“May I,” I remonstrated while I was being trussed, “be allowed to know whither I am to be dragged?”
“Just keep quiet, Falco. You have caused enough trouble.”
I glared at young Aelianus. “Do something for me, lad. Ask your sister where my mother lives, and when this is all over, make sure you tell Ma that it was her treacherous lodger who delivered her last living son to his fate.”
“Ready?” Anacrites, ignoring me, for some reason addressed himself in an undertone to Aelianus. “I can get him there, but you’ll have to do the talking, Camillus. I don’t want this fiasco ever showing up on my personal record!” Sheer amazement colored my view of this queer situation. “Right, lads. Follow me. Bring this disgraceful felon up to the Palatine.”
I had had a nice sleep and been treated to breakfast. I just went along with it.
As I was hauled in front of the Temple of Concordia Augusta, where the Arval Brothers held their elections, it was still far too early for most people. The Forum lay deserted, apart from one drunk sleeping it off on the steps of the Temple of Saturn. The streets contained debris from the night before, rather than any promise of the day to come. A mound of crushed garlands half blocked our way as we marched under the Arch of Tiberius to the Vicus Jugarius. Loose petals stuck in one of my boots, and as I kicked out to get rid of them the Guards almost lifted me bodily and carried me along.
I imagined we were heading for the administration area of the Palace. This turned out to be incorrect. Had we gone up the Arx or the Capitol I might have feared that the plan was to hurl me down on the traitors’ route, from the top of the Tarpeian Rock. Whatever torture was intended must be more refined.
We seemed to approach a private house. All the Palatine had been in public ownership for many years. Augustus had had the good fortune to be born there in the days when anybody rich could own a private home on the best of the Seven Hills; he then acquired all the other houses and used the whole Palatine for official purposes. In among the temples stood his own abode, a supposedly meager piece of real estate where he had claimed he lived very modestly; nobody was fooled by that. There was another extremely smart dwelling, the preserve of the imperial women, which bore the name of the dowager Empress Livia. And there was the Flaminia-the official residence of the currently serving Flamen Dialis-an ordinary house to look at, though affected by odd ritual covenants such as that fire might never be carried out of it, except for religious purposes.
Suddenly, Anacrites whipped a toga around his thin shoulders. Aelianus donned one too. Then they wheeled into the Flaminia while the Paretorians carried me after them, shoulder high, like the main roast at a feast.
The scene which ensued was curious. We were admitted at once to the presence of the Flamen and his stately wife. I was set on my feet, hemmed in by Guards. Various white-clad attendants lined the walls of the room respectfully. Scented oil wafted from a patera after some libation to the gods.
The Flamen wore handwoven robes identical to those I had seen Numentinus parade in, topped off by the bonnet with the olive prong. He was holding his sacrificial knife, in its case, and his long pole to keep folk at a distance. His wife also carried her knife. She wore a thick gown of antique styling, with her hair bound up even more intricately than that of the Vestals. To match his leather hat she had a conical purple one, covered with a veil. She was, I knew, bound by almost as many restrictions, including one that said she must never climb more than three steps (lest someone see her ankles). She may have been an attractive woman, but I felt no temptation to ogle her.
The Flamen Dialis appeared to be slightly nervous. He at least had the advantage that he knew the plan.
The priestly couple sat enthroned on curule chairs, the backless folding items with curved legs that were formally used as a symbol of office by senior magistrates. A third had been placed near the Flamen. Alongside on this third seat was a familiar figure: Laelius Numentinus, though for once he was not wearing priestly robes. Perhaps a visit to the home of his successor had finally prevailed on him to abandon his lost glory. He was bareheaded. White hair surrounded a bald pate. I felt a shock of recognition. I glanced quickly at Aelianus. He too now saw that this was the haughty elderly man we had both witnessed leaving the house of the Master of the Arval Brethren when we went there to report the corpse. The man we thought had gone there to persuade them to maintain their silence about the killing-the man we assumed to be a close relative of the murderess.
