"I have to live with it."

"Build for the future. The Arvals were probably the wrong choice for you anyway: too much of a clique, too restrictive and backward looking. You don't want to dance around some grove where mad wives are killing their corn-wreathed husbands with sacrificial knives." I remembered something I wanted to tackle him about. "By the way, I hear you asked the Chief Spy to discover who the victim was?"

Aelia.n.u.s had the grace to blush slightly. "We were getting nowhere--"

"We? It was your puzzle, which you told me you were giving up anyway."

"Sorry."

"Right."

"Anyway, Anacrites is useless, Falco. I never got an answer."

"He told me instead. Ventidius Sila.n.u.s is the man's name. Ever heard of him?" Aelia.n.u.s shook his head. "Nor me." I gazed at him quietly. "I was surprised you had approached Anacrites."

"Well, it seemed the only hope. I had done all I could. I even thought of riding out along the Via Appia and looking at all the patrician tombs for evidence of a recent funeral. There was nothing. If that's where the urn went, all the funerary flowers and so forth have been swept up."

He had really shown initiative. I hid my astonishment. "You're lucky. The Chief Spy does not know."

"Know what, Falco?"

I let him stew just long enough. "But he could easily find out."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, the evidence is still sitting there in his pigeonholes. I am amazed you should have risked reminding him. Of course, somebody else could do so."

"You?" He was starting to notice my threats.

"You're in my power!" I grinned. Then I got tough. "You were entrusted with a secret doc.u.ment, on which the fate of the Baetican oil industry, and perhaps the whole province of Hispania Baetica, hung. You let it fall into the hands of the very men named as conspirators. You allowed them the time and opportunity to alter it. Then, realizing you had betrayed your trust, you pretended not to notice and handed in the corrupt scroll, in silence, to the Chief Spy."

Aelia.n.u.s was very still.

"Just like Uncle Publius, really," I taunted him. "And we know what then happened to him--well, no; we have to imagine it." I stopped, imagining all too vividly the stench of the traitor's gaseous and disintegrating body. "Now listen hard: Anacrites is extremely dangerous. If you want a career--in fact, if you want any kind of future at all--don't tangle with him."

The young man ran a dry tongue over drier lips. "So what now, Falco?"

"Now," I said, "I have to attempt something that is sheer madness. But I am fortunate because you, Aulus, do owe me a large debt. So you--without any argument or hesitation, and certainly without telling your family--will be coming along to support me."

"That is fair," he acknowledged. He put a brave face on it. "What is my task?"

"Just holding a ladder."

He blinked. "I can do that."

"Good. You will have to be very quiet while I climb up. We cannot risk discovery."

He looked more nervous. "Is this something illegal, Falco?" Sharp fellow!

"About as illegal as it can be. You and I, trusty comrade, are about to break into the House of the Vestals."

Aelia.n.u.s knew it was bad news, but it took him a moment to remember precisely that for an offense against the Vestal Virgins, the penalty was death.

XLI.

"I DON'T LIKE this, Falco."

"Hush. It's just a minor trespa.s.s."

I had brought Aelia.n.u.s to the end of the Sacred Way before his courage failed. He was huddling in a dark cloak, his idea of what to wear for murky work. I did not need to play dressing-up games; I had spent my working career under cover for real. It was best to look normal. I was still in my toga, a respectable procuratorial Roman.

Well, Festus used to sw.a.n.k in it. On me, for some reason, this old toga had always looked seedy and moth-eaten.

My idea was that we could pa.s.s along the streets like two relaxed dinner companions, deep in philosophical talk. If at any point later in the enterprise I was apprehended, wearing the toga should gain me valuable leeway. I would still be beaten to death, but I would be given time to apologize first. Unlike Maia's children enduring the shame of Famia, Julia Junilla would know when she grew up that her dear father might have shown disrespect to the Vestals, but he went down in style.

"We are going to get caught, Falco."

"We will be if you don't shut up. Look as if you have a docket that ent.i.tles you to be here."

Now my heart was pounding. The last time I felt this anxious, I had been working with Pa. In his company, there was good reason to feel terrified. Mind you, rampaging through the art world as the naughty Didius boys had been a doddle compared to this.

"Aulus, I'm not expecting you to come with me; you can stay on guard outside. I've done worse things. All I have to do is climb in, then prowl about until I find Constantia's bedroom door."

"I can't believe the Vestals have name-tablets on their rooms."

"I see you are the logical one in your family."

We had left the senator's house (giving the porter a very oblique message about our future movements). We marched up to the Capena Gate, then turned right in front of the Temple of the Divine Claudius and left down the Via Sacra until we reached the Street of Vesta. We wheeled straight into the walled enclosure, which was not locked.

"Surprise!" muttered Aelia.n.u.s.

"No, no; they have builders working here. Workmen never lock up other people's property."

I could smell the scent from the Sacred Fire, as it wreathed up gently through the hole in the temple roof. It was too dark now to make out the thin trail. The temple's ornamental drum seemed to loom above us, larger than normal, with a pale white sheen. The Forum outside would soon become eerie. It would look deserted, but everywhere would be alive with sinister rustlings and shufflings. Lovemaking and other unsavory deals would probably occur in here too. If the temple had been left open, dossers would warm themselves at the Sacred Hearth.

There would be patrols. They would come around and kick out vagrants. Once the creatures of the night took over Rome, we would be at risk from both them and those who guarded against them. We had to work fast.

Pallid lights flickered on the large Ionic shrine built against the entrance block. We could not risk a torch. I had not even brought one. The twinkly lamps on the shrine made it the best place to attempt entry. Anywhere else would be simply too dark. It would also mean we would be visible, if anyone came along.

I knew exactly where I was going to find a ladder. I had not been wasting time when I came here this morning. As in everywhere else I seemed to go these days, the contractors working on the Vestals' House after it was destroyed in the Great Fire had adopted a storage area, roping off a corner of the enclosure, probably without a by-your-leave. Nothing was sacred to them. I did borrow a lamp from the shrine in order to explore what the men had left for me. Struggling to be quiet, we edged out the nearest set of rungs. It moved freely at first, then as we angled one end away from the other stuff it seemed to grow heavier and more awkward.

We dropped it. I put my hand over the light.

Nothing.

Sucking at my scorched palm, I listened to the nighttime sounds of Rome. Distant voices; faint wafts of desultory flute music; dear G.o.ds, an owl. More likely some gang's watchman, giving a signal to his mates. Perhaps early notice that their mark was now approaching; perhaps a warning about the vigiles.

Already wheels were rumbling on all the roads into town. The rumpus would grow louder as huge delivery wagons strove against one another in the rush to bring provisions in. Heavy goods and fresh produce; delicacies and household wares; marble and timber; baskets and amphorae; rich men's carriages. At least the racket might cover us if we had any more accidents.

Even though it was early June, the temperature had dropped with the coming of darkness. Cool air chilled my upturned face. Time to move.

Aelia.n.u.s touched my arm; I breathed agreement. Together we lifted the ladder and transported it to beside the shrine. I bundled my toga and slung it over my shoulder. A well-sculpted haughty G.o.ddess watched me disapprovingly. Aelia.n.u.s grinned and covered her up with his discarded cloak. He was worse than me.

I shinned up. The wall was too high. I might jump down on the other side with only mild sprains to hamper me, but I would have no means of escape. Cursing, I descended and whispered that we would have to bring another ladder, raise it, then I would sit astride the wall and heave the second one over to the other side. Professional roofers do it every day. I wished I had brought one with me to manage this.

It took a long time. Maneuvering ladders is no joke. People who have never tried it just have no idea. Builders' ladders are crude--rough, thin trees as side members, with branches nailed too far apart to climb up easily--and they tear your hands to shreds if you slip. If you want to test your ingenuity, brute strength, and calmness under pressure, try moving ladders in the dark, in silence, while thinking at every moment that your hour has come.

"Well done, Aulus. I'm going over. If you hear anybody coming, better remove the outside ladder. And keep quiet if a lot of lictors rush out here. Those layabouts don't care a d.a.m.n where they poke their rods."

"What do I do if anything goes wrong?"

"Run for your life."

He was Helena's precious brother. I should have told him to go home.

XLII.

n.o.bODY SEEMED TO be about.

I had descended into a corner of the garden area. Nearby, on the inner side of the gate, a handy lantern dangled from a hook. It was probably waiting for the Virgin who was on duty that night with responsibility for checking the Sacred Fire. I borrowed it.

If the Sacred Fire is ever allowed to go out due to inattention by one of the Virgins, the culprit is stripped and whipped by the Pontifex Maximus (in the dark, and from behind a modesty screen), then the Pontifex has to rekindle the flame using friction on fruitwood bark. Quite a performance. The Virgins are holy women who respect their ancient duties--but I had no doubt that if the flame should waver and dim at night, when no one was there as a witness, the duty Vestal just relit the embers from her lamp. Nervous that it might be missed, I decided to take it back.

I set off exploring, and within minutes my foot dropped into nothing, then I found myself plunged up to my knee in the cold water of an ornamental pool. I managed not to yell. With an effort I pulled out my sopping wet boot, shook off some strands of pondweed, and squelched back for the lamp.

Shielding the light, I picked my way around from the gate, this time along the ground floor of a long, quiet colonnade. The modest accommodation that had been destroyed in Nero's Great Fire was being remodeled, though there seemed to be the usual hitches, for the work was not advanced. Under the damp, dark lee of the Palatine Hill, the charred bulk of the residence was hung with scaffolding. Filthy with fine dust, the colonnades had their upper columns missing altogether, the lower ones currently replaced by temporary braces. Staircases were now just gaping holes in the masonry.

At the far end I found the skeleton of a large new hall under construction, approached by temporary framework steps, and apparently due to be flanked by six small rooms; it would represent a king's royal hut and six cells for his maidenly daughters, but even had it been complete the modern Virgins would never have slept here. Without doubt, their house contained numerous rooms for attendants--and fancy suites for each of them.

It was still quiet. Maybe the ladies all liked early nights. Their staff probably slipped out to taverns over towards the Circus Maximus if they wanted to carouse.

I retraced my steps, this time in the colonnade of the block that ran alongside the Via Nova. Here, there were more signs of occupation. I gently tested doors and windows, but they were all secure. Bound to be. Not so much to keep flighty Virgins in, as to keep out light-fingered construction workers who might purloin their jewelry.

Libel, Falco. Vestal Virgins never adorn themselves with necklaces.

CRINGING DISCLAIMER: Any imputation of Vestals' vanity is retracted on legal advice.

I gathered they did wash their smalls: hearing a woman's voice humming, I walked out into the garden and peered up at the building above me. Light broke in a thin ray from an upper-story window where the shutters were open--and where a string such as you may see any day above any Aventine backstreet hung, with long white ribbons drying in the night air. What you do not normally spot on washing lines are ribbons like the hair ornaments that the Vestals wear.

The tune being hummed was too cheerful to be hymnal, but I was contemplating a big surprise for one of the Empire's most serious, stately women, who had absolutely no reason to welcome an intruder on her windowsill. The risk was hers too. A Virgin suspected of breaking her vow of chast.i.ty faced death. A presumed lover would be stoned; she would be buried alive.

I was in a predicament, but the whole adventure was crazy. There was no going back. I tried standing in the shadows and letting out a low whistle to see what it produced, but the lighthearted hum just continued as before. I went and fetched the ladder which had brought me down over this side of the wall. I brought my toga too, though it was hardly a disguise.

The ladder was a very long one; upright, it swayed dangerously overhead. Inching the heavy contraption into place, I strained to make no sound as I lodged it carefully below the lit window. It took a few difficult moments to find a level place to stand it. Once I could let go, I collapsed against the rungs, breathing throatily. My heart raced. This certainly was the most stupid thing I had ever done.

I had climbed halfway up before disaster struck. My boot, still slimy from the pool, slipped on a rung. I managed to regain my footing, but made too much noise. I froze and clung on, motionless.

I thought all was well, until I heard the window open wider. Light flooded down. Looking up, I made out a woman's shape, with the stiff, high diadem all Vestals wore. I heard a stifled sound, which in other circ.u.mstances might have been giggling. Then a voice whispered facetiously, "Oh darling, I thought you would never come!"

Joking. Well, I hoped she was.

Anyway, I had no time to argue, as the revered Constantia reached down with both arms, grabbed me by the back of my tunic, hauled me up over the windowsill, and dragged me inside.

XLIII.

"NICE PLACE!".

"Thank you."

"Constantia?" Vestals are generally known by only one name, though she presumably had two.

"That's me. And you?"

I tried to inject some formality. "Marcus Didius Falco."

"Oh, Falco! I have been hearing about you. You're a chancer! What would you have done if I had screamed?"

"Pretended I was a shutter-painter on night work, and yelled very loud that it was you who had attacked me."

"Well, it might have worked."

"I won't test the theory. I hoped it was you up here. I've been standing in the garden trying to tell if the sweet soprano tones I could hear were the same ones that grunted 'b.a.l.l.s!' this morning."

"Oh, you heard that," she commented, matter-of-factly. "Have the couch. Do excuse me while I slip off the uniform."

Her slim fingers were unfastening the Hercules knot beneath her white-clad bosom. I gulped. For one startling moment, I thought I was about to be treated to a live impersonation of Aphrodite Undressing for the Bath. But as well as the s.p.a.cious boudoir I had tumbled into, Constantia apparently had been allocated a dressing room where any slipping off of her white robes could be done decently. She saw me panic, though. Throwing me a wink, she vanished into the inner cubicle. "Sit tight. Don't you go away!"

This wasn't the time for a brave boy to start crying for his mother. I perched on the couch as ordered. There was only one. I wondered where Constantia intended to sit when she came back.

It was an elegant piece of furniture in some exotic foreign hardwood, padded and covered with fine-woven wool. My boots discovered a matching footstool. My elbow sank sideways into a ta.s.seled cylindrical bolster. Looking around, I saw that the room was a model of taste. Red and black architectural wall paintings, with roundels depicting simple urns. Light bronze tripods and lampstands. Discreet deerskin rugs. It was equipped with scroll-boxes that probably held romantic Greek novels. Well, you could not expect the girl to sit in here night after night, playing endless games of Soldiers against herself.