“If she really is earmarked as the next Vestal,” Julia Justa commented, “hers are the kind of people who would glory in it. What could cause conflict? Is she playing up about being selected?”

“Overjoyed, apparently.”

“I rather suspect,” said Helena, “as my grandmother would say, Gaia must be glad of a chance to be taken away from her relatives.”

“They do sound a grim lot.”

“Fossils!” muttered Decimus.

We had insulted the Laelii for long enough. Since dinner was over Helena buzzed off with her mother to talk about what had happened in North Africa with Justinus and Claudia. Her father and I occupied the senator’s study, a squashed glory hole full of scrolls that Decimus had started to read, then forgotten about. We lit lamps and threw cushions off the reading couch, trying to pretend there was room to recline in some elegance. In fact, although the Camillus house was spacious, its master had been allocated a poky nook, as he ruefully liked to acknowledge.

It was, however, roomy enough for a pair of friendly fellows to let themselves relax when left unsupervised.

VII

TO MAKE IT a manly symposium, we had brought a fine glass bottle of decanted Alban wine. Helena’s mother had instructed us to look after the baby; apparently, the grim-faced slaves in her retinue had too much work of their own. We had boasted that childcare fell well within our expertise. The senator placed Julia on a rug and let her grab whatever came to hand. Allowed to play among the grown-ups, she was no trouble; she settled to playing spillikins with equipment from his stylus tray. I was a realistic father; I intended to equip her for life. Even a year and four days could not be too young for a girl to familiarize herself with men’s behavior when they are let loose with a good flagon.

“So! Tell me about Aelianus singing the ancient hymn of the Arval Brothers.”

His father sighed. “Time to garner a few embellishments on his social record.”

“I seem to be hearing about nothing but religious cults this week. As far as I remember, the Brethren are the oldest in Rome-a lineage all the way from our agricultural forefathers. And don’t they celebrate fertility by way of energetic feasting? Sounds like your son made a good choice.”

Decimus grinned, though rather distractedly. He must prefer to think of this as a sober move.

“And what about selection, sir? Is it another lottery?”

“No. Co-option from within the serving Brothers.”

“Ah! So Aelianus has to infiltrate the corn wreaths and impress them with his convivial nature, specifically his skill at worshipping good horticultural practice while guzzling for the love of Rome?”

I could see some problems here.

Aulus Camillus Aelianus was two years younger than Helena, so about twenty-four, maybe twenty-five already if he was heading for the senate. They must have been born pretty close. It suggested an unnerving period of passion in their parents’ marriage, which I preferred not to contemplate. Aelianus had survived modest career postings in the army and in the civilian governor’s office in Baetica, and was all set to stand for election. The process was expensive, which always causes family friction.

It also required Aelianus to approach those who might vote him in with conciliatory smiles, which was where I saw the difficulty; it was not his natural talent. He was of a slightly grumpy disposition, a little too self-centered and lacking the fake warmth to ingratiate him with the smelly old senators he needed to flatter. His father would shove him onto the Curia benches eventually, but at present it might be for the best that his brother’s elopement with Claudia Rufina had delayed everything. Aelianus needed polish. Failing that, it might do him no harm at least to gain a reputation as a lad about town. Playboys gather clusters of votes without any need for bribes.

Everything is relative. As an apprentice in a copper shop on the Aventine, this young grouser would have seemed smooth and elegant. Perhaps not enough to fool the girls. But sufficient to become a leader of men.

“Mind you,” I said, as his father and I reflectively savored our wine, “people nowadays reckon the voting in most elections takes the line approved by the Emperor.”

“That was what we rather relied on!” admitted Decimus, for once alluding to his friendship with Vespasian.

“So what’s Aelianus up to with these characters today?”

Decimus explained in his typically dry way: “The Arval Brothers-we have learned this as we applied ourselves in a groveling manner to winning them over-are busy in May. They hold their annual election for their leader and celebrate the rites of their special deity over a period of four days-on the second of which nothing significant happens, in fact. My theory is that after the first bout of unrestrained feasting they have to take a break; subdued by a day with a bad hangover, they proceed more carefully.”

“These are grown-up boys! Who is the deity?”

“Dea Dia, the lady otherwise known as Ops.”

“In charge of crops since time began?”

“Since Romulus ploughed the city boundary.”

I glanced down at Julia, but she was contentedly examining one of her own tiny sandals. She had gripped her little fat ankle and pulled up her toes, with an interested expression that meant she was thinking about eating her own foot. I decided to let her learn from empirical research.

Decimus continued his tale: “The first day of the rites takes place in Rome at the house of the Master of the Arvals-the chief Brother for that year. They offer fruits, wine, and incense at sunrise to the Dea Dia, anoint her statue, then hold a formal feast at which further offerings are made and the Brothers receive gifts in return for attending.”

Travel and subsistence, eh? A nice clique to join.

“The most important rites-today’s-see the election of the next Master in the Sacred Grove of the Dea Dia. I am hoping this will be the cue for them to hint at whether Aulus has been successful. I expect that the newly elected Master has some say in who will be taken on under his leadership.”

“I wish you well. It would be a great coup. Being an Arval Brother is one of the honors given to the highest in society.”

I did not exaggerate. Young males in the imperial family, for instance, would expect automatic co-option to the Arvals as supernumeraries. Probably our current princes, Titus and Domitian, had joined already. Normal membership totaled twelve only. Vacancies must be keenly sought after. I reckoned the Camilli were probably overstretching when they put up Aelianus for this, but it was not the moment to criticize.

Mildly affected by the wine, even the senator seemed ready to admit the real situation. “We don’t stand much chance, Marcus. Bloody snobs!”

“Have they actually voted?” I asked carefully.

“No. That takes place in the Temple of Concord in the Forum and seems to be kept separate.”

We perused our cups and thought about the inequalities of life.

It was at this point that, against expectations, the young man under discussion appeared in the study doorway. His white festival outfit was badly crumpled, and he looked flushed. He was probably tipsy, but his face never gave away much.

Aelianus was more sturdily built and less fine featured than his sister and younger brother. A good chunk of Roman manhood, in his way: athletic and possessing good reflexes. He left his sister to be the reader in the family, while his brother was the linguist. Straight sprouting hair, cut rather longer than suited him; dark eyes; a sallow complexion at present: too many nights out with the boys. I would have envied him his lifestyle, but even though he was given too much freedom, he was plainly not happy.