One Virgin Too Many

by Lindsey Davis

  “I shall suggest it to him myself,” said Terentia, in the full hauteur of an ex-Virgin. Well, that would save me bestirring myself. I was starting to feel very glad Maia’s daughter would not become a Virgin. We would not want Cloelia coming back to us in thirty years’ time as rude and provocative as this.

  With my bright new credentials under attack, I decided to turn tough. “If it is not impolite to ask, why did you marry Ventidius?”

  “It is impolite. Because he asked me. He was an attractive, urbane, amusing man, with a great deal of money too. He had been, as I am sure you know, my sister’s lover for a very long time.”

  “You were not afraid of upsetting your sister?”

  “I daresay I intended it.” I tried not to look shocked. I could see why Helena’s mother, Julia Justa, that most rational and socially restrained of women, had spoken of Terentia with dislike. The ex-Virgin was not just awkward; she actively enjoyed being unlikeable. “My sister paraded her conquest shamefully and laid rather too much emphasis on telling me the details, pointing out how her bedroom activities contrasted with my own chaste life. She forgot that my vowed thirty years would end one day. Statilia Paulla was ill. She was not aware that I knew it, but when our betrothal was announced I realized I would not be depriving her of her lover for long.” Terentia paused. “Still, it should have been longer than it was.”

  “Her illness advanced very rapidly?”

  “No, Falco. She opened her veins in her bath. My sister killed herself.”

  She was quite matter-of-fact. Was this the unfeeling outspokenness of a crazy woman, or simply that, like an extremely sane one, Terentia saw no purpose in messing me about? At any rate, it meant there had been yet another crisis, yet another tragedy, disrupting this terrible family. I began to understand why the ex-Flamen spoke as he did of his wife’s death; she would presumably have died anyway, but she had deprived him of his own position before time, and deliberately.

  “So then,” Terentia continued softly, “I married Ventidius. I had no choice.”

  “Why? ”

  “Well, don’t you see? I thought I could control him. My sister had managed it before she became ill.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “He was a very old friend of the family—”

  “The very friendly ‘Uncle Tiberius’—so I heard,” I said dryly. Terentia shot me a look of distaste. I survived.

  “Ventidius needed to be closely watched,” she explained. “He would have been around all the time—”

  “On the prowl?”

  “Precisely. I knew Numentinus would certainly not break with Ventidius after Statilia’s death, not after he had tolerated the man’s behavior before. He refused to see there was now a danger to the girls. What a fool. He could not see how necessary it had become for him to act.”

  “Necessary, why?”

  “You know that.”

  “Because Ventidius started to eye Caecilia?”

  “Caecilia and, to a far greater extent, Laelia.”

  “Caecilia admits that she had to rebuff Ventidius. Laelia denies he ever touched her.”

  “Then,” said Terentia crisply, “Laelia lied to you.”

  “Modesty, no doubt,” I murmured, thinking that a Vestal would approve of that.

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Statilia Laelia has good reasons for everything she does.”

  “She needs to lie?”

  “Oh, we all need to do that!” For a moment, Terentia looked tired.

  “So,” I mused, “you knew about Ventidius moving in on the other two? Who told you, may I ask?”

  “Laelia told me that Caecilia had confided in her. She took more pleasure in the telling than she should have done. Before that, I had myself already warned him to leave Laelia alone. He had been playing about with her for some time; she is very immature—and she took it very seriously. Scaurus, her brother, had found out and told me in the end. Ventidius enjoyed thinking he had the privilege of bedding more than one generation.”

  “So he made a long-term play for Laelia—successfully? I find it hard to believe.”

  “You misjudge everyone, Falco.” After crushing me to her own satisfaction, she settled to explanations again. “Laelia probably allowed it quite readily, I am afraid. She was always difficult. But I stopped it, once I knew.”

  “So Laelia was promiscuous?”

  “Not widely; she never had much opportunity. The children of a Flamen Dialis are brought up in isolation.”

  “I can see that would have made her easy meat for an ever-present family friend. Why was she always difficult?”

  “Why?” Terentia seemed astonished that I had asked. “How should I know why? That was just how it was. Children are born with inherent, strong-willed streaks of character.” Strong-willed was the last word I would have used for the ex-Flamen’s pasty daughter. Again, I reminded myself that I was hearing all this from a supposed madwoman. “Her mother was too busy spoiling Scaurus to notice—unless perhaps Statilia simply felt powerless to deal with Laelia. The boy and girl were a strange, secretive couple, too often left in their own company. Sometimes they squabbled violently, sometimes they were dangerously quiet, heads together like little conspirators.”

  “Being the offspring of a Flamen, they were kept from other children—and to some extent, I suppose, from adult company too?”

  “It was fatal, in my opinion,” said Terentia cryptically.

  “They never learned normal behavior?”

  “No. They seemed to buckle down to their religious duties well as infants, but they developed a ridiculous sense of their own importance which could do neither any good.”

  “They both seem rather vague now,” I commented.

  “They both have uncontrollable tempers when thwarted. They brood. They lash out. They lack tolerance and restraint. Some children never need companionship to make them sweet natured. Look at Gaia; yet she is an only child, brought up utterly solitary too.”

  “A little spoiled materially?” I suggested.

  “Blame Laelia,” Terentia said, in a clipped tone. “No sense of decency. She constantly buys presents without reference to Caecilia, and sneaks them to Gaia. Once Laelia has given clothes or toys to the child, it is hard to remove them again.”

  “So Laelia loves her little niece Gaia?” Laelia, it struck me, was the real aunt here; Terentia a great-aunt. “Is it consistent, or might she turn on the child?”

  “Laelia’s love is a volatile emotion,” Terentia commented. Still, she was mad. How could she evaluate emotion?

  “Would she threaten Gaia with violence just as easily as spoiling her?”

  Terentia made a slight gesture of assent—as if congratulating me on at last seeing the truth. “As for Laelia, we did our best. When she reached marriageable age, I suggested Ariminius—a complete change, fresh blood. He was flattered to be asked to join a family of such standing. It has to be said, he is very good with Laelia.”

  I had interviewed Ariminius and his wife together, at their choice—his, maybe? He must have been deliberately guarding against indiscretions by the woman. I had certainly missed any suggestion that Laelia had been willingly playing about with “Uncle Tiberius.”

  “They seem to have a good marriage,” I interposed in defense of the Pomonalis, not revealing that I realized he wanted to move on.

  “You are easy to bluff!” sneered Terentia. “From a man who comes with a seal of approval from a more than usually efficient emperor, I expect better. Ariminius has reached his limit. He has had enough. He is asking for a divorce.”

  Yes, that fitted his remarks yesterday afternoon when he was searching for Gaia with me. “He has spoken of a yen for independence.” In fact he spoke of “desertion,” I now recalled. That would fit leaving an unstable wife. So just how unstable was Laelia? “I thought a flamen had to stay married for life? You can’t mean Ariminius will give up being a member of the priestly college?”

  “I do mean that. Now you see why
I have been trying to arrange formal guardianship. If there is a divorce, Laelia comes back into her own family. Numentinus is growing old and cannot be relied on indefinitely.”

  “Scaurus told me you wanted him to act for you!”

  She stared at me. “Me? Why should I need that?” It seemed wise not to answer. “Oh, really! The boy is an imbecile.”

  “I understood that you were very fond of him, Terentia Paulla.”

  “Fond? Fond is not the word. Both those children were brought up ignorant and in need of control. Scaurus is irredeemably foolish, and I try to protect him from public shame.”

  Now this was the kind of madness I could understand: a woman who had apparently been declared furiosa convincing herself, and trying to convince me, that her very protectors were in need of care! Yes, it was time for a serious rethink.

  “Terentia Paulla, your nephew looks like the only one here who has shown some initiative—I mean, by refusing to be drawn into the family traditions, and by leaving home.”

  His loving aunt beat the side of her hand against her other fist impatiently. “Nonsense. The evidence is right in front of you, Falco. Whatever has he told you about this question of guardianship? Why spin you such a stupid story? All he had to say was the truth: that he came to Rome on legal business. He knew the whole matter has to be confidential, and by the time he saw you, his father and I had decided he was incapable of taking on the burden of his sister. He had also been clearly told to keep quiet. Instead, he dreams up some complicated fantasy that even you will soon see through—”

  “So Scaurus is a bit dim?”

  “Dim? My poor nephew really needs a guardian himself. When I had talked to him about his sister, I realized he was useless and I packed him off home. It leaves us with no solution, but there are hopes of Ariminius.”

  I thought for a moment. “Why not help Ariminius to a divorce, with a very large settlement if possible, and ask him to be Laelia’s guardian? He could still do it. And he can be capable in a crisis. I’m sorry,” I added. “I realize it might have to be your money in the settlement, and you might not enjoy giving it over to Laelia.”

  “My idea,” said Terentia, with relish, “is to use my husband’s money after I inherit! Ventidius caused this. He owes some return to the family. His wealth can make Ariminius Modullus happy, and provide for Laelia’s future care.”

  “And what about Scaurus? Is his lack of brainpower why he never became a flamen?”

  “Of course. The highest posts were open to him in theory. Appointing him would have been a shambles. Even his father had to admit that. Scaurus would never remember the rituals—even if he could summon the will to try. Caecilia Paeta thought, when they were first married, that she could help him through it, but in the end even she lost heart. Rituals have to be carried out exactly.”

  “Ah, the old religion!” I groaned. “Appeasing the gods by the mindless repetition of meaningless words and actions, until the divine ones send good crops just to win themselves some peace from the mumblings and the smell of burning wheatcake crumbs!”

  “You blaspheme, Falco.”

  “I do indeed.” And I was proud of it.

  Terentia decided to ignore my outburst. “My nephew’s wife, like my niece’s husband, could only endure so much. Ariminius will look after himself when he is ready; he has reason enough to leave, after all.” I wanted to ask what she meant, but she was in full flow, unused to interruptions. “Three years ago, Caecilia was breaking down; she had to be relieved of the burden of her marriage, but Numentinus would not face the problem. I put Scaurus on the farm to keep him out of harm’s way, and a sensible girl of mine looks after him.”

  “The lovely Meldina?” I leered.

  “You have the wrong idea again, Falco. Meldina is happily married with three children. To persuade her to do this, I have to accommodate her husband and family as well.”

  “Ah! Excuse me, but does Numentinus play no part at all? You appear to have assumed responsibility; does the rigid ex-Flamen really accept you managing his children for him?”

  “He watches feebly, complaining. His children are a great disappointment to him—so instead of attempting to put matters right, he absorbs himself in honoring the gods. As Flamen Dialis, he had an excuse: every hour of his time was occupied with his duties to Jupiter. My sister was no better. In a serious crisis, they both used to chew bay leaves and put themselves into a trance until somebody else had sorted it out. Thank goodness, as a Vestal I could command authority.”

  Everything Terentia Paulla said could be true—or it could be some maniacal distortion of the truth. Was she really a dedicated savior of these hopeless people, or was her constant fanatical interference beyond belief? An intolerable strain from which they could not shake themselves free?

  I kept reminding myself, the Arval Master had implied that this woman had run mad and cut down her husband like a blood sacrifice. The more she talked, in that angry yet well-controlled tone, the easier it was to believe that she could easily have killed her husband if she had decided it was necessary—and yet the harder it became to envisage her turning the death into a stagy tableau, conducted in a crazy trance.

  Surely she would have wanted it quick, clean, and neat? Instinct said she would have made the crime itself undetectable—or at least concealed the perpetrator. If ever a killer had the intelligence and the nerve to get away with it, that was Terentia Paulla. Even if she had done it and, in her haughty way, had chosen to admit the deed, I reckoned she would have waited beside the body, then made her confession brisk and businesslike. The scene described by the Master of the Arvals, where a raving bloodstained woman was apprehended, then coaxed into confessing, did not fit at all. Nor did his description of a pathetic creature who would be taken into care match the cool woman talking to me here.

  “So what about Gaia?” I asked her carefully.

  “Gaia is the one shining star among this family. From who knows where—my family most likely, and even perhaps from her mother’s side—Gaia has acquired intelligence and strength of character.”

  “Yet you are very unwilling to see her follow you into your own profession as a Vestal?”

  “Perhaps,” said Terentia, for once very quietly, “it is time one member of this family grew up to lead a normal life.”

  I felt a reply would be intrusive.

  “I would like to see some changes, Falco. Gaia will be dutiful, whatever role in life she undertakes.” She paused. “Then, as a Vestal, I must consider my order. I cannot knowingly approve of her selection. The potential for scandal is too great. She is a wrong choice for Vesta—and the burden on Gaia herself would be intolerable too, if a ghastly murder in her close family ever became public knowledge.”

  “The lottery will be taking place now,” I said. “She’s out of it. If somebody has hidden her away to avoid her selection, she can be safely released.”

  “Nobody did that. Nobody has deliberately harmed her either,” Terentia assured me.

  “I’d like to ask Gaia how she felt about that.”

  “Once the danger was known, I was on hand to protect her.” Protect her from whom? “She has to be found first. That, if I may remind you, Falco, is your prime responsibility.”

  I decided to chance it. “According to my own young niece, Gaia Laelia has a mad aunt who has threatened to kill her.”

  Terentia showed no reaction. She was going to pursue the coverup to the very end if she could.

  I tried again. “Gaia told me, and she told the Vestal Constantia, that somebody in her family wanted her dead. Forgive me,” I said gently. “I have to take that seriously, especially as she has a relative who was murdered 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, rub
bing 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.