Empire (54 page)

“Is that what you believe, Lucius?”

“I don’t know. I listen to my philosopher friends and I try to make sense of what they tell me. Epictetus says it isn’t a given event that disturbs us, but the view we take of it. Nothing is intrinsically good or bad, only thinking makes it so. Therefore, think good thoughts, and find contentment in the moment.”

“Even if you’re ill or hungry or in pain, or far from home?”

“Epictetus would say that even an affront to one’s body, like illness or torture, is an external event, outside our true selves. The self of a man is not his body, but the intelligence that inhabits his body. That self is the one thing no one else can touch, the only thing we truly possess. The operation of our own will is the one thing in all the universe over which we have control. The man who learns to accept this is content, no matter what his physical circumstances, while the man who imagines he can control the world around him is invariably confused and embittered. So you see men who are oppressed by the worst sort of misfortunes, yet who are happy nonetheless, and you see men who are surrounded by luxury and have slaves to carry out their every wish, yet who are miserable.”

“But what if a man is oppressed by others? What if his exercise of free will is constrained by the brute strength of another?”

“Epictetus would say that such a thing is impossible. Other men can have power over one’s body and possessions, but never over the will. The self is always free, if we are but conscious of it.”

“And what about the act of love, or the other pleasures of the body?”

“Epictetus disparages what he calls ‘appetite,’ the drive to satisfy the cravings of the body. Too often appetite controls a man, rather than being controlled by him.”

“But since we have a body, and its bare requirements must be met if we are to exist at all in this world, clearly appetite serves a purpose. A man must eat, so why not take pleasure in food? And what you and I do together, Lucius—does it not give you pleasure?”

“Perhaps too much. There are moments when I’m with you that I forget where I am, even who I am. I lose myself in the moment.”

She smiled. “And isn’t that delicious?”

“Dangerous, Epictetus would say. To lose one’s self in ecstasy is a trap, an exaltation of the body over the will, a capitulation to appetite, an invitation to heartbreak and disappointment, because we have no control whatsoever over the passions and appetites of another. A person may love us one day and forget us the next. Pleasure can turn to pain. But I believe a man needs to touch and be touched, to find union with another, to feel sometimes that he is an animal with a body and cravings and nothing more. I experience that with you, Cornelia. I wouldn’t give up what I share with you for anything.”

“So, do you embrace the Stoic view or not, Lucius?”

“Much of it makes sense to me. But I have my doubts. Is that all there is to wisdom—an acceptance of fate, an acknowledgment that we’re essentially powerless? If the pains and pleasures of the body are separate from the self, and if nothing precedes or follows life, why bother to live at all? But look at me—talking philosophy with a Vestal virgin! Do the gods look down and laugh at us, Cornelia? Do they despise us?”

“If Vesta were displeased with me, she would let me know.”

He shook his head. “Sometimes I can’t believe the risk you take by meeting me.” He ran the tip of his forefinger over her breast and watched the nipple grow erect. “Sometimes I can’t believe the risk I’m taking.”

They both knew the law. A Vestal convicted of breaking her vow of chastity was to be buried alive. Her lover was to be hung on a cross and beaten to death.

Cornelia shrugged. “At least since the days of Nero—all through my tenure as a Vestal—our vow of chastity has never been enforced. Some
Vestals remain virgins, some do not. We don’t flaunt what we do, and the priests of the state religion don’t look too closely into our lives. They take their cue from the Pontifex Maximus, who is also the emperor. Vespasian never cared what we got up to. Titus also looked the other way. They knew what truly mattered. As long as we keep Vesta’s hearthfire burning without interruption and perform the rituals correctly, Roma will continue to receive the goddess’s blessing.”

“Do you truly believe in Vesta and her protection?”

“Of course I do. Don’t tell me you’re an atheist, Lucius. You haven’t converted to Judaism?”

“You know my foreskin is intact.”

“Or worse, become a follower of Christ, a hater of the gods and mankind?”

“No. I am neither a Jew nor a Christian. But . . .”

“Yes?”

He hesitated. What he was about to say he had never said aloud to anyone. “My uncle Kaeso was a Christian.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He was burned alive by Nero, along with the other Christians who were punished for starting the Great Fire.”

She pursed her lips. “How terrible for you.”

“How terrible for him. I never knew the man. My father kept me away from him.”

“Terrible for him, yes . . .” Cornelia left something unspoken, but he could read her thoughts: if the man was a Christian and an arsonist, perhaps he deserved his punishment. “Your uncle didn’t give you that, did he?” She gestured to the amulet that hung from the chain around his neck.

“Why do you ask?” Lucius had never worn the fascinum when he went to see her. Today was the first time he had forgotten to leave it at home.

“I saw you touch it when you mentioned him. It looks a bit like a cross. The Christians boast that their god died by crucifixion—as if that were something to be proud of!”

“As a matter of fact, my uncle Kaeso did wear this amulet during his lifetime; he was wearing it when he died. So my father once told me. But the resemblance to a cross is only a coincidence. It’s a family talisman, a fascinum.”

“It doesn’t look like a fascinum.”

“That’s because it’s so very old and worn. If you look at it from a certain angle, you can make out the original shape. Do you see? Here is the phallus, and here are the wings.”

“Yes, I see.”

“You’re one of the few people who’s ever seen it. When I wear it, I keep it beneath my clothes, out of sight.”

“And when you go to the baths?”

“I leave it at home, for fear of losing it.”

“Then I am indeed privileged to see Lucius Pinarius naked, wearing only his family heirloom.”

He lowered his eyes. “I’ve also never talked about my uncle before. Not to anyone, ever.”

“Is it a secret, then?”

“Some people know about him, I imagine—Epaphroditus must know, since he knew my father quite well—but it’s never spoken of.”

“I understand. In every family there are certain events that are never talked about, relatives who are never mentioned.”

He realized that he was touching the fascinum, turning it this way and that between his forefinger and thumb. He stared at it for a moment, then released it with a grunt. “How in Hades did we end up talking about my uncle Kaeso?”

“We were talking about Vesta and the sacred hearthfire, and atheists like the Christians who don’t believe in the gods.”

“I’m not sure what I think about the gods. Lately I’ve been reading Euhemerus. Do you know him?”

“No.”

“Euhemerus served at the court of Cassander, who was king of Macedonia after Alexander. Euhemerus believed that our tales of gods are simply stories about mortal men and women who lived long ago, made larger than life by the storytellers and given supernatural powers.”

“Then I think this Euhemerus was most certainly an atheist.”

“I’ve also been studying Epicurus. He thought the gods existed, but believed they must have withdrawn from our world, growing so distant from mankind that their effect on mortals is only very faint, hardly perceptible, like a shadow cast by a feeble lamp.”

“The light cast by the hearthfire of Vesta is not feeble, I can assure you,” said Cornelia. “The goddess is with me every day. I attend her with joy and thanksgiving. But the common belief that she demands virginity of her priestesses, and punishes impurity by visiting catastrophes on the city, is a fallacy, a mistaken notion that has been proved false many times. I know for a fact that many Vestals have been unchaste with no bad consequence whatsoever. Otherwise, Roma would have suffered multiple disasters virtually every year that I’ve been a Vestal.”

“We lost Pompeii—”

“That was far from Roma.”

“There was a terrible fire—”

“The Temple of Vesta and the House of the Vestals were untouched.”

“And a plague—”

“Not a single Vestal died, or even became ill. Does talking about disasters always make you so hard?”

“Only with you.”

They made love again. They had never met without making love more than once, perhaps to make up for the infrequency of their meetings. To Lucius, the second time was always better than the first—less hurried and more relaxed, with a greater sense of union between them and a more satisfying climax for both. For the duration of their lovemaking, all his questions about existence were suspended. Each moment was sufficient in itself.

He held her tightly as she reached the crisis. He had never felt closer to her. But afterward, she slipped out of his embrace and turned her back to him.

“This is the last time we’ll meet for a while,” she said. “For several months, at least.”

“Why?”

“I’m going away. I won’t come back until the spring.”

“It’ll be a long winter without you. Where are you going?”

“To the House of the Vestals at Alba Longa.” The town was a day’s journey down the Appian Way, in a hilly region of quaint villages, luxurious villas, and hunting estates.

“That’s only a few hours from Roma. I could come to see you—”

“No. I’ll be in seclusion. The rules are stricter in Alba. The Vestals
there belong to the oldest of all the orders, established even before Roma was founded.”

“I thought the worship of Vesta originated here in Roma.”

She smiled ruefully and shook her head. “And you, a patrician with a name going back to the days of Hercules!”

“The history of religion is not my strong point.”

“I thought you read Titus Livius.”

“Only the parts about my family.”

“Even so, every Roman child should know that Rhea Silvia, the mother of Romulus and Remus, was a Vestal.”

“Imagine that—another Vestal who was not a virgin!”

“Rhea’s father was King Numitor of Alba. He was murdered by his brother, Amulius. Her wicked uncle feared that Rhea might someday produce a rival for the throne, so he forced her to become a Vestal and go into seclusion. But Rhea became pregnant nevertheless. Some say Mars ravished her. Others say her uncle Amulius raped her. However it happened, Rhea kept her condition secret until the twins were born. . . .” Cornelia’s voice trailed off.

“Even I know this part,” said Lucius. “Their mother put the newborn twins in a basket, then a slave took the babies out to a rocky hillside and left them there to die. That was a terrible thing to do, don’t you think?”

“But what choice did Rhea Silvia have? A lot of women do the same thing nowadays. It’s common practice.”

“But what sort of mother could abandon her child to die?”

“Slave women, poor women, girls who’ve been raped. Rhea Silvia faced death if the evidence of her crime was discovered.”

Lucius shook his head. He had never approved of the common practice of abandoning babies, but he did not care to argue with her. “Ah, well, I know the rest of the story. Jupiter raised a tremendous storm, and there was a great flood, and the twins were carried all the way to Roma, where their basket foundered on a hillside. A she-wolf found them, took them to her cave, called the Lupercale, and suckled them. Eventually, Romulus and Remus were adopted by a pig farmer and his wife, grew up to become fearsome warriors, killed the wicked Amulius, rescued their mother, Rhea Silvia, and founded Roma. And the rest is history. But why must you go to Alba, Cornelia? And why for so long?”

“The decision isn’t mine. The Virgo Maxima has ordered me to go. It’s my duty to obey her.” There was something evasive in Cornelia’s tone, but he sensed that there would be no point in pressing her.

“I’ll miss you. I’ll miss this.” He pulled her close. “But even more, I’ll miss
this
—the thing we do after making love. The banter. The teasing. The serious talk. Will you take another lover, while you’re in Alba?”

“No.” She answered without hesitation.

“Then neither will I,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a man.”

“And you are a woman—the only one I want. To whom else might I turn? The bored wife of some acquaintance looking for an hour’s distraction? A slave, counting the cracks in the ceiling until I’m finished? A whore, with one eye on the coins in my purse? Or perhaps I should look for some doe-eyed young girl fresh on the marriage market whose father is willing to settle for a suitor with a worn-out patrician name, a reputation for keeping company with exiled philosophers, and a family fortune only a little tainted by association with Nero. Not one of those women would be able to discuss philosophy and religion with me afterward.”

“You might be surprised.”

“I suppose I’ll do what Martial does when one of his boys fails to show up—learn to love my left hand. Or I suppose I could turn to another of the Vestals—”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Varronilla isn’t bad-looking, and she’s even younger than you; maybe too young for my taste. What about the Oculata sisters? I once enjoyed the attentions of a pair of sisters, years ago—and how many men have had sisters who were also Vestals? The sheer novelty of it—”

“Don’t even think about it!” Cornelia gave him a pinch, playful but painful enough to make him yelp. “You and I take precautions, Lucius. We’re discreet. When our paths cross in public—at the Flavian Amphitheater, in the Forum—we greet each other briefly, as is perfectly natural and acceptable, then we move on. We give no one cause for suspicion. But if you gain a reputation for deliberately seeking the company of Vestals, if you seem to be too familiar with our comings and goings—”

“Cornelia, I was only joking. I was teasing you—the way a man teases
the woman he loves when she’s just told him that for months and months he won’t be able to talk to her, or touch her, or do this to her. . . .”