Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome (11 page)

Elissa tugged the handles of the massive doors, but the doors were locked. The sky deepened to a dusky blue and Venus winked, warning her that she was late for the evening ritual. She pounded the heavy knocker so hard she bruised her knuckles.

Finally the doors of the House of Vestals opened, and Thais peered out.

“The evening meal has finished,” she grumbled in her broken Latin. “Trouble follows you.”

Elissa hurried through the foyer, still carrying her bundle of ragged clothes. Lifting her skirts, she sprinted across the atrium, ran along the colonnaded vestibule and up the marble steps.

“There you are.” Angerona stood at the top of the stairway. “Mother Amelia sent me to find you.”

“I feel ill.” Elissa headed for her cubicle.

“Where have you been?”

“Visiting my father.” Elissa slipped through the curtain of her cubicle and Angerona followed.

“You’re lying. I saw you.”

“Where?”

“With Gallus Justinus.”

“He walked me home.”

“By way of a cobbler’s shop in the Subura?”

“You followed us?”

Elissa sank onto her bed. A rotten taste surfaced from her stomach. She wanted to run, get away from Angerona. But that wasn’t possible. She had to maintain protocol.

Angerona hovered over her, like a bird of prey. “I can guess what you’ve been doing,” she said. “Meanwhile you pretend to be so good, so pure.”

Elissa felt the contents of her stomach churning. “You’re making assumptions, Angerona. You know me well enough—”

“Not any more.”

Elissa stared at Angerona. “Maybe I don’t know you either. Maybe I never did. Maybe you’re a spy.”

“What if I am?” Angerona set her jaw, her eyes impenetrable.

“You’d better go,” Elissa said.

“And you’d better watch yourself.”

Elissa sat, listening, until Angerona’s footsteps faded. She stared at the space where Angerona had just stood. Nothing in this world was solid, nothing safe. Exactly what did Angerona know? If she had learned of Paul’s illegal gatherings the prophet’s life might be in danger, and if she knew Elissa and Justinus had attended a meeting of Messianic Jews, she might use that information to lord it over Elissa. But if she had witnessed the
kiss
, she would be uncontrollable.

She touched her chest, her throat, her lips, recalling the scent of him.

The temple bells sounded the call to evening ritual.

Elissa stood, tore off her stola, tossed it on the stool. Bending over the water basin, she stared at her reflection. Her eyes held a new light, a fire. She splashed icy water on her face attempting to extinguish it. Then she donned her sacramental robes and hurried to the evening ritual.

* * * * *

The vestals stood, encircling the sacred fire—a copper cauldron of flames. Elissa tried to take her place unnoticed.

“You’re late.” Mother Amelia’s voice echoed off the temple’s domed ceiling.

Ancient Junia, her eyes hooded and rheumy, stood beside the high vestal. Covering her mouth, she coughed. Even at the age of sixty-three she refused to retire, preferring to retain her status as a vestal virgin, rather than live under the roof of resentful relatives. Next to Junia stood Cornelia, barely eight years old. She smiled at Elissa, and Elissa winked at her. Most girls of Cornelia’s age spent their days playing with dolls, arguing with siblings. Elissa felt sorry for the child. But she felt no pity for Marcia, a beefy woman in her thirties. Marcia came from a wealthy family, and she liked to throw around her weight—making everyone’s business her concern. She and Angerona exchanged a knowing look as Elissa took her place.

“Your slippers are filthy,” Mother Amelia said, “your robe in disarray. Where have you been, Elissa?”

“Visiting my father—”

“You left this house again without permission. Your behavior is unacceptable.”

“I apologize, but—”

“Come here.”

Head bowed, Elissa approached the high vestal.

Mother Amelia lifted Elissa’s chin. “You eyes shine unnaturally and your cheeks are flushed.” She pressed her palm against Elissa’s forehead. “Yet, you don’t seem feverish.”

“My father isn’t well and—”

“Go back to your place.”

Grasping an amphora by both handles, the high vestal raised the vessel over the granite altar. “Goddess, Vesta, Daughter of the Hearth, Keeper of the Sacred Flame, we call on you to purify your servants.” Pointedly, she glanced at Elissa before pouring wine into the stone basin.

“So may it be,” the priestesses recited in unison.

Mother Amelia dipped her hand into the basin, sprinkled wine over the fire.

Elissa chanted incantations and performed the rituals, as if in a trance. Her thoughts dwelled on Justinus. Until recently she had accepted her fate, accepted her role as a vestal virgin, but now she wondered what it would be like to lie beside a man. To be his wife. To bear his child. Was her destiny to be the same as Junia’s? Would she spend her days, withered and unloved, unknown, except within the sisterhood?

Frankincense filled the temple, smoky and resinous. Clouds of incense drifted to the ceiling and out through the latticework walls, carrying the vestals’ prayers and blessings to the sick and dying—and beyond to the netherworld.

Elissa’s thoughts wandered to Flavia. Ambition ruled her sister’s heart. She prayed that Spurius had delivered her message to Nero. It wasn’t a lie. Flavia
would
be married soon. If she lacked a groom, that would be rectified. Meanwhile, betrothal was a sacred vow which made her untouchable. Even to Nero. He would be furious, of course.
Let him be.
If he continued to pursue Flavia, he would bring the wrath of Vesta down on Rome.

Mother Amelia’s voice rang out, waking Elissa from her trance. “We invoke you, goddess, to grant Rome your protection.”

“So be it,” the vestals proclaimed.

Elissa wished she could believe in Paul’s almighty God, wished she could have faith like Justinus. But the idea of blindly following a formless, nameless God seemed impossible. And yet, Paul’s message haunted her.

We are nothing without love.

One by one, the priestesses retrieved an olive branch from a carefully stacked pile. People made substantial donations to receive mention in the vestals’ prayers. As each priestess placed her olive branch upon the fire, she spoke those prayers aloud.

“May Magia Decimitia receive—” Junia cleared her trembling voice before continuing, “—the blessings of the goddess in her recovery from childbirth and—” Her words were garbled in a fit of coughing. She seemed more ill than usual.

Marcia was next to place a branch upon the fire. Inevitably, her prayers included Galeria Fundana, an heiress (and childhood friend) who endured a troubled marriage. “May Galeria Fundana find relief from creditors.” Marcia’s jowls jiggled when she spoke. “And may her wastrel husband, the drunken philanderer and gambler, receive the misfortune he so richly—”

“Enough,” Mother Amelia said. “Please extend my thanks to Galeria Fundana for her continued generosity.”

Was it good work to offer prayers only for the rich? Elissa recalled the poverty she’d seen that afternoon in the Subura. Promising salvation to the wealthy in return for payment seemed hypocritical.

When her turn came to speak, she measured her words. “May Rome be purified,” she said, hesitating before adding, “and may the gods rid us of all plagues.”

Nero in particular.

The branches burned to coals as they sang in praise of Vesta. Then Mother Amelia closed as she always did. “May the goddess grant us strength to turn our backs on evil and courage to do good.”

One-by-one the priestesses bowed to Mother Amelia and kissed her ring. They departed, leather slippers shushing on the stone.

“Elissa, stay. I want to speak with you.”

“Yes, Mother?”

“What troubles you?”

“Nothing.”

“You have nothing to confess?”

Elissa shook her head.

“I’m told you spent the afternoon with Gallus Justinus.”

Trying not to panic, Elissa said, “He walked me from my father’s house.”

“I trust you know the punishment for consorting with a man.”

“Yes, Mother.”

A vestal’s blood could not be spilled, but if she broke her vow of chastity her suffering would exceed any pain rendered by a sword. After an inquisition and condemnation by the Collegiate of Pontiffs, she would be severely flogged. Bound and enshrouded, she would be carried through the streets as if she were already dead and taken to the Field of Iniquity where she would be entombed. Scant provisions would prolong her torment while, slowly, she asphyxiated.

“Don’t allow your heart to rule your mind, Elissa.”

“No, Mother.”

“There are many forms of love—the love of a parent for a child, love of country, compassion.” The high vestal shook her head. “The love you dally with is untamed passion, a stirring in the groin. Think of Helen of Troy, think of Jason and Medea, think of Persephone and her eternal bond to Hades—”

“Yes, but—”

“Stay away from Gallus Justinus. Do you understand?” Lines etched Mother Amelia’s forehead. “You are a guardian of the sacred fire, highest of the elements. Nothing impure may touch your body, your heart, your mind.”

Elissa saw her glimpse of happiness fast fading.

The furrows in the high vestal’s forehead softened. “You must tame your emotions,” she said. “Despite your brother’s death, I cannot make allowances for your behavior. Tonight, while you tend the fire, ponder my words.”

“Yes, Mother Amelia.”

The high vestal started for the door, then paused. “One thing more,” she said. “I’m told Angerona is in communication with Tigellinus.”

“Tigellinus?”

“Take care, Elissa. I cannot protect you from everything.”

Fear raced through Elissa as the doors swung shut after the Vestal Maxima. If Angerona reported to Tigellinus, she was a spy of the worst sort. Not only could she not be trusted, but she must be avoided.

For ten years Elissa had dedicated herself to the goddess, but now she felt like an outsider. Angerona had deserted her, Marcia shunned her, Cornelia was too young to understand, Junia too old. She had no one in whom she could confide. Except for Justinus.

She sank onto a stone bench and stared at the cauldron—wide and deep, supported by four legs—the womb of the Great Mother cradled by the four winds. Each night a priestess sat vigil by the fire. Once a year, on the Kalends of March at the new moon, the flame was permitted to spend itself. The Pontifex Maximus then rekindled the fire using a quartz crystal and the sun to create a divine spark. Otherwise, allowing the fire to die was considered an offense against the state. Through flakes of ash, the embers glowed. Fire might be damped, but it was not easily extinguished.

Her thoughts returned to Justinus.

She added several lumps of coal and watched the flames ignite.

Too restless to sit, she wandered the temple’s perimeter. Latticework adjoined the circle of pillars allowing her to see out to the forum. Night had fallen and the streets teemed with traffic. The ban on carts was lifted and wooden wheels clattered on cobblestones. She heard shouting, laughter, music. On Palatine Hill lights from the Domus Transitoria glittered, welcoming Meditrinalia revelers to Nero’s feast.

“Jesus,” Elissa said softly. “If you’re listening, protect my sister.”

Feeling guilt at having invoked a foreign god, she quickly said a prayer to Vesta.

She wandered to the doorway of the inner-sanctum, and stepped into the cool, dark chamber. Here lay all the secrets, earthen jars said to house ashes from Troy; divining stones, so polished you could peer into the future; and holy of holies, the Palladium. Elissa had never seen it, but she’d heard the stories—to look directly at the relic would cause instant blindness. Carved by the goddess Athena for her mortal friend, Pallas, legend claimed that upon Pallas’s death the Palladium fell to earth along with Athena’s tears. At the fall of Troy, Aeneas salvaged the relic from the flames and carried it to Rome.

Elissa glanced at the temple doors. No one would be coming here tonight, not on the night of the feast.

Lifting the veil carefully, she stared in wonder, not at a statue of the goddess as she’d imagined, but at a phallus. Carved from ebony, black and smooth and intricately detailed. She reached out her hand to touch it, ran her fingers down the shaft, and felt heat rising through her body, a surge like she had never known. She waited, expecting to be blinded. But, if anything, her vision grew sharper. Her senses intensified—touch, smell, hearing.

The taste of Justinus.

She ran her hands over her breasts and her nipples grew taut. Sliding her hands down her belly, and then lower, she sought the forbidden place.

She should be tending the fire.

Reciting a prayer.

Thinking about what Mother Amelia had told her.

What had the high vestal said?

But the only thing she could remember was his kiss.

“More lentils, Master?”

Akeem’s manner made it obvious that he found saying “Master” difficult. Sometimes Justinus wondered why he put up with the slave, but he reminded himself, as a follower of Jesus, he must practice tolerance.

Akeem offered him the bowl of lentils.

“I’ve had enough.” Justinus reclined on his dining couch and held out his chalice. “But more wine would be welcome.”

“You haven’t touched the milk-fed calf.” Akeem pointed to a platter. “The cook especially prepared it with honey and coriander.”

“Remove the food,” Justinus said. The dish was his favorite, but tonight he desired the oblivion of wine.

“You need to eat.”

“I’m celebrating Meditrinalia, the harvest of grapes.”

Akeem gave Justinus a surly look as if he, not the cook and kitchen slaves, had prepared the dinner. He removed items from the table and set them on a wooden tray, carefully arranging each piece of crockery, each bronze plate, each copper bowl and silver spoon with irritating deliberation.

Justinus reached for the wine jar and Akeem snatched it away.

“Must I remind you that I’m your master?”

“You’ve had enough.”

“Pig’s balls,” Justinus grumbled. “Can’t a man drink at his own table?”

“Wine won’t drown thoughts of that girl.”

“What girl?” Justinus splashed wine into his cup, adding only a dash of water.

“You know which.” Akeem picked up a bowl of olives and popped a green olive into his mouth. “In Egypt the act of copulation is considered sacred, priestesses are encouraged to have conjugal relations. The union of Mother Sky and Father Earth maintains the world’s balance.” He spit the pit into his hand.

“What else would one expect of sand-lovers?” Justinus said, vaguely aware the wine was creeping up on him. “Egyptians worship animals—cats and dogs, and some kind of river-horse. I think the desert sun has fried your brains.”

“And wine has pickled yours.” The bowl slipped from Akeem’s hand, crashed on the mosaic floor, and olives scattered like marbles. He made no attempt to retrieve the olives or the shattered bowl. “Roman gods might appear human, but they act like beasts and argue like fishmongers.”

“Forgive me for insulting you, Akeem.” Justinus waved his empty chalice. “I’m not myself. I need to think.”

“Wine muddles your thoughts.” Akeem whisked away the serving tray and, dishes rattling, swept out of the dining room.

Justinus punched a cushion, shoved it under his head, and resettled himself. He poured another cup of wine and sipped.

He studied the frescoed walls, remembering when his mother had commissioned one of Pompeii’s finest artists to paint the lavish murals. She had taken great care to see their home was immaculate, as she had taken care of him. He remembered how she’d listened to his childish woos, kissed his bruises when he fell, nursed him through fevers. He remembered how she’d told him stories late at night, tales of courageous sailors, terrifying monsters, magical princesses.

She’d promised him a baby sister.

But on the night his sister was due to arrive, his mother had screamed—so loud and long, her shrieks still echoed through his memory. There had been no baby sister. No more nighttime stories, no more mother. His father, claiming Justinus was coddled, had sent him to school and trained him for the military.

In Britannia, most of the men placed under Justinus had exceeded him in age by ten or even twenty years. Tough and experienced professional soldiers—they didn’t trust members of the aristocracy, didn’t trust him. He held himself responsible for the massacre of Boudicca. His men had refused to heed orders barked out by a novice in his twenties. He’d lacked the strength to properly direct them. Lacked their respect. They’d whispered that his friendship with Nero had earned him rank, not his merit. Maybe that was true.

His war wound ached. He changed position on the couch and took another gulp of wine, trying to forget the day he had received the battle-scar. But memories came rushing back.

Autumn, an afternoon of golden light. Haystacks in neat rows. A flock of sheep. The boy appeared, as if from nowhere, eyes blazing, shouting obscenities. Justinus didn’t have the heart to fight, and he turned away. But the boy charged him with a pitchfork. Not even a javelin. Stabbed him in the back.

He’d had no choice but to kill him.

Justinus adjusted his cushion, but found no comfortable position.

If the boy had lived, what would he be doing now? Tilling fields? Seeing to his flock of sheep? Tending apple trees? He might be old enough to take a wife.

Chubby cupids stared from the walls. They hovered in a blood-drenched sky above two lovers. The lovers embraced heart to heart, limbs intertwined, lost in eternal bliss.

Or eternal damnation.

And he was damned to love a woman sworn to chastity.

Akeem was right. Wine did nothing to drown thoughts of Elissa.

Justinus closed his eyes and saw her face. Solemn, proud. Sensual as Venus. What was she thinking now? She was stubborn. She would never forgive Nero for her brother’s death. Never forgive his insult to the House of Rubrius. And now Nero planned to sink his teeth into Flavia. Or, even worse, Elissa.

Justinus sat up. He had to act. He had to stop the princeps. He couldn’t be responsible for another slaughter, another Boudicca.

He drank more wine, felt its warmth slide down his throat. Akeem was wrong on one account: wine didn’t muddle him. On the contrary, it clarified his thoughts. He swung his feet onto the floor and stared at the mosaic pattern, waiting for the tiles to come back into focus. Placing one hand on the couch, he steadied himself and got up. Blood rushed to his head, and through a wine-red haze the cherubs watched.

But his path was clear.

He would confront Nero, convince him to offer an apology to the House of Rubrius and declare Marcus a hero, demand that Nero put aside his lust for Flavia. His lust for Elissa. He had seen the way Nero looked at her.

Justinus downed the dregs of his cup for fortitude. Tonight he would convince Nero that Rome’s fate lay in the hands of the one true God, in the hands of Jesus.

“Akeem,” he called, “my chariot.”

* * * * *

Flavia unlatched the shutters.

Music from the festival drifted through the window of her chamber, but her father’s domus was silent and stultifying. The servants had gone out to celebrate while her parents slept. She would have left too, but Spurius stood guard.

Careful not to make a sound, she placed a footstool beneath the window. Romulus and Remus stirred in their cage, cooing and ruffling their feathers.

Hiking up her stola, the new green silk, she climbed onto the stool and then onto the windowsill.

Clinging to the shutters, she tottered.

The paving stones seemed far away. Further than she remembered.

She recalled a story the servants whispered about an actress falling to her death. Her lover found her body the next morning, but no one knew if it had been an accident.

Refusing to look down, she steadied herself.

“Venus, protect me.”

The goddess of love might not be the most dependable, Venus could be fickle, but Flavia relied on her.

Reaching out her hand, she leaned out of the window, as far as she dared, and touched the fig tree’s closest branch. The slippery bark escaped her fingers. She tumbled backward, falling off the window-ledge and back into her chamber. The footstool skidded, crashed against the wall.

Romulus and Remus fluttered in their cage, wings batting the iron bars.

Flavia sat on the floor, listening, attempting to determine if the noise had roused her parents. Except for the doves, the house remained quiet.

She rubbed her buttocks. No doubt there would be a bruise.

Her bed seemed inviting. Safe. But the feast offered her a chance for life, a chance for freedom. The thought of marrying Egnatius propelled her to the window. She brushed off her stola and climbed back onto the ledge.

To escape, she’d have to jump, grab hold of a branch. She tucked her stola around her waist, studied the tree, and found a sturdy branch. She imagined grabbing hold of it, imagined swinging easily over the roof.

She bent her knees, took a deep breath, and froze.

Looking down, she felt dizzy.

She considered sneaking down the stairs, but Spurius waited by the door along with Cerberus, and she’d never get past them.

She focused on the tree, bent her knees and jumped.

The branch groaned, and she thought it might snap. Scrambling for a foothold, she wrenched herself higher and locked her hands around another branch. Her weight dragged the branch down, and then it rebounded nearly throwing her off. She prayed to Venus as she dangled over the courtyard and bobbed like a fish caught on a line.

The moon had not yet risen and the night was dark. Below, not far from where she hung, a lower section of the roof jutted off at an angle. If she could maneuver her way over it, she could drop to safety.

Her arms ached and sweat poured down her back. Her palms felt slick against the bark. Humming a song she used to sing with Marcus, pretending this was just a game, she swung her legs, willing herself toward the roof. With every swing, she got closer. Just a few feet more—

The branch gave way with a crack. Breaking from the tree, she tumbled toward the tiles. It didn’t feel like flying.

She landed with a thud, arms outstretched to break her fall. The terracotta tiles cut into her palms, her knees. She moved her arms, her legs. Blood trickled down her thighs. Her hair had come undone and fell in sweaty strands around her face. She’d survived the jump without broken bones, but her stola had ripped from the shoulder broach. She managed to refasten it.

Barking echoed through the courtyard.

Digging her fingernails between clay tiles, Flavia wedged her sandaled toes into a crevice and dragged herself toward the pinnacle. A tile broke free, slid down the incline, and clattered in the courtyard below.

She heard the jangling of keys, followed by the voice of Spurius.

She lay still, her body flat against the roof, willing herself to be invisible.

“These old tiles need to be replaced,” Spurius spoke to the dog. “Probably a squirrel.” She heard him kick the broken tile across the courtyard.

Cerberus whined.

“Come on boy, you’ll catch that squirrel in the morning.”

Flavia listened to the slave’s shuffling footsteps until she was certain he and Cerberus had left.

She raised her head and surveyed the courtyard. It appeared empty. No noise came from the house. She imagined Romulus and Remus pecking at their cage, hoping to escape.

Inch by inch, she crawled to the roof’s pinnacle.

Houses of the aristocracy surrounded her like Roman matrons, boring and respectable. But in the distance, the Subura’s tenements winked like bawdy actresses. The lights of Rome studded the seven hills, mirroring the heavens. Lantern-lit barges floated down the Tiber like stars in the Via Lactea.

On her hands and knees, Flavia crept along the rooftop, then carefully began her descent down the far side of the house. Finally, she reached the eaves and found the water-drain. She tossed her palla from the roof, watching the shawl as it billowed and twirled and toward the garden. Then she hiked her stola around her waist and shinnied down the thick lead pipe. The drain stopped several feet from the ground. She jumped into a hedge of rosemary, falling to her knees—a little worse for wear, but free. She brushed off her stola and tied the belt beneath her breasts.

Her father’s domus remained dark. Protected by the night, she headed for the Domus Transitoria.

* * * * *

A riot of coaches, donkey carts, litters, and pedestrians choked the narrow streets. Justinus snapped the reins, urging his horses through the crowd. Heads turned and people gawked at the matched black stallions. Justinus cared little for luxury, but he took pride in his horses, Numidian, imported from North Africa.

The chariot veered, narrowly missing a wagonload of hay. The jolt unsettled Justinus. Drinking wine without benefit of food muddled his reflexes, but the need to speak to Nero acted as a stimulant.

At the forum’s gate, Justinus brought the stallions to a halt. From here he would walk to the Domus Transitoria. A young tough leaned against the wall, chewing on a stalk of straw.

Justinus knew the type—seventeen and full of piss. Justinus jumped from the chariot, but the wine made him clumsy and he caught his toga.

The young man rushed to his aid. His laughing eyes and long dark curls made him appear innocent, but the tattoo on his arm told Justinus he was a member of a street gang.

“Want me to water your horse, sir?”

“No thanks.” Justinus jerked free the fabric of his toga, nearly ripping it.

The young man patted one of the stallions. “Be a shame if they broke free.”

Justinus read his meaning. “You’ll be here for awhile?”

“Depends…”

The young man’s smile reminded Justinus of Marcus, and he handed him several coins. “There’ll be more when I return, and if my horses aren’t here, make no mistake, I’ll find you.”

Feeling a bit unsteady, Justinus crossed the forum, careful to avoid the Well of the Comitia. Tonight no crowds of thousands gathered in the circular pit to hear a politician speak. Tonight, screaming children ran down the steps in pursuit of a mongrel dog, while a soothsayer stood on the rostra ranting about the apocalypse.

Taking the long way round, Justinus approached the Temple of Vesta. He stopped, attempting to see through the latticework. The sacred fire cast light on the walls, but he saw no priestesses. No Elissa. It was useless, he told himself, to dwell on hopeless fantasies.

Feeling the weight of Atlas on his heart, he headed toward the steps of the Temple of Castor and Pollux—the sons of Jupiter. Gaius Caligula had knocked out the back wall, transforming the temple into the entrance of the Domus Transitoria. In his day, Caligula had found it amusing to pose alongside statues of the gods and receive tribute from terrified supplicants.