Suddenly, Anacrites whipped a toga around his thin shoulders. Aelianus donned one too. Then they wheeled into the Flaminia while the Paretorians carried me after them, shoulder high, like the main roast at a feast.

The scene which ensued was curious. We were admitted at once to the presence of the Flamen and his stately wife. I was set on my feet, hemmed in by Guards. Various white-clad attendants lined the walls of the room respectfully. Scented oil wafted from a patera after some libation to the gods.

The Flamen wore handwoven robes identical to those I had seen Numentinus parade in, topped off by the bonnet with the olive prong. He was holding his sacrificial knife, in its case, and his long pole to keep folk at a distance. His wife also carried her knife. She wore a thick gown of antique styling, with her hair bound up even more intricately than that of the Vestals. To match his leather hat she had a conical purple one, covered with a veil. She was, I knew, bound by almost as many restrictions, including one that said she must never climb more than three steps (lest someone see her ankles). She may have been an attractive woman, but I felt no temptation to ogle her.

The Flamen Dialis appeared to be slightly nervous. He at least had the advantage that he knew the plan.

The priestly couple sat enthroned on curule chairs, the backless folding items with curved legs that were formally used as a symbol of office by senior magistrates. A third had been placed near the Flamen. Alongside on this third seat was a familiar figure: Laelius Numentinus, though for once he was not wearing priestly robes. Perhaps a visit to the home of his successor had finally prevailed on him to abandon his lost glory. He was bareheaded. White hair surrounded a bald pate. I felt a shock of recognition. I glanced quickly at Aelianus. He too now saw that this was the haughty elderly man we had both witnessed leaving the house of the Master of the Arval Brethren when we went there to report the corpse. The man we thought had gone there to persuade them to maintain their silence about the killing-the man we assumed to be a close relative of the murderess.

There was no time to wonder. They all seemed to be expecting us. We had packed into the room with little formality. I was still held by the Guards. Anacrites tried to merge into the wall fresco, looking like a very dead still-life duck. Young Aelianus stepped forward. At a nod from the Flamen, he made a short prepared speech. It was much like the plea for mercy that he made to the Chief Vestal last night. With time to consider what he was doing, he had become more hesitant, but he acquitted himself decently.

Before replying, the Flamen Dialis leaned towards Numentinus as if to confirm his agreement. They exchanged a low murmur, then this time they both nodded. The Praetorians stepped aside from me. The Flamen Dialis struck a pose and affected to notice me. He started and covered his eyes theatrically. Assuming a sudden air of horror, he cried in a loud voice, “A man in chains! Strike them off in accordance with the ritual!”

I believe that sometimes criminals are freed formally from fetters by sending for a blacksmith who cracks open the links. That must be a satisfying form of release. But Anacrites had always been a cheapskate. (It was not his fault. Shortage of resources went with his job.) He had originally secured the fetters with a padlock, and on the Flamen’s word, he undid them carefully with the proper key, so they could be kept for reuse.

The ironmongery was then carried from the room, and we all waited in silence until we heard the racket as it was hurled off the Flaminia’s roof. There were metallic scuffles afterwards, as the links were gathered up frugally. Anacrites winked at the Praetorians, who gave a smart salute in unison, then removed themselves, their boots thumping scratchily on the floorboards. The Flaminica winced. Perhaps it was a ritual that she went on her knees and applied the beeswax herself. Perhaps she was just a careful housewife with a respect for antique carpentry.

“You are a free man,” confirmed the Flamen Dialis.

“Thank you,” I said to everyone.

As I rubbed my bruised limbs, the new Flamen spoke gravely from the curule chair. “Marcus Didius Falco, I have decided you should receive an explanation of certain matters.”

He asked his attendants to leave the room. He and his wife, together with Numentinus, remained. So did I. So, at a gesture from the Flamen, did Camillus Aelianus. He came and stood alongside me. He looked pleased with himself, and I did not begrudge him that.

Out of unwilling respect for the other man who had helped save my life, I said, “I would like Anacrites to hear this too.” He was allowed to stay. He kept well back, looking humble. Well, as humble as it is possible to be if you are a lousy-natured spy.

The Flamen Dialis addressed Aelianus and me. “You two have been attempting to discover the identity of the Arval Brother who was murdered in the Sacred Grove of the Dea Dia.”

We said nothing.

“His name was Ventidius Silanus.”

Less experienced than me, Aelianus was on the verge of bursting out that we already knew as much. I gripped his arm unobtrusively.

It was Laelius Numentinus, staring ahead fixedly, who then volunteered to tell us what I had privately guessed: “Ventidius Silanus was married to Terentia Paulla, my late wife’s sister.”

It seemed courteous not to comment; it would have been difficult to do so tactfully at first. I breathed slowly, then somehow ignored the scandalous aspects and said in a deferential tone, “We offer our commiserations, sir.” I breathed again. “That gives us a lot to think about. However, with respect, it does not alter the urgent need to find your little granddaughter. I hope you will still accept help to search for her?” Numentinus inclined his white head stiffly. “Then I shall go home quickly now to see my wife. When I have washed off the stench of prison, I shall return to your house and continue where I left off yesterday.”

Nobody said the obvious: according to what the Master of the Arval Brethren had let Aelianus and me believe, Terentia Paulla, wife to the late Ventidius, was a crazy murderess.

Did that mean that this madwoman had also killed little Gaia?

LI

OUTSIDE THE FLAMINIA, we three pulled up to catch our breath.

I offered my hand to Anacrites. We clasped arms like military blood brothers.

“Thanks. You saved my life.”

“So we are quits, Falco.”

“I shall always be grateful, Anacrites.”

I gazed at him. He gazed at me. We would never be quits.

I clasped hands with Aelianus too and then, since he was in effect my brother-in-law, I embraced him. He looked surprised. Not as surprised as I was to find myself doing it. “This was your idea, Aulus? You organized everything?”

“If a ploy fails once, just repeat it with more verve.”

“Sounds like the wonderful nonsense that informers spout!”

Aelianus grinned. “Anacrites suggested I was doing so well at this, I ought to continue working with you. When you have taught me a few things, he says there might be an opening in the security service with him.”

He could have told me this in confidence later, which is what I would have done in his shoes. Anacrites and I glared at each other. We could both see that Aelianus had deliberately said it in front of both of us. He was not the pushover we both had taken him for.

Anacrites tried to make light of it. “I’m letting you have him first, Falco.”

“But you’ll take advantage of the experience I give him? I train him, then you pinch him?”

“You owe me now.”

“Anacrites, I owe you zilch!” I turned to Aelianus. “As for you, you reprobate, let’s not pretend you want to set aside your purple stripes and go slumming.” Aelianus did not really believe I had anything to teach him; if he joined me, his only desire would be to show me how to do my job by effortlessly surpassing me. “I am supposed to be in partnership with your brother-when he deigns to show his face.”