I left Aelianus to talk to the men about the day Gaia disappeared. I could trust him with that. Presumably if they had anything useful to say, they would have offered it when the alarm was first raised.
I led my hopeless bloodhound to the other garden. Off the leash the scruffy bundle of fur wandered about, digging potholes, sniffing leaves, and looking back at me to see what behavior I wanted. I was still holding Gaia’s shoe, so I hurled it as far as I could into the undergrowth in the distance. Nux ran off and vanished. I sat on a bench, waiting for her to get bored.
No gardeners were about today. I was completely alone. Sometimes you have no idea what progress you are making with a case. Sometimes it all seems to be sorted, yet you find yourself niggled by the feeling that what looks straightforward cannot be that simple. I kept wondering what I had missed here. There were gaps in the story, gaps so well disguised that I could not even see where they existed, let alone try to fill them. I knew I was on the wrong tack. I just could not see why I felt that way.
It was still early morning, but now much warmer than when I was hauled out of the Mamertine. Blue sky was gradually deepening in color above me. Bees explored what long strands of herbage remained. A blackbird foraged among upended pots, wildly tossing aside unwanted leaves. I took one of those moments when I ought to have been busy, but hoped letting the quietness seep into my spirit might refresh me and bring me a bright idea. What could I do, anyway? I had searched yesterday as thoroughly as I knew how.
A woman came out from the house to my right. Someone I had never seen before. She was alone. A tallish, slim, middle-aged female, wearing gray in several layers, long full skirts and a graceful stole. She came straight to me and joined me on the bench. I noticed she wore a wedding ring.
“You must be Falco.” I made no reply, but glanced sideways uneasily, hoping for backup.
She had a face, bare of paint but probably well tended, which had gone past youth; her skin was still firm and her movements were easy. Gray eyes watched me with a bold, challenging air. She was unafraid of men. My guess was, she had never been afraid of anything. But then, courage is a form of lunacy. And of course, the woman who had killed Ventidius Silanus must have been both courageous and completely mad.
ODDLY ENOUGH, SHE looked perfectly sane.
Her eyes still considered me, lucid, serene, visibly intelligent. Women who have completed successful careers acquire a certain address. She was used to taking decisions, speaking out, leading the ceremonial.
Maybe it depends on your starting point. Maybe we are all mad in our own ways. Mind you, not many of us could slash the throat of another human. Not off the battlefield; not in cold blood.
“I understand you took a considerable risk last night, Falco, in order to speak to me.” I moved my head in assent. She was definitely the ex-Vestal, Terentia. “Some informer! You never found me, never came near me.”
“No, I apologize.”
“I suppose you saw the other chit instead.” I looked mystified. “ Constantia. You know who I mean.”
“Yes, I saw her.”
“What did you think?”
“A talented young woman. She should go far.”
“Or to the bad!” humphed Terentia. “A latter-day Postumia!”
“Postumia?”
“Don’t you know your history? She was tried for unchastity; she had dressed too elegantly, and spoken too freely and wittily. The Pontifex Maximus acquitted her of the sexual charge, but Postumia was warned to behave more becomingly, to stop making jokes and to dress less smartly.”
“I am shocked.”
“You are a clown, Falco. Someone else came badgering me this morning,” Terentia grumbled. “That dreadful man Anacrites.”
“Did you see him?”
“Certainly not. I left by the other door and came straight here. I do not communicate with spies.”
So much for Anacrites’ self-confidence! “He will follow you here.”
“Probably.”
She looked less mad than my own aunts, most of whom are contentious harridans with a tendency to throw burning-hot skillets around. All the same-well, perhaps because of my dear aunties-I did not relax.
“May I talk to you?” I asked meekly. “I am not a spy, merely a Procurator of the Sacred Geese, ma’am.”
“My name is Terentia Paulla, as you well know.” I thought to myself that proper lunatics were supposed to believe themselves to be Julius Caesar. Mind you, this one issued orders like a dictator, right enough. “As for you,” she said, “I imagine that after your escapade at the Vestals’ House, you will find it expedient to resign from your curation of the poultry.”
“No, no; I’ll stand my ground. I have learned to enjoy the post.”
“Vespasian will sacrifice your sinecure in the next round of public spending cuts.”
“I agree that’s a possibility.”
