“Your words have a horrible resonance of Allia and Galla,” I commented, referring to two of our elder sisters, who were particular mistresses of tact. “And does that mean,” I asked her hollowly, “that our mother has started plaguing you to be nice to poor Anacrites?”
This time Maia snapped. “Oh, don’t be so ridiculous! Marcus darling, mother would never do that. She has already been warning me not to bat my eyelids that way because Anacrites is far too good for me-”
It was at this point that her control gave way and she started to cry. Helena went and held her while Petro and I distracted the children. I glared at him; he shrugged unrepentantly. Perhaps he was right. It was good for her to let go. Perhaps I was just annoyed with him for achieving it with crass remarks today where I had earlier failed.
Eventually Maia stopped weeping into Helena’s girdle and dried her face on her own stole. She reached for Cloelia and Ancus and held one in each arm. Over their heads, she looked at me. The strain was showing now. “That’s better. Marcus, I have a confession. When you first told me what had happened I had an angry turn and poured every drop of wine we had in the house down the drain outside…” She forced a wan smile “Big brother, if you have any that’s fit to offer, I would like a drink with my lunch.”
ONCE EVERYONE HAD eaten, I waited to broach the subject of Maia’s visit to the Palace to meet the fabulous Queen Berenice. I suggested that the children should take Nux for a walk in Fountain Court. Obediently they let themselves be shooed off, though since they were Maia’s outspoken brood, they all knew what was happening. “The grownups want to talk about things we are not to overhear.”
I had attached a rope to Nux’s collar. When I gave the end of it to Marius, the nine-year-old eldest, he asked me anxiously, “Is your dog likely to run away and get lost?”
“No, Marius. Nux won’t ever get lost. We spoil her and overfeed her and pet her far too much. The rope is so that if you get lost, Nux will drag you safely back.”
We were on the streetside landing, out of earshot of his mother. Encouraged by this shared joke, Marius suddenly tugged my arm and confided what must have been bothering him: “Uncle Marcus, if there is no money now, do you think I shall have to stop going to school?”
He wanted to be a rhetoric teacher, or so he had decided a couple of years ago. It might happen, or he might end up ranching cows. I knelt down and gave him a strong hug. “Marius, I promise you that when the next term’s fees are due they will be found.”
He accepted the reassurance though he still looked anxious. “I hope you didn’t mind me asking.”
“No. I realize your mother has probably said ‘Don’t go bothering Uncle Marcus.’ ”
The boy grinned shyly. “Oh, we don’t always do what Mama says. Today her orders were ‘Make sure you keep telling them how lovely their baby is-and don’t complain if Uncle Marcus insists that we all have some out of his awful old amphora of Spanish fish pickle.’”
“So Ancus and you pulled faces and refused even a taste?”
“Yes, but we do think your baby is nicer than the one Aunt Junia has.”
I could tell Marius believed he had to be the man of their household now. I would have to stop that. It could cripple his childhood. At the very least, Maia needed her money worries ended, even if it meant dragging assistance out of Pa.
I returned thoughtfully to the others. Helena had been making enquiries without waiting for me. “Marcus, listen to this: Cloelia’s name has been entered in the Vestal Virgins’ lottery.”
I swore, more out of surprise than rudeness. Petronius added a lewd comment.
“Don’t blame me,” answered Maia, with a heavy sigh. “Famia put her forward before he left for Africa.”
“Well, he never told me, or I’d have said he was an idiot. How old is she?”
“Eight. He never told me either,” Maia returned wearily. “Not until it was too late and Cloelia had convinced herself it’s a wonderful idea.”
“She’s barred,” Petronius told us, shaking his head. “I went through this business with my girls; they were all crazy to be entered until I had to insist that as a father of three I could exempt them from the lottery. It’s wicked,” he complained. “Six Vestals; they serve for thirty years and replacements are called for, on average, every five years. That fills Rome with dreamy little lasses, all desperately wanting to be the chosen one.”
“I wonder why?” retorted Helena dryly. “Can they really all think how wonderful it would be to ride in a carriage, to have even consuls give way to them, to sit in the best seats in the theaters, to be revered throughout the Empire? All in return for a few light duties carrying waterpots and blowing up the Sacred Fire…”
Petro turned to Maia. “Famia had the three children let out-”
