“I know, I know,” Maia groaned. “He only did this because he was such an awkward cuss. Even if Cloelia were chosen, it would be impossible anyway, now her father has been killed. A new Virgin must have both parents living. It’s just one more upsetting consequence that I have to explain to my children-”
“Don’t,” said Helena. Her tone was crisp. “Tell the College of Pontiffs, so they can withdraw her. Just let Cloelia think somebody else has won the lottery by chance.”
“And believe me, there was never any doubt that somebody else will!” Maia muttered, now sounding annoyed.
She settled down and told us the story.
“My wonderful husband decided that if plebeians really are eligible, the honor of becoming a Vestal was just right for our eldest daughter. He did not consult me-probably because he knew what I would say.” It was supposed to be an honor, one that brought enormous respect to the girl during the thirty years she held the office, but Maia was not the kind of mother who would hand over a young, unformed child into the control of an institution. Her family was taught to respect Rome and its traditions-but to avoid daft schemes like devoting their lives to the state. “So I am stuck with pretending it’s a grand idea. I have Cloelia constantly overexcited, the others secretly jealous of her receiving so much attention, Ma furious, Famia not even in the country to help me cope wth it…”
She fell silent. Petronius mused wickedly, “I know we can assume the little darlings are virgins when the Pontifex first accepts them, but how can anyone tell that the pretty things stay chaste? Do they have to submit to ritual testing once a week?”
“Lucius Petronius,” Helena suggested, “don’t you have work to return to this afternoon?”
Petro leaned his elbow on the table with a grin. “Helena Justina, talking about virgins is much more interesting.”
“You surprise me. But we are talking about would-be Virgins-which is not the same thing.”
“One virgin too many, in the case of Maia’s Cloelia!” He was determined to cause trouble today. I would not have minded, but I foresaw that Helena would blame me.
I intervened. “So tell us about the luscious Berenice. She’s no virgin, and that’s a certainty.”
“Ah well,” said Maia. “She’s definitely very beautiful-if you like that style.” She did not say what style it was, and this time both Petronius and I kept mum. “If I had an exotic face and a small legion of hairdressers, I wouldn’t care if my reputation was slightly soiled.”
“It would not be,” I assured her. “Berenice is carrying the slur that she married her own uncle. You would never do that with Uncles Fabius or Junius!”
My mother’s two brothers were farm clods with notoriously odd habits, and, like me, Maia had no patience with their eccentricities. “I suppose if the Queen’s uncle was as mad as ours are, we should feel some sympathy,” she said. “Anyway, the reason I had to go to the Palace was that all the little charmers whose names are in the urn to become Vestals, and all of us suffering mothers, were invited to a reception for Titus Caesar’s lady friend. This was set up as an occasion where the female population of Rome would welcome the lovely one into our midst. But I imagine something formal is always arranged by those in charge of the lottery, so the little girls can be inspected and unsuitable ones weeded out.”
“Of course it is blasphemous to say this.” Helena smiled.
“Wash my mouth out!” Maia breathed. “One of the Vestals was very obviously present anyway.”
“Austerely observing?”
“Not too austere; it was one of the younger ones. Constantia.” Maia paused, but if she had been thinking up an insult she refrained. “Anyway, if anyone wants to place bets, I soon had the form book sorted-it’s so bloody obvious what the result will be, the rest of us could just have gone home straightaway. We all trooped up at the appointed time, and natural groups formed at once, according to our class. All the mothers were introduced to the ravishing royalty-yes, Marcus and Petro, you would call her ravishing, though I thought her a bit cold-”
“Nervous.” Helena pretended to defend the Queen. “Probably afraid she may be shouldered out.”
“I wonder why! As if by chance,” Maia said, sneering, “she ended up surrounded on her dais by the mothers of patrician rank, while the rest of us talked among ourselves. And at the same time, one little girl had been selected to present the Queen with a chaplet of roses, which meant that little brat was cuddled on the silken lap of Berenice for half the afternoon, while Constantia-the Vestal Virgin-sat alongside. Those of us from less fortunate areas of life were struck by a sudden mysterious intuition as to which name will surface when the Pontifex dunks in the lottery urn.”
“This name would not be Gaia Laelia?” asked Helena.
Maia rolled her eyes. “Dear gods, sweetheart! I never cease to be amazed at how you and my brother are at the forefront of the gossip! You have only been back in the city three days, and you know everything!”
