Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome (14 page)

Flavia clung to the chariot as Justinus cracked his whip, urging the stallions to go faster. Bare breasted, hair flying, she imagined herself a goddess—a creature of her dreams. She felt wildly triumphant, no longer a child.

The stallions charged through empty streets. In night’s twelfth hour, before dawn, traffic was minimal and so the chariot made good speed. Jaw clenched, Justinus stood as far away from her as possible. Despite her protests, he’d dragged her through the banquet hall, just as a cake, dripping with honey, stuffed with pine-nuts and sultanas, was being served.

“You could have let me have my cake,” she said.

“Your parents will be frantic when they discover you’re missing.”

“My parents are asleep.” She used her most sophisticated tone of voice, a voice she had practiced, attempting to sound condescending. “When they wake they should rejoice that someone in our family has made amends for my brother’s bad behavior and has won Nero’s favor.”

Justinus grabbed her wrist and squeezed until she thought the bones might snap.

“Stupid girl! Your brother was a hero.”

“Drunk!” She tried to break away from him, but his grip tightened. “I’m not a child,” she said.

“Only a child would be naive enough to think she held sway over Nero.” With a look of disgust, Justinus released her.

“Only a drunk would guzzle enough wine to fall into a stupor at a banquet. You’ve hurt me.” She rubbed her wrist. Granted the bruises weren’t from Justinus, but from Nero’s bindings.

“Poppaea laced my wine with some kind of potion,” Justinus said.

“Why would she do that?”

“Perhaps for her amusement. Who knows why those in power do anything.” Justinus focused on the road ahead. “What happened in that room?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing I care to discuss.”

“Nero can’t be trusted. The game you play is dangerous.”

“Perhaps I like danger.” She shot Justinus a smile, and he returned it with a frown. He was gloomy, and far too serious. He reminded her of Elissa.

“Cover yourself,” he said.

She folded her arms over her torn stola, determined to say nothing more. No matter what Justinus thought, Nero desired her. Justinus might think he was wise, but he knew nothing. Had he witnessed Nero’s sobs? Seen Nero crawl? Heard him beg for punishment?

Flavia had to admit Nero’s behavior was far from what she had expected. All her life she’d heard stories about love. Some of the stories seemed fantastic—princes held under a spell, swans transforming into men, slave-girls rescued by a king—but she had also heard the whisperings of servants and the gossip of her mother’s friends. They spoke of men tricking women into bed, wooing them with wine and jewels. They spoke of men who forced women to do their bidding, like Egnatius had done to her. But none of those clandestine conversations mentioned that a man might beg for punishment. She rubbed her breasts, still sore from Nero’s suckling, and knew she should find his behavior frightening. But, in truth, the prospect of another encounter excited her.

From her perch in the chariot, she watched the city pass. One day, she vowed, she’d be celebrated. One day, slaves would carry her through Rome in her own palanquin, as they did Poppaea, and crowds would gawk at her passing. But now there were no crowds, only vigiles patrolling the streets in search of fire and a few stragglers from the Meditrinalia festival. Shops were closed, no workmen manned their posts, not even the street sweepers. Most citizens had gone home long ago. Drunken shouting echoed through an alleyway and a gang of toughs appeared. Flavia allowed her stola to fall to her waist, and the young men caterwauled.

“Cover yourself,” Justinus ordered her.

“You’re no fun,” she said.

Thrilled at being out while others slept, she gazed at the stars, yellowish and fading. She wished morning would never come. When her parents learned that she’d attended Nero’s feast, they would be furious. No doubt they would keep her under lock and key. But having experienced one night of freedom, she was determined to spread her wings.

And my legs
.

She chuckled at her joke.

“Is something funny?” Justinus asked.

“Everything.”

Cracking his whip, he urged the stallions up the Esquiline. The chariot approached The House of Rubrius, and Flavia felt her old life closing in. Justinus jumped down from the chariot, secured the horses to a post, and offered her his hand.

She refused his assistance.

In day’s first light the world looked colorless and dead.

They walked along the garden path and, before they reached the entryway, barking broke the quiet of the dawn. The door opened and Spurius stood on the threshold, keys jangling at his waist. He held Cerberus on a short leash.

Behind the steward, to Flavia’s dismay, she saw her mother.

Constantina pushed past Spurius. “Thank Jupiter you’re home,” she cried, taking Flavia into her arms.

“I’m fine, Mater.”

“Where have you been?” Constantina brushed a lock of hair out of Flavia’s face then looked her over. “Your stola is torn. And is that blood?”

“I’m tired, Mater. I want to go to bed.”

Constantina grabbed Flavia’s hands, examining her wrists. “How did you get these bruises?” She spun toward Justinus, her usually mild manner gone. “I demand an explanation.”

“I escaped from my room,” Flavia said before Justinus could answer. “I climbed a tree, scaled the roof and got the bruises when I fell.”

“You fell? Is anything broken.”

“I’m fine, Mater. I went to the palace.”

“Gallus Justinus took you to Nero’s feast?”

“I-I didn’t take her,” Justinus said. “I merely—”

“You’re no longer welcome in this house.” Constantina pointed a slender finger at Gallus Justinus, forcing him backward. “Leave, before I wake my husband!” She dragged Flavia up the stairs and shoved her through the doorway.

“Mater, stop!”

“You don’t understand—” Justinus tried to explain.

Spurius slammed the door on him.

“Thank you, Spurius.” Constantina said. “I’m sure I can count on you to be discreet.”

“Yes, Domina.” Keys clinking and Cerberus in tow, the steward shuffled away—back to his morning chores.

Constantina grabbed Flavia’s bruised wrist and steered her through the foyer. It hurt, but Flavia said nothing. Never had she seen her mother so angry. Wordlessly, they passed through the vestibule of ancestors, and by the time they reached the atrium, Constantina had regained her composure.

“You will say nothing more about climbing trees or running away,” she said. “Gallus Justinus must shoulder the blame.”

“Justinus has nothing to do with this.”

“Of course he does—”

“Don’t be stupid Mater. I saw the missive Nero sent to Pater. If you could read, you’d know I was invited to the feast.”

“What are you saying?”

“Nero invited me to the Domus Transitoria, and I went. No harm came of it.”

“No harm? What of your reputation? A young girl running around Rome. What man will have you now? When your father learns of this, Gallus Justinus will be charged with abduction.”

“He didn’t abduct me. This is my fault.”

“Of course it’s not your fault. You’re just a child.”

“I’m not a child!” Flavia stamped her foot.

“Quiet, you’ll wake your father.” Constantina lowered her voice, “There is one way to save your reputation. You must marry Egnatius. And soon.”

“No!” Flavia’s voice echoed through the atrium. “I won’t marry that imbecile, and you can’t make me. Are you blind, Mater? I don’t intend to marry anyone. I’m Nero’s new favorite.”

Constantina’s slap came as a shock. Flavia rubbed her stinging cheek, her eyes filling with tears. Unsure of why she was crying, she only knew that she felt powerless.

“I’m not a child,” she said again.

But Constantina turned her back. She wasn’t listening.

Ringing pounded in Elissa’s ears.

Bells
?

She opened her eyes. The rising sun peeked through the temple’s latticework, a cool light in a pallid sky. She rubbed her brow, trying to recall what she’d been dreaming. Paul’s words came back to her.

Prepare yourself for God.

She wanted to believe in a loving God, a God who saw what happened here on earth and cared about the plight of people. All night she’d prayed, hoping for a sign from Jesus—assurance that he noticed her. But in the dawn’s chill light she felt invisible.

Bells rang, calling the vestals to the morning ritual.

The marble floor made an uncomfortable bed. Elissa rubbed her neck, loosening the sore muscles. She got up, stirred the embers then fed the fire coal, taking pleasure in the newborn flames.

Her tongue felt furry, tasted sour. Finding a jug, she swished water around her mouth and spat it out. She ran her tongue over her teeth, and felt the double incisor. A strange sensation flooded through her body. She felt not fully awake and yet not dreaming. She saw herself as a baby, wrapped in swaddling, held not by her mother, but by someone else. A lullaby ran through her mind. It sounded foreign. Not a song she remembered Constantina ever singing.

Bells drowned the melody, chased away the lullaby.

She squinted at the sky, pink around the edges, and watched it change from lavender to blue—a mirror of life’s transience. Nothing lasted forever. Not even gods.

She recalled reading about Re, the Egyptian sun-god who once commanded a following greater than Apollo. Now wind swept through Re’s temples and his altars crumbled into sand. But Re was not the only god to perish. Jupiter, god of the Romans, had snatched the throne from Zeus. Did gods depend on people to achieve their immortality?

And what of Paul’s almighty God?

An almighty God would exist whether humans had faith or not. An almighty God would dwell not only on the highest mountain, not just among the stars, but in everything and everywhere.

“If God created me then I am part of God.”

Stunned by the revelation, she stared into the fire.

Wind blasted through the temple as the doors swung open.

Marcia entered, ruddy-faced and breathless from climbing the seven steps. She was followed by Cornelia, who ran across the room and threw her arms around Elissa’s waist.

“Priestess Junia is near to death,” the little girl announced, forgetting the rule of silence.

Marcia burst into tears.

“Is this true?” Elissa asked. Old Junia had shown her only kindness, and she hated to think of the poor old woman suffering.

“She won’t wake,” Marcia said. She drew a handkerchief out of her stola and loudly blew her nose. “Her eyes don’t open, and she’s barely breathing. Mother Amelia insists she must be removed from the house.”

“Will she die soon?” Cornelia asked. “I’ve never seen a dead person.”

“Where will they take her?” Marcia wailed. “Where can she go?”

“Surely she has family,” Elissa said.

“Only a younger sister, whose husband has no use for another woman in his house.” Marcia twisted the handkerchief around her hand as if binding a wound. “That’s why she’s stayed on at the temple. She could have retired years ago, but now, when she’s old and sick, the priests claim her illness pollutes the House of Vestals.”

“Poor Junia,” Elissa said.

“Lucky Junia!” Angerona stood in the entryway. “She’ll finally escape this prison. I wish the priests would open up my cage.”

“You don’t mean that,” Elissa said.

“Don’t I?” Angerona snorted unbecomingly.

“I have no wish to leave,” Marcia said. “When my time comes, like Junia, I have nowhere to go.”

“I thought you were rich,” Cornelia said.

“Oh, yes, I have money. But my family has no use for me.”

“Don’t fret, Marcia,” Angerona said. “You’re nearly thirty-seven. Before long you’ll have a man between those solid thighs.”

“You’re disgusting.” Marcia’s face grew redder than a slab of meat. “You’re not fit to be a priestess, Angerona. I have nothing more to say to you.”

“But I have more to say to you.”

“Enough,” Elissa said.

“Enough? Perhaps for you, Elissa. After all, you have Gallus Justinus. You pretend to be pure, indifferent. Meanwhile, you’re a bitch in heat, and he hounds you like a lovesick dog.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

Elissa stared at Angerona, the woman who had been her closest friend, the girl she had loved since childhood and trusted more deeply than a sister. “Tread lightly,” she said. “Lest you say something you regret.”

“Like what?” Cornelia asked, her face rapt with interest.

“Listen and learn, little girl,” Angerona said. “I regret the years I’ve spent locked in this pretty cage. I don’t intend to perish in this place, loveless like old Junia. When my thirty years are done, I plan to make up for lost time.” She smiled slyly. “You’re all welcome to join my brothel. I think I’ll name it Holy Whores, or maybe Vestal Prosti—”

“Angerona!” The doors flew open, and the Vestal Maxima stood at the entryway. “How dare you desecrate this sacred ground?”

“I merely sought to lighten our spirits.”

“You may find a diet of bread and water elevating.”

“Why chastise me for idle words and, meanwhile, allow blasphemous acts to go unpunished?”

“What blasphemous acts?”

Angerona shot Elissa a menacing look. “Apparently, you have your favorites.”

“That’s enough,” Mother Amelia warned. “You’re not to leave the house, Angerona.”

“You might want to reconsider how you mete out punishment,” Angerona said. “Others might take great interest in your discrepancies—The Collegiate of Pontiffs, for example.”

Icy fingers squeezed Elissa’s heart.

“Are you threatening me, Priestess Angerona?” The high vestal’s eyes narrowed. “How dare you question my authority?”

“I’m beholden to a higher power.”

“Tigellinus?” Elissa said. “Or should I say Nero?” She spoke his name as if it were a curse. “There is none lower. For the gods’ sake, Angerona, he murdered my brother, forced your father to suicide—”

“Shut up!”

“And to think I trusted you.” Suddenly, Elissa saw the truth. “You betrayed Marcus, didn’t you?”

Angerona’s face went pale.

“It’s true,” Elissa said. “I see it in your face. You’re despicable.”

Angerona threw herself at Elissa, knocking her onto the floor.

Elissa fought her off, twisting and scratching, trying to get out from under her. “You disgust me,” she yelled.

Angerona tore off Elissa’s suffibulum and grabbed a fist of hair, yanking till the roots gave way. They tumbled over one another, kicking, clawing, biting, nearly toppling the cauldron and the sacred fire, as Marcia ran around the temple shrieking and Cornelia wailed.

“Stop at once!” Mother Amelia’s icy voice was followed by a shower of cold water.

Elissa broke from Angerona, panting and furious.

“Get up,” Mother Amelia ordered. She stood over them, in her hands the empty urn meant for holy water. “See me in my chambers now. Both of you.”

* * * * *

Elissa hurried to her cubicle, drew the curtain shut, and fell into the chair.

Angerona could not be trusted.

Her impulse was to run to Justinus, warn him of possible allegations. Warn him Angerona was a spy. But first she had to face the Vestal Maxima.

She changed her soaking clothes, making sure her shoes were spotless, her robe immaculate. Straightening her suffibulum, she carefully arranged the veil. But she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking.

Angerona had thrown Marcus to his death—the man she’d claimed to love—to save her family. Clearly she would stop at nothing. Elissa wracked her memory, trying to remember anything damning she might have told Angerona. Even the suggestion of a vestal’s impropriety would necessitate an inquiry. An examination. Elissa had heard stories about priestesses forced to endure tests—carrying water in a sieve, being thrown into the river to see if she would sink or float, walking barefoot through fire. And if she failed, she would be entombed alive.

Is that what Angerona wanted?

“Jesus, if you’re listening, help me now. I promise to sacrifice thirty sheep, two bullocks, a hundred birds to you.” That would be more than enough to appease Jupiter.

Bracing herself for her meeting with the Vestal Maxima, and hoping to avoid Angerona, she slipped out of her cubicle. She hurried through the dormitory, past the servants’ quarters, and was halfway down the stairway when a shrill wail broke the silence.

Shouting echoed through the atrium.

“Priestess Junia is dead!”

“Death pollutes the House of Vestals!”

Weeping servants ran through the halls.

Elissa sprinted through the tablinum and found the foyer deserted. The front door stood open. A stray dog tore through the doorway, and a kitchen slave chased after it.

Elissa moved toward the door, considered running.

Thais burst into the foyer with a sob. “Death has taken Junia,” she cried. “Rome is cursed.”

Bells clanged, announcing the disaster.

A vestal’s death on sacred ground portended drought, plague, pestilence—all manner of catastrophe.

Junia’s death sent the city into turmoil. Over the next month, countless prodigies occurred: a fiery comet streaked through the sky and fell into the Tiber, giants abandoned mountaintops and scoured villages in search of children, a woman gave birth to a goat, a shadow swallowed up the moon, and on the Nones of November all water-clocks were said to stop at night’s eleventh hour.

Elissa’s routine of quiet meals, scholarly pursuits and working in the garden became a memory. The ten day ordeal of Junia’s state funeral took precedence, and the vestals’ days were filled with ritual. Each morning at dawn they sprinkled salt along the perimeter of the House of Vestals to drive out demons. Each noon they fasted in silent contemplation. Each evening they offered prayers, sacrificing not only cedar wood and wine, but all manner of animals. Rumor claimed blood ran from the temple like the Tiber, and the sacred fire was sustained by bones.

The altercation between Elissa and Angerona seemed forgotten. But every time Elissa sought to escape the House of Vestals, Angerona appeared close behind her, watching.

End of Part Two