Free The Vestal Vanishes by Rosemary Rowe Page A

safely out of sight and sound of everyone, Modesta turned to me and whispered, confidentially, ‘I hope that fruit was not too horrible, I’m sure it tasted sharp, but the chief slave said the best was wanted for the feast.’
    I was emboldened by the little confidence. I answered with a smile. ‘It is of no account. But there is one thing that slightly troubles me. If your master has a private gig to use, why did he hire a raeda to take his daughter yesterday? Would it not have been far safer to have used his own?’
    She giggled, clapping a skinny hand across her mouth. ‘Oh, citizen, you haven’t seen the private gig. No more than an open carriage, with a single wooden seat – apart from the driver – and it has no roof. They could never have sent Lavinia all the way in that, much less expect a Vestal Virgin to ride home in it! Supposing it had rained? It would have made a public spectacle of her. In any case, there was too much luggage to get into the gig and – of course – there was Lavinia’s nursemaid travelling with her too.’
    ‘She did not have a manservant to guard her on her way?’
    She grinned at me. ‘She will have one from tomorrow, when the pontifex arrives. As to yesterday, my master chose this carriage driver most especially, because he was particularly young and strong and could protect them if he needed to. Fierce-looking too – or so the mistress said. She didn’t like him from the start. She’s had him shut in there.’
    She crossed to a long low building which was clearly the sleeping-quarters of the slaves. I half-expected her to go inside, but she passed the door and made for a smaller outbuilding nearby, with a row of stout doors along the length of it.
    Outside the last door she stopped and looked at me. ‘He’s in here, citizen. I’ll undo the bolt.’

SIX
    T he room revealed was a sort of storage area, with not even a window-space of any kind – nothing but bare walls, rows of heaped-up bulging sacks, and a floor of trodden earth from where a youngish man was blinking up at me, clearly blinded by the sudden light. He was lying rather awkwardly on his left-hand side, on a narrow strip of floor between the nearest piles of sacks. His hands were tied behind him and his feet were fettered to a stout iron loop that was set into the wall.
    I took a step towards him and he tried to lift his head, but fell back with a groan. I saw that the rope which bound his arms was also tethered to the ankle-chain, so that he could not move or ease a single limb without experiencing agony. The shoulders of his tunic were stained with stripes of blood. Someone had whipped him savagely, by the look of it.
    ‘What do you want? And what are you doing here? You’re not Lavinius.’ His voice was weak with pain, but he was sullen too. ‘Have you come to torment me a bit more?’
    I was aware of Modesta, behind me, craning to look in. I gestured her to stand a little further off and moved to squat down on a lumpy sack where he could see my face. Inside, the room was dank and smelt strongly of something old and vegetal: overripe turnips or damp nuts, perhaps.
    ‘I’ve come to ask about your missing passenger. She was a Vestal Virgin, as of course you know, and a most important person. Far more important than either you or me – you cannot expect her relatives to simply let it pass.’
    With a painful effort he turned his head away (almost the only part of his body that he could move at all) and maintained a stubborn silence. It was a foolish gesture, in the circumstance – anyone from the household would have had him flogged for it – but I could not fault his spirit or his bravery.
    I tried again, though I was talking to his averted cheek. ‘You were responsible for delivering her safely to her bridegroom, and in that you failed. You can hardly be surprised if they have locked you up.’
    In fact I felt some sympathy with the prisoner. This was a miserable place to be chained up but, judging by