new rank was that all my clients were perfectly polite to me. That did not mean the fees would arrive any quicker (or at all).

  After his farewell to me, Titus had lifted Helena’s hand. “I am glad to see you here tonight.” He was speaking in a low voice. Helena looked nervous, though not as nervous as I was. “I want you to explain something discreetly to your brother.”

  “Aelianus?”

  “He applied to join the Arval Brethren. Look; do let him know, they have nothing against him personally. He is well qualified. But there will have to be a period of readjustment after your uncle’s unfortunate escapade.”

  “Oh, I see,” replied Helena in an odd tone of voice. “This is a reference to unhappy Uncle Publius?” She meant the senator’s brother, who some time before had unwisely plotted to destabilize the Empire and dethrone Vespasian. Misguided Uncle Publius was no threat now. He was out of it, his corpse rotting in the Great Sewer. I knew; I shoved him down there myself.

  “You see what I mean?” asked Titus, eager for her acquiescence.

  “Oh, I do,” Helena answered. With a cool turn of her head, she offered her cheek for Titus Caesar to kiss, which he stalwartly did. Before I could stop her, she then leaned in like some old childhood friend who was about to kiss him back. Instead she added very, very gently, “It was four years ago; my uncle is dead; the conspiracy was completely unraveled; and no question marks ever hung over my father’s or my brothers’ loyalty. Sir, what I see is just a feeble excuse!”

  Titus had turned back to his lustrous lady love, pretending to make a joke of it. “This is an exceptional couple!” Berenice looked as if she thought so too, though not for the same reasons. “I love them both dearly,” Titus Caesar proclaimed.

  I grabbed Helena’s hand and tucked it firmly in my arm, pulling her back and keeping her close to me. Then I thanked Titus for his confidence in us, and took my defiant girl away.

  She was extremely upset. I had seen it even before she answered. Titus, of course, had no idea. She would talk to me about it, although probably not for days. When she did speak, she would be raging. I could wait. I just kept my arm tightly around her while she controlled her immediate anger.

  *

  We walked together in silence for some distance. Since Helena was wrapped in her own thoughts, I could sink into mine. The pressure I felt upon me now was the same old dead weight. In addition to the domestic tragedy that I was trying to avert from the Laelii, my task had acquired much wider significance. This new burden, of saving Berenice from grief for Titus, was a tricky one.

  So that was the ravishing Queen Berenice! If this had happened to my brother Festus, a scented notelet would have followed befo
re he reached the street door.

  Mind you, when Didius Festus visited fabulously beautiful women, he made sure that he went by himself.

  XXXIX

  IN NERO’S DAY the entire ground floor of the Esquiline Wing of the Golden House had been given over to dining rooms. There were matched pairs, one half looking into a spacious courtyard, the complementary mirrored groups facing out over the Forum, where Nero installed a wildlife park but where Vespasian was now building his Amphitheatre. With his rather different lifestyle, Nero had needed not one elegant hall for feeding flatterers—his best being the famous Octagonal Room—but complex suites in threes or fives that would contain the wild parties he loved. It was among the labyrinth of these that we had seen Titus.

  The Flavians were another breed from Nero. They conducted most official imperial business in the old Palace of the Caesars, high on the Palatine. It was said they intended to dismantle the Golden House soon. It represented not just hated luxury, but Nero’s contempt for the people he had deliberately burned out and displaced in order to build it. The Flavians respected the people. At any rate, they would do, so long as the people respected them. But they were also frugal. While their predecessor’s mad, gloriously ornate dwelling still existed, it did seem proper to them that Rome—in the person of the frugal Flavians—should make use of it. It had cost a great deal and Vespasian was hot on the value-for-money principle.

  I had been here for private meetings before, and for one formal conference held in the Octagon. Titus often lurked here when he was off duty. He would call me in sometimes for a staid heart-to-heart.

  The place was vast. Tall frescoed corridors ran in all directions. Most of the rooms were not too ostentatious sizewise, but they ran into each other in a bemusing honeycomb. There were peculiar backdoubles and dead ends, due to this wing having been hewn from the naked rock under the Oppian Hill. Unescorted, it would have been easy to get lost.