Aelianus grinned. “He pinched my girl-I’ll pinch his position!”

“Well, that’s fair,” I commented, quoting him on another subject.

After a moment we were all laughing.

We calmed down.

“That was a facer about Ventidius,” I said. We all walked slowly towards the Circus side of the Palatine where a path wound down.

“Have you been told the whole story now, I wonder?” Anacrites mused. He was not so dumb sometimes.

“Doubt it. Just enough to keep us off their backs. It does explain a lot. The ex-Vestal married a man who turned out to be a lecher-and so shameless that he even tried it on with one of her own female relatives-Caecilia Paeta, her nephew’s wife; Caecilia told me herself. The rest now fits: Terentia presumably heard about it. Perhaps Caecilia told her, or the other one-Laelia, the ex-Flamen’s daughter. So Terentia runs wild and slays Ventidius in the Sacred Grove, bloodily cutting his throat and saving the drips as if he were the white beast at a religious sacrifice.”

Aelianus took up the story: “To the Arval Brothers this must have been a double horror. The corpse was a terrible sight-I can vouch for that-but it must also have seemed that night as if every cult in the old religion was touched by the scandal: the Arvals themselves, the Vestals, and even the College of Flamens-”

“Right,” I said. “The dead man was an Arval, and it happened in the Sacred Grove; the killer was a Vestal. Ventidius had been the lover of the previous Flaminica. That seems to have been common knowledge in Rome. Certainly most women knew. Then, to cap it all, the whole bunch is related to the child who has been picked out as the next Vestal.”

“So that was why a coverup was so readily agreed upon?” suggested Anacrites. “Influence?”

We stopped, on the heights just by the carefully preserved (that is, entirely rebuilt) supposed Hut of Romulus.

“Looks like it. Numentinus was definitely nagging the Arvals about something; he was at the Master’s house the next night, and they did not sound too pleased about it. They were even less pleased about us,” I said. “Everything would probably have worked very smoothly, if Aelianus and I had not started to poke about. The corpse was spirited away and a funeral held very quietly. Terentia is to be looked after and guarded, eventually no doubt at her own home, though my guess is that as a first move she has been taken in by Laelius Numentinus, perhaps out of some regard for his dead wife. She has been living in a guestroom, though when I turned up to search she had to be packed off hastily to the Vestals’ House, out of the way. As she is one of their own, the Virgins would agree to tend her.”

“Would her presence explain why Numentinus did not want the vigiles to come in after the child disappeared?” Anacrites asked.

“You heard about that?”

“I keep in touch,” he bragged.

“The vigiles might have sniffed out the scandal. And this explains the nonsense Laelius Scaurus told me about his aunt wanting a legal guardian. As an ex-Vestal, she would not need one, but arrangements are essential now. She must have been declared furiosa-not to be prissy, a raving lunatic. Somebody has to be her custodian.”

“Can she choose her own?” Aelianus asked.

“If she has moments of lucidity, why not?”

“But is she still dangerous?”

“After the way Ventidius was killed, she must be. That was not just an angry wife, lashing out with the nearest cooking knife. You cannot say it was a sudden act that she will never repeat. She planned it; she took the implements to the Grove; she dressed up in religious style; she murdered the man, and then carried out an extraordinary sequence of actions with his blood…”

Aelianus shuddered. “Remember the cloth I saw covering the dead man’s face? Now I know about the rituals involved, I think it must have been one of those veils priestesses wear when they attend a sacrifice.”

“And Vestals,” I said.

“Vestals,” said Anacrites, picking holes as usual, “never actually cut throats.”

“Looks like this one learned to do it, once she got herself a husband.”

“A warning to all of us?”

“Oh?” I asked coldly, thinking about Maia. “Are you considering marriage then, Anacrites?”

He just laughed, the way spies love to do, and looked mysterious.

Anacrites left us when we reached the Aventine. For one thing, he was going to ingratiate himself with Ma, pretending that the rescue of her bonny boy had been all his own idea. I could set her straight. Not that my mother would listen to me when she could choose to believe Anacrites instead.

He had another plan too: “While you go back to the Laelius house, Falco, I’ll trot along to the House of the Vestals and see whether any sense can be extracted from Terentia Paulla.”

“The Virgins won’t let you in.”

“Yes they will,” he replied, gloating. “I’m the Chief Spy!”

I took Aelianus with me, but when we came to Fountain Court I asked him to join the early morning queue at the stall Cassius the baker ran, to buy some breakfast rolls. I wanted to go up ahead of him and see Helena on my own. He understood.

Helena must have stayed up all night. She was sitting in her wicker chair, beside the baby’s cradle, holding Julia as if she had been feeding her. They were both fast asleep.

Very gently, I lifted the baby from Helena’s arms. Julia awoke, wondering whether to cry or chortle, then greeted me with a loud cry of “Dog!”

“Olympus, her first word! She thinks I’m Nux.”

Startled by the baby’s exclamation, Helena roused herself. “She knows the dog. Her father is a stranger. I am disappointed, though. I have been trying so hard to teach her to say ‘Aristotelian Philosophy’-Where have you been, Marcus?”

“Long story. Starts in the House of the Vestals and ends in the death cell at the Mamertine.”

“Oh, nothing to worry about then…”

I sat Julia in her cradle. Helena was on her feet and clasping me to her with relief. I clung back, as if she was the only floating spar in the ocean, and I was a drowning man.

“I thought I would never see you again!”

“Me too, fruit.”

After a long time she leaned back, sniffing. For a moment I thought she was crying, but it was straight detective work.

“Sorry. I just stink of jail.”

“You do,” she said, using a special voice. “And of something else. I know you like to try out promising skin lotions, my darling, but since when have you dabbed iris oil behind your ears?”

I must have been still rather tired. “That would be what the Virgin Constantia wears off duty, I fear.”

“Really.”

“Cloying, but persistent. Survives even a night’s incarceration in the filthiest jail. Don’t be annoyed. I don’t chase after women.”

“You don’t need to. I gather they chase after you! And they catch you, I can tell.”

How fortunate that Helena’s dear brother arrived at that moment, releasing me from this awkwardness. He seemed to know what was wanted. As an assistant, Camillus Aelianus was shaping up in superb style.

I washed. We took in food and water. I kissed Helena good-bye; she turned her head away, though she just about let me near her. Nux, who had no qualms about my loyalty, ran up barking and hopefully brought me the rope that I used as her lead sometimes. I accepted the plea, in order to show Helena that I responded to love.

As we descended the stairs to the street, I saw Maia approaching. She was dressed demurely in white, with her curls fairly well taped down. She was holding hands with Cloelia, also kitted out like a religious offering.

“Marcus! We are just going to watch the lottery. We decided we may as well witness the flummery. There may be fascinating refreshments, we think, don’t we, Cloelia?”