It was at this point that her control gave way and she started to cry. Helena went and held her while Petro and I distracted the children. I glared at him; he shrugged unrepentantly. Perhaps he was right. It was good for her to let go. Perhaps I was just annoyed with him for achieving it with crass remarks today where I had earlier failed.

Eventually Maia stopped weeping into Helena’s girdle and dried her face on her own stole. She reached for Cloelia and Ancus and held one in each arm. Over their heads, she looked at me. The strain was showing now. “That’s better. Marcus, I have a confession. When you first told me what had happened I had an angry turn and poured every drop of wine we had in the house down the drain outside…” She forced a wan smile “Big brother, if you have any that’s fit to offer, I would like a drink with my lunch.”

ONCE EVERYONE HAD eaten, I waited to broach the subject of Maia’s visit to the Palace to meet the fabulous Queen Berenice. I suggested that the children should take Nux for a walk in Fountain Court. Obediently they let themselves be shooed off, though since they were Maia’s outspoken brood, they all knew what was happening. “The grownups want to talk about things we are not to overhear.”

I had attached a rope to Nux’s collar. When I gave the end of it to Marius, the nine-year-old eldest, he asked me anxiously, “Is your dog likely to run away and get lost?”

“No, Marius. Nux won’t ever get lost. We spoil her and overfeed her and pet her far too much. The rope is so that if you get lost, Nux will drag you safely back.”

We were on the streetside landing, out of earshot of his mother. Encouraged by this shared joke, Marius suddenly tugged my arm and confided what must have been bothering him: “Uncle Marcus, if there is no money now, do you think I shall have to stop going to school?”

He wanted to be a rhetoric teacher, or so he had decided a couple of years ago. It might happen, or he might end up ranching cows. I knelt down and gave him a strong hug. “Marius, I promise you that when the next term’s fees are due they will be found.”

He accepted the reassurance though he still looked anxious. “I hope you didn’t mind me asking.”

“No. I realize your mother has probably said ‘Don’t go bothering Uncle Marcus.’ ”

The boy grinned shyly. “Oh, we don’t always do what Mama says. Today her orders were ‘Make sure you keep telling them how lovely their baby is-and don’t complain if Uncle Marcus insists that we all have some out of his awful old amphora of Spanish fish pickle.’”

“So Ancus and you pulled faces and refused even a taste?”

“Yes, but we do think your baby is nicer than the one Aunt Junia has.”

I could tell Marius believed he had to be the man of their household now. I would have to stop that. It could cripple his childhood. At the very least, Maia needed her money worries ended, even if it meant dragging assistance out of Pa.

I returned thoughtfully to the others. Helena had been making enquiries without waiting for me. “Marcus, listen to this: Cloelia’s name has been entered in the Vestal Virgins’ lottery.”

I swore, more out of surprise than rudeness. Petronius added a lewd comment.

“Don’t blame me,” answered Maia, with a heavy sigh. “Famia put her forward before he left for Africa.”

“Well, he never told me, or I’d have said he was an idiot. How old is she?”

“Eight. He never told me either,” Maia returned wearily. “Not until it was too late and Cloelia had convinced herself it’s a wonderful idea.”

“She’s barred,” Petronius told us, shaking his head. “I went through this business with my girls; they were all crazy to be entered until I had to insist that as a father of three I could exempt them from the lottery. It’s wicked,” he complained. “Six Vestals; they serve for thirty years and replacements are called for, on average, every five years. That fills Rome with dreamy little lasses, all desperately wanting to be the chosen one.”

“I wonder why?” retorted Helena dryly. “Can they really all think how wonderful it would be to ride in a carriage, to have even consuls give way to them, to sit in the best seats in the theaters, to be revered throughout the Empire? All in return for a few light duties carrying waterpots and blowing up the Sacred Fire…”

Petro turned to Maia. “Famia had the three children let out-”

“I know, I know,” Maia groaned. “He only did this because he was such an awkward cuss. Even if Cloelia were chosen, it would be impossible anyway, now her father has been killed. A new Virgin must have both parents living. It’s just one more upsetting consequence that I have to explain to my children-”

“Don’t,” said Helena. Her tone was crisp. “Tell the College of Pontiffs, so they can withdraw her. Just let Cloelia think somebody else has won the lottery by chance.”

“And believe me, there was never any doubt that somebody else will!” Maia muttered, now sounding annoyed.

She settled down and told us the story.

“My wonderful husband decided that if plebeians really are eligible, the honor of becoming a Vestal was just right for our eldest daughter. He did not consult me-probably because he knew what I would say.” It was supposed to be an honor, one that brought enormous respect to the girl during the thirty years she held the office, but Maia was not the kind of mother who would hand over a young, unformed child into the control of an institution. Her family was taught to respect Rome and its traditions-but to avoid daft schemes like devoting their lives to the state. “So I am stuck with pretending it’s a grand idea. I have Cloelia constantly overexcited, the others secretly jealous of her receiving so much attention, Ma furious, Famia not even in the country to help me cope wth it…”

She fell silent. Petronius mused wickedly, “I know we can assume the little darlings are virgins when the Pontifex first accepts them, but how can anyone tell that the pretty things stay chaste? Do they have to submit to ritual testing once a week?”

“Lucius Petronius,” Helena suggested, “don’t you have work to return to this afternoon?”

Petro leaned his elbow on the table with a grin. “Helena Justina, talking about virgins is much more interesting.”

“You surprise me. But we are talking about would-be Virgins-which is not the same thing.”

“One virgin too many, in the case of Maia’s Cloelia!” He was determined to cause trouble today. I would not have minded, but I foresaw that Helena would blame me.

I intervened. “So tell us about the luscious Berenice. She’s no virgin, and that’s a certainty.”

“Ah well,” said Maia. “She’s definitely very beautiful-if you like that style.” She did not say what style it was, and this time both Petronius and I kept mum. “If I had an exotic face and a small legion of hairdressers, I wouldn’t care if my reputation was slightly soiled.”

“It would not be,” I assured her. “Berenice is carrying the slur that she married her own uncle. You would never do that with Uncles Fabius or Junius!”

My mother’s two brothers were farm clods with notoriously odd habits, and, like me, Maia had no patience with their eccentricities. “I suppose if the Queen’s uncle was as mad as ours are, we should feel some sympathy,” she said. “Anyway, the reason I had to go to the Palace was that all the little charmers whose names are in the urn to become Vestals, and all of us suffering mothers, were invited to a reception for Titus Caesar’s lady friend. This was set up as an occasion where the female population of Rome would welcome the lovely one into our midst. But I imagine something formal is always arranged by those in charge of the lottery, so the little girls can be inspected and unsuitable ones weeded out.”

“Of course it is blasphemous to say this.” Helena smiled.