“He did it to himself. I brought home the remains, I’ll be a good uncle to the children, and I’ll try to look after Maia.”
“She won’t thank you.”
“No, Ma.”
My mother’s eyes narrowed, and we shared one of our rare moments of sense: “So how is she, son?”
“Too quiet. When I told her the news, she showed almost no emotion.”
“That won’t last.”
“I’m keeping an eye out for when she breaks down.”
“Just don’t you go upsetting her!”
Helena Justina, who had observed this conversation in silence from her wicker chair, holding the dog on her lap while allowing Julia Junilla to sit on her feet, smiled at me tenderly.
She was no help. What was more, I faced dinner with her parents that evening, where I would have to stand up to further inquisition about their family problems.
“You ought to be around at your sister’s instead of loafing here,” ordered my mother. I intended it; I wanted to ask Maia about the reception for Queen Berenice and how would-be little Vestal Virgins fitted into it. “Oh, don’t bother-I’ll go!”
Ma had forestalled me. The Virgins would have to wait. Petronius Longus would say virgins never do that. Still, the kind of virgins Petro joked about were never just six years old.
After Ma had gone, I waited for Helena to tell me about the Flamen Pomonalis visit. I had to pretend that I had come home right at the end of it, not that I overheard the whole interview. Helena could play up to me as a hidden accomplice if a conspiracy had been agreed on beforehand, but she hated to be spied on secretly. For one thing, she resented being supervised.
Obviously now deeply troubled, she gave me a succinct report.
“What exactly was Gaia’s story yesterday when you saw her alone before I came home, Helena?”
“She said, ‘One of my relations threatened to kill me.’ And that it had frightened her,” Helena told me, looking thoughtful. “She had got it into her head that she needed to see an informer, so I left it for you to deal with.”
“I’m starting to regret sending her away without asking more questions. I know you thought I should have gone into it more thoroughly.”
“You had your own troubles, Marcus.”
“This little girl may have worse.”
“She has grown up in a most peculiar home, that’s for certain,” said Helena with some force. “Her grandparents will have been married by a strange old formal ceremony, and as they were the Flamen Dialis and the Flaminica, even their house itself had ritual significance. No child in such a home knows a normal upbringing. The daily life of the priest and priestess is proscribed by ridiculous taboos and rituals at every turn. It leaves little time for family matters. Even the children formally take part in religious ceremonies-presumably, Gaia’s father went through all that. And now Gaia, the poor mite, is being pushed into becoming a Vestal Virgin-”
“An escape, by the sound of it!” I grinned.
“She is six,” growled Helena. She was right. That was no age to be removed from home and subjected to thirty years of sanctity.
“Do I take it, Helena, you intend to investigate?”
“I want to.” She felt wretched, which always unsettled me. “I just don’t see how to go about it yet.”
She was broody all day, not ready yet to share her further thoughts. I applied myself to clearing up goose droppings. Helena had made it clear that this was a daily rite which ancient traditions decreed could only be carried out by the Procurator of Poultry.
Dinner that evening came as a relief. The one thing to say for the noble Camilli was that, despite their financial problems, they dined well. In that, they far excelled most Roman millionaires.
Their money was tied up in land (in order to protect their right to remain on the senatorial list), but a delicately poised tier of mortgages allowed them to live in a tolerable style. For instance, when they had invited us to dinner, they sent their carrying chair for Helena and the baby. We stuffed it full of presents and Julia’s toys. I carried the baby. Helena was bringing letters from her brother, a bright sprig called Quintus Camillus Justinus whom I knew fairly well.
Helena had two brothers, both younger than her and both heavily bossed by her when they strayed too close. The elder, Aelianus, had been betrothed to an heiress from Baetica in southern Spain. The younger, Justinus, ran off with her. I had gone to Tripolitania, funded by the senator, with a brief to find the eloping pair. I knew it was thought to be my fault that Claudia Rufina had decided to swap brothers. Untrue, of course: she fell for the one with better looks and a more attractive character. But I had been involved in first bringing her to Rome as a prospective bride for Aelianus, and the senator’s wife had long held the opinion that anything touched by M. Didius Falco was bound to go wrong. In that, Julia Justa was following the views of my own family, so I made no attempt to disprove her theory. May as well live with the grief you know.
