The Vestal Vanishes

FOUR

It was a compact villa, compared to my patron’s vast and rambling one: an attractive single-storey building with two rearward-facing wings, and just a gatehouse and small courtyard in the front, although an adjacent piece of farmland was clearly part of the estate, since a single-cart track led right through the fields to what was presumably another entrance at the back. A half-dozen young land-slaves were leaning on their hoes looking at us with interest from beyond the hedge — till a cursing foreman strode up with a whip, whereupon they turned reluctantly to work.

The feeling had come back into my feet by now, so as soon as my conveyance was safely on the ground I permitted Fiscus to assist me out of it. But before I had taken a single step towards the house the doorkeeper had come out of the small stone cell where he kept watch and — to my surprise — was hurrying to meet us, wearing the broadest smile of welcome I have ever seen.

It was just as well, because he was otherwise a most forbidding sight. Unusually for a man who kept the gates (who are most often hairy giants) he was small and squarish, with a bald head that glistened like a wet ballista ball, but what he lacked in size he clearly made up for in strength. His short orange tunic strained across his chest, powerful legs bulged above the heavy boots, the sinews in his arms were like twisted strands of rope and he carried a huge club as if it were a twig. This was a man who could repel unwanted visitors. But there was the smile.

In fact I was so encouraged by this sign of friendliness that I gestured to the carrying-slaves that they were free to go, although I had previously asked them to delay until I was admitted to the house: I had no wish to be stranded miles from anywhere down a narrow country lane. They were obviously anxious to get back to the games and at my signal they picked up the litter and set off at a run.

I turned back towards the gatekeeper, a word of cheerful greeting already on my lips, but as he saw my face the smile dissolved like smoke.

‘Citizen.’ He fidgeted a little with his club. ‘I didn’t… that is… the toga — I should have realized.’ He stared from Fiscus and the scarlet uniform, to my much-laundered garments with disapproving disbelief. ‘I don’t believe I know you, after all. You have some business here?’

My heart sank lower than my sandal-soles. I had been overhasty in letting the litter-bearers go. It did not take an oracle to see the problem here.

‘You were expecting Publius?’ I asked, pacifically. ‘Of course. And no doubt my attendant confirmed you in that thought. He tells me he came here with his owner yesterday. I expect you recognized him, despite his change of uniform.’

The doorkeeper looked distrustfully at me, tapping his left palm with his club meanwhile — so hard that it made my fingers twitch in sympathy. ‘I did,’ he growled at last, evidently deciding that — since I had Fiscus at my side — I should at least be permitted to explain. ‘I saw him running by the litter and naturally I thought that the esteemed Publius and the lady Audelia had come.’

‘So that the marriage would take place after all?’ I prompted. I hoped to lure him into saying something that would help, by indicating that I knew about the problem with the bride. ‘No wonder you were pleased. No doubt you intended to escort them in, yourself — and maybe earn a quadrans as the bearer of good news?’ I ventured a confidential smile. ‘I understand your feelings perfectly. I was once a slave myself.’

He shot me a wry look, as if we shared a secret now, but his manner thawed. ‘More than a quadrans, citizen. A silver coin at least. If you had been the bride and groom, it would have been such a wonderful relief, especially to the mistress — but to all of us, as well. I thought for a moment that our problems had all been sorted out…’ He broke off suddenly, as if he’d said too much and a red flush of embarrassment ran up the hairless neck. He began weighing the cudgel in his palm again. ‘But how did you know a wedding had even been proposed? I thought the guests were sworn to secrecy. Were you invited?’

I took a step backwards, more because of the action of his club than because I was offended by his words, but he seemed to acknowledge that he’d sounded impolite.

‘Forgive the challenge, citizen, but that is what a doorkeeper is for, especially in a circumstance like this. I ask again, were you invited to the marriage feast? I understood that only a small selected group were asked — just seven of the magistrates and senior councillors — enough to be the witnesses the law demands. But clearly from your clothing you are not one of them.’

Fiscus was looking absolutely shocked at this, but it was evident that the doorkeeper meant no disrespect. He was merely talking candidly, now that he knew that I was once a slave myself. And it was true, my toga’s lack of any purple stripe showed that I was not a man of noble Roman birth and — though it was newly-cleaned in honour of the day — it did not dazzle with the expensive spotlessness expected of a candidate in public life.

So I did not bridle and issue a rebuke, as my attendant clearly expected that I would. I simply made a wry face and observed that I was just a simple tradesman-citizen and could not afford to send my toga to the fuller’s twice a moon.

Fiscus looked affronted and stared hard at the ground but the doorkeeper made a sympathetic noise. ‘In that case, are you some kind of distant relative? I know that there are other branches of the family here in Britannia but I’d heard that — since they weren’t people of any consequence — they were either not invited or had declined to come. But if you are one of them, let me have your name and I’ll enquire if the mistress will permit you to come in.’

This suggestion that I was of no account was not a compliment either, but — to Fiscus’s growing horror — I responded with a smile. Even if the gateman turned me from the door, I wanted at least to lure him into saying something more. I had hopes of learning the family’s name, at least, though I dared not show my ignorance by asking him outright. He had already told me — without intending to — that the bride was called Audelia, and I’d also learned much about the household’s attitudes.

‘I am not a member of the family,’ I said. ‘I have been sent here by His Excellence, Marcus Aurelius Septimus, to try to find out what happened to the bride. My attendant here will bear me out, I’m sure.’ I gestured at Fiscus who briefly raised his eyes, nodded grimly, and then went back to gazing at his feet. I turned a wheedling smile onto the gatekeeper. ‘Would it be possible for you to let us in?’

The man looked doubtful. ‘Well, I don’t know I’m sure. There’s not a slave to spare that I can send to ask. Wait here and I will go and make enquiries myself.’ And before I could answer he had gone inside the gate and barred the entrance firmly in my face.

I glanced at Fiscus but he would not meet my eyes. He would never have endured this kind of greeting in his life, and was doubtless mortified at finding himself in attendance to a mere ex-slave. I would have to tell him sometime that — among my own people — I was a nobleman before I was captured into slavery. But in the meantime I was glad that he was there. Without him, I suspected, I would have been turned away before I’d had the opportunity to say a word.

There was a short uncomfortable silence while we stood there in the lane and I was just beginning to calculate how long it would take us to walk back to the town, when the doorman reappeared. From the haste with which he opened wide the gate and ushered us inside, I deduced that he had been reprimanded for not admitting us at once. The name of Marcus Septimus had no doubt worked its charm.

The gatekeeper was all obsequious helpfulness now, as he led us through the court. ‘I am sorry, citizen, that there is no page to show you in. The whole of the household is in disarray not knowing whether there will be a wedding feast or not — or whether the whole banquet will be cancelled after all. But I see there is a maidservant waiting at the door, she will escort you and show you where to wait. My mistress will be with you in just a little while.’

The slave-girl was a timid, skinny little thing, in an orange tunic far too big for her, but she contrived a little smile and led us shyly in. She took us down a central passage from the portico to the central atrium, a large room where there was a mosaic of a pool — in imitation of the real ones which they’re said to have in Rome — though of rather indifferent workmanship, I thought. Normally this was a place where one would wait, but today it was a hive of domestic industry: a senior slave was supervising the fuelling of lamps and the arrangement of sweet-scented herbs around the family altar in a niche, while a group of slave-boys struggled with the weight of a table and more couches for the dining room beyond.

The folding doors were thrown open to the rear to reveal a pretty little colonnade where troops of garden slaves were also hard at work, sweeping the pathways round the court with bundles of bunched broom, and garlanding the outside shrines and statues with fresh flowers. Other servants were hurrying to and from a separate wooden building to the rear — evidently the kitchen, from which mouth-watering smells were beginning to emerge — carrying pails of water and great trays for serving food. The chief slave looked up and bowed as we walked by but none of the others acknowledged us at all, as our slave-girl led us through the atrium and into a small study to the right.

It was not a large room and it was already full with a cupboard, boxes and a set of open shelves which must have held at least a dozen manuscripts in pots. The top of a handsome wooden table by the window-space was covered too, with opened letter-scrolls, clean bark-paper, an iron-nibbed pen or two, little containers with the elements for mixing ink, two oil-lamps, and — at the very front, as if it had recently been used — a stylus, and the kind of stamp-seal and wax that ladies (not having seal-rings) sometimes used to seal the ties on their fancy writing-blocks, though there was no such wax-tablet here that I could see.

A folding stool had been set up beside the desk and the maidservant suggested shyly that I should sit on it, but indicated that Fiscus — to his visible dismay — should stand and wait outside the study door. No question of entertainment in the servants’ room today.

‘I will bring some wine and dates for you,’ the slave-girl ventured, rather timidly. ‘The mistress won’t be long.’

‘Thank you for your help,’ I murmured, as she turned to go. I saw the doubtful smile that briefly lit her face, and realized that she was very rarely praised. That gave me an idea. I motioned to the girl that she should shut the door. ‘You could help me further,’ I said, when this was done and I was sure that Fiscus could not overhear. ‘I am a stranger to the household and I don’t know the names. Perhaps you could tell me?’

She misunderstood me, her thin cheeks aglow. ‘They call me Modesta, citizen.’ She seemed astonished to be addressed at all.

I would have to do better, without alarming her. ‘Thank you, Modesta,’ I answered with a smile. ‘You have done very well. It is not your normal duty to greet visitors, I think? No doubt the usual attendants are with your master in the town?’ I was only guessing this, from her awkward manner, but it seemed that I was right.

She blushed still brighter. ‘Exactly, citizen. I am just a sewing-slave who mends the garments here, and I do not usually have anything to do with guests. But I am not wanted to help prepare the feast so they have released me to come and show you in. You bring word from the master?’

‘Not exactly that.’

‘The mistress will be disappointed then. She sent a message to her husband, an hour or so ago, to ask him whether the banquet was likely to take place — but up to now there has been no reply.’

‘Yet she has gone on making preparations just the same? Even if there is no wedding for you to celebrate?’

I’d mentioned the wedding to see what she would say, but she just shrugged her skinny shoulders. ‘My master holds a banquet every year in honour of the Imperial holiday. Everyone knows that. Lavinius’s feast is quite a famous one, and if it was cancelled the mistress is afraid that the Emperor might get to hear of it.’

So the master was called Lavinius, I thought. That was a little victory, at least. ‘I see. So she thought it might be dangerous to cancel everything?’

An eager nod. ‘That’s why we were hoping that you brought a message back. We should have heard by now.’

My imagination made a sudden leap. ‘She sent a written letter — a wax tablet possibly,’ I said, thinking of the stylus I’d noticed earlier.

The slave-girl coloured. ‘It was difficult for her. She can read, of course — I think it’s wonderful the way she understands all the inscriptions on graves and everything — but obviously she doesn’t often write. When would she have occasion to? But I heard her saying to the senior slave that she didn’t want this message to be delivered verbally: it might be overheard, and we’d have the whole town knowing what the problem was. She sealed it up and gave it to the last remaining page and told him to run the whole way in with it.’

It seemed that I was not the only one to think discretion was the safest policy! ‘Then perhaps her letter hasn’t reached your master yet,’ I said. ‘It would not be easy for the message-boy to interrupt, if the official party was busy with the games.’

She looked at me distressed. ‘You mean, perhaps the master doesn’t know about… the troubles with the wedding?’

I remembered what Marcus had told me earlier. ‘He does know that his daughter has disappeared,’ I said. I was about to go on to explain how he, too, was trying to keep that knowledge from the general populace but the girl let out a cry of pure dismay.

‘Little Lavinia? She’s disappeared as well? When did this happen? How did you hear of it? Is that what you have come for — to tell us about that?’

I was as surprised as she was. ‘Lavinia? I thought the bride was called Audelia?’

The small face cleared a little. ‘So she is. But… oh, I see! You said you did not know the family!’ She saw my face and gave a little giggle of relief. ‘Lavinius Flaccus is not the father of the bride. Did you suppose he was? He is just her uncle — or at least he is the husband of my mistress, who is Audelia’s aunt.’

‘Aunt?’ I echoed, rather stupidly.

‘Her dead mother’s sister, as I understand. Both of Audelia’s parents died of plague in Rome some years ago, and Lavinius is her nearest living male relative — though she doesn’t need one as a legal guardian, of course, as other women would.’ My error had cured her of her timidity, and she was savouring the unaccustomed joy of knowing something other people didn’t know. She rolled her eyes to heaven. ‘Being a Vestal Virgin must be wonderful. She didn’t even need anyone’s consent when she chose to marry Publius — though of course Lavinius would have given it at once. He and my mistress are absolutely thrilled.’

‘So Audelia was to be married from her uncle’s house?’

‘But it is not her uncle’s. You really didn’t know? This whole estate belongs to Audelia herself. Her father left it to her when he died.’

I was astonished. ‘Although she was a girl?’

She nodded. ‘She was an only child. Of course, as a Vestal Virgin, she could officially have managed everything herself, but she was still living in the temple then, so she installed her uncle to take care of it for her.’ She gave her timid smile. ‘So now I’ve explained things for you, shall I fetch this fruit and wine?’

‘Just one more moment!’ I said, urgently. My thoughts were in a whirl. If this house belonged to Audelia herself and she was due to marry, what would happen then? Surely it would come to Publius as part of her dowry — even Vestal Virgins lose their status when they wed. So what would happen to the uncle who was living here? Would he and his family be obliged to leave? Had I stumbled on a reason why somebody should wish that the prospective bride should disappear?

The girl was staring uncertainly at me, expecting me to speak. I cleared my throat. ‘Lavinius was content with that arrangement, I suppose? Surely — since I understand he is a wealthy man — he has his own affairs? No doubt including substantial property elsewhere.’

‘Ooh, certainly!’ She glanced around, as if she feared the walls were listening to all this, then dropped her voice and grinned, showing a set of little pointed teeth. ‘He’s got a town house in Venta, over to the west — that’s where I was born. But this arrangement was convenient to him. He didn’t have a country villa anywhere near here — only a tract of forest and a stone-quarry — and it suited him to be a little closer to the docks.’

That made a difference to my theory, of course. The man would clearly not be homeless after all, but… ‘And now he’ll lose all those advantages?’

She stared at me. ‘Of course, you wouldn’t know. He has some land adjoining this, which my mistress — Cyra — brought him as a dowry when she wed, and they are building another house on that. It would have been competed by this time, in fact, if it wasn’t for the rain that we’ve had recently.’

Any hopes that I had found a motive for a kidnapping had vanished more completely than the gatekeeper’s smile. But I was struck by what seemed an odd coincidence. ‘Land adjoining this? You don’t mean the farmland that I saw outside the gate?’

She did her shy giggle at my ignorance. ‘Of course not. Though it was once all one estate. Cyra’s father left her the other portion when he died.’ She saw my puzzled face and went on patiently. ‘He was Audelia’s grandfather, of course — he had two daughters and no other heirs — and his land was subdivided between the pair of them.’

It was the obvious explanation, when you thought of it. I was about to say as much when the door was thrust open and we were interrupted by a shrill, reproving voice.

‘Modesta, why are there no refreshments for our guest? Go, see to it at once. How dare you stand about! This is no time for idle gossiping! I’m sorry, citizen, the child is not accustomed to receiving guests. When Lavinius gets home, I’ll see that she is whipped!’