Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome (17 page)

XIV before the Kalends of January

Year IX, reign of Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus

Dear Justinus,

I find my mood blacker than these winter nights. The dark of the year is dedicated to Vesta, goddess of the hearth, but tonight her fire offers me no light. I see no way out of this obscurity—

But one.

Elissa touched the vial of mandragora she hid within her stola.

Tonight, as you know, a new vestal virgin will be chosen by lottery at Nero’s Saturnalia feast. Some place their bets on Faustina Equita, daughter of a wealthy corn merchant; others favor Claudia Avisia. Astrologers have studied the position of the stars, haruspices have interpreted the splayed entrails of twenty bullocks, but you and I know, Nero will decide the outcome.

She gazed through the open ceiling of her father’s atrium. A single star floated in a sea of night. Pigeons cooed in the rafters and the house creaked as water carried heat beneath the floorboards. She shifted in her chair, unable to get comfortable.

Across from her, Flavia reclined on a couch, her slender legs propped on cushions, her tumbled hair gilded by the oil-lamp’s glow.

“What are you writing?” Flavia asked.

“Nothing.” Elissa ripped the papyrus in half and fed it to the brazier’s flames. She wandered aimlessly around the room and returned to her chair.

“Do you think Pater will get better?” Flavia asked.

“I don’t know.”

Their father had suffered another bout of apoplexy. Weakness of the heart, according to Doctor Karpos. Elissa had spent the afternoon tending him. Only at her mother’s insistence had she left the stuffy bedchamber. Constantina, ever dutiful, would sit vigil by her husband’s side throughout the night. Consequently, Elissa had been appointed to represent her family and escort Flavia to the Saturnalia banquet.

“We should go,” she said. “Get this over with.”

“I don’t want to arrive early. I intend to make an entrance.”

Elissa sighed.

Spurius shuffled across the room and set a bowl of apples on a small table that stood between the sisters. “A Saturnalia gift from Gallus Justinus. He hopes your parents will accept, and—” The old slave’s shaggy eyebrows lowered, and his gaze fixed on Flavia. “He offers his apologies.”

“Thank you, Spurius,” Elissa said, cutting short his impending lecture.

“It’s others should apologize.” Spurius left the atrium, his gait decidedly more sprightly.

No doubt he was headed to the kitchen for a helping of food and gossip. The servants would huddle over fish stewed with onions, discussing moral values, whispering about Flavia’s impropriety, ruminating on the fate of the House of Rubrius. Later, woes forgotten, they’d go out to celebrate.

Extending her foot, Flavia pushed away the bowl of apples with her toes. “According to Nero,” she said, “apples harm the vocal cords.”

“By all means, let’s give him several.”

The vial of mandragora felt cold against Elissa’s breast.

If only she could be a child again curled in her father’s lap, secure within the safety of his arms. If only she could play a game of hide and seek with Marcus or help her mother to spin flax. If only she could live a different life. How pleasant it would be to gather in the evening with her family for a meal, discuss the day’s events with her husband, weave bedtime stories for the children.

She glanced at the curtain leading to her father’s bedchamber. “I’d better check on Pater.”

“He’s asleep,” Flavia said. “The physician prescribed a potion.” Sitting up, she stretched her arms. She bent over the table, examining the bowl of apples, touching each of them before choosing the brightest scarlet apple in the bowl. Falling back onto the couch, she took a noisy bite.

“You just said apples harm the voice.”

Flavia shrugged. “Lot’s of things are bad for me, but I still like them.”

Elissa shot her a disapproving look. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

“About what?”

“Marriage.”

“I have other plans.” Flavia crunched the apple.

“Nero murdered your brother. Burned him alive.”

“I’ll make sure he gets his punishment.”

“How?”

“I have my ways.” Flavia took another bite, severing the apple’s core.

Sitting straighter in her chair, Elissa studied her sister. When had she become so cold? “How do you think Marcus would feel,” she said, “if he saw what you are doing? If he knew you planned to bed the man who murdered him?”

“Marcus is dead. His opinion doesn’t matter.”

“He died to save your life.”

“To save my life?”

“Nero threatened to have you tortured. When Marcus heard that threat, he donned the poisoned robe.”

Flavia stopped chewing. “Even if that’s true, it doesn’t change my plans.”

“Of course not. You care only for yourself, your position in society.”

“And you don’t? You’re a vestal virgin. Educated, allowed to own property. You have freedom other women dream about. Would you give up your freedom to marry Egnatius?” Flavia spat a seed onto the floor. “I know what men are, and I know how to use them.”

“You think you can control Nero?”

“I know what he wants.”

“You have no idea.”

Flavia pursed her carmine lips, the color of a prostitute’s. “He’s a
man
, Elissa. He might select me as a vestal, but I won’t remain a virgin. And I’ll see he pays a high price for the honor.”

“Fool!” Elissa slapped the apple from Flavia’s hand, and the fruit bounced across the tiles. “You think you’ll outmaneuver Nero?”

“I intend to try.”

“Don’t go to the feast. I’ll make your excuses, explain Pater has fallen ill. A vestal’s parents must be of good health—”

“I’m going.”

“How can you be so selfish? Marry Egnatius and you may live to be a mother. Marry Egnatius and our parents may survive to become grandparents. Stupid girl!”

“You’re the fool, Elissa. Pining away for Gallus Justinus. Do you think he’ll wait another twenty years for you? You think he’ll want to couple with a hag of forty?” She smiled. “I wonder what it would be like to bed him.”

Elissa clenched her jaw, controlling the urge to slap her sister.

“He’s well built, I grant you,” Flavia said. “No wonder women find him attractive. Have you noticed his bulge? I’m trying to imagine how large his member gets. You know they swell, don’t you, Elissa? Grow hard and big, long as a cucumber.”

“A cucumber?” Elissa couldn’t help but ask.

“And point straight up, like a spear. I’ll bet Justinus’s phallus is bigger than a bull’s, bigger than an elephant’s, bigger than—”

“You’re disgusting!”

Flavia surveyed the bowl of apples and chose a yellow one. “I think you’re jealous.”

“Of you?”

“Have you never wondered what it would be like to slide your naked body against a man’s, to feel him deep inside of you—”

“Quiet.” Elissa glanced toward their father’s chamber. She ran her hand over her forehead and noticed she felt feverish. How many nights had she lain awake, imagining?

“Catch.” Flavia tossed her the apple.

“Has Nero taken your virginity?”

“Not yet.” Flavia started up the stairs, then turned back to Elissa. “Perhaps tonight. I’m going to get ready now.”

If Flavia hadn’t run, Elissa would have tackled her.

Sinking back into her chair, she examined the apple. Yellow with a rosy blush.

Blood dripped from the altar of the Temple of Saturn, pooling on the marble, soaking the priests’ robes, while a band of flute-players drowned the victims’ squawks and squeals. The Pontifex Maximus had outdone all expectations, sacrificing not only four score of sheep, six score of oxen, a hundred pigs, but black-and-white striped horses from the plains of Africa, Caspian leopards from Asia, flocks of exotic birds never before seen in Rome. Flavia’s meager sacrifice of Romulus and Remus could not compare to Nero’s spectacle.

She watched Nero, studying the way he stood, the way he spoke, looking for some glimmer of the desperate child, but he kept his weakness hidden. He stood beside the altar, crowned by a diadem studded with pearls and gemstones, Master of Saturnalia, Lord of The Roman Empire. Her brother’s murderer. More than anything, she wanted to see him grovel.

“Let the feast begin,” he proclaimed, and the crowd broke into cheers.

The plebs adored their Caesar—his charismatic smile, his penchant for spectacle. Flavia could not help admiring his power. Despite his filthy deeds and perverse ways, she felt strangely attracted to him.

“I’ve never witnessed such extravagance,” she said to her sister.

“Wasteful butchery,” Elissa muttered.

Elissa took Flavia’s arm in hers, steering Flavia away from the bloody altar and through the noisy throng. Above the forum, on Palatine Hill, every window in the palace glowed. The sisters climbed the steps of the Temple of Castor and Pollux. Guards flanking the stairway stood straighter, out of respect for a vestal, as Elissa passed.

Flavia lifted her hem, exposing a slender ankle. Her white robe, meant to be pristine and modest, clung to her body. Having neglected to bind her breasts, her nipples stood erect, demanding the guards’ attention. She enjoyed hearing the men gasp, sensed the heat of their desire—assurance that she possessed a power greater than her sister’s.

“Cover yourself,” Elissa said, pausing to rearrange Flavia’s palla.

They walked through the temple to the entrance of the Domus Transitoria. When they arrived at the doors, Flavia shrugged the palla from her shoulders. She was rewarded by a lascivious smile from the prefect of the Praetorian Guard. Tigellinus slouched in a chair, his feet propped on a table.

“Good evening,” Elissa said, her tone as warm as ice.

“Priestess Elissa.” Tigellinus did not bother to stand up, but slumped lower in his chair. “I see you’ve brought your not-so-little sister.”

“Must I open the doors or will you trouble yourself?”

“No trouble, Priestess Elissa. I’ll make sure of that.”

Tigellinus snapped his fingers and two slaves lifted the heavy bar. The doors opened with a groan. “Enjoy yourselves,” Tigellinus said, his eyes focused on Flavia’s chest.

He was a pig by any standards, far too lowly to touch her. Flavia offered him a condescending smile. Breasts bouncing, she trotted after Elissa, reassured of her magnificence.

The courtyard glittered with what must have been a thousand oil lamps. Hothouse flowers lined the walkways, releasing exotic perfumes. Guards stood beneath the portico, watching from the shadows. A harpist played in the central pavilion. Defying the night’s chill, three young men, wearing nothing but loincloths, splashed in the fountain. They caught Flavia staring at their well-formed bodies and motioned for her to join them.

She giggled.

Elissa took her sister’s hand and pulled her through the garden, through the nymphaeum and its cascading waters. They ascended the double stairs and entered the vestibule leading to the banquet hall. A slave, dressed in the short kilt of an Egyptian prince, announced them. Conversations ceased as the guests strained to see Nero’s latest obsession.

Imagining herself a goddess, Flavia nodded to her audience.

Strands of silver beads cascaded from the ceiling, shimmering in the torchlight, rattling like rain. Opposite the entrance, a dais had been placed along the wall and there an empty throne awaited the Master of Saturnalia. Clusters of couches surrounded small tables loaded with delicacies. Some guests wore masks and many had donned costumes.

On Saturnalia rules were overturned. Concubines, dressed as proper matrons, reclined on couches—while matrons, clad as dancing girls, performed. Priests of Saturn poured wine for slave-boys, and slave-boys ordered knights to do their bidding. Licinius Crassus Frugi, Consul for the incoming year, had been assigned the lowly task of collecting urine from guests too satiated to visit the latrines.

“Nero makes a mockery of our most sacred ceremonies,” Elissa said. “How dare he hold the lottery for the next vestal virgin amid this carnival?”

“I think it’s perfect. After all, Saturnalia is a night for gambling.” Flavia sucked in her stomach and stuck out her chest.

“Your nipples blush,” Elissa said, tugging at her sister’s palla.

Flavia glanced toward the empty throne, wishing Nero would arrive to save her from Elissa. At the far end of the room, high-backed chairs stood against the wall, and there sat the Collegiate of Pontiffs and the other vestal virgins. The twenty candidates reclined on cushions at their feet.

Elissa squeezed Flavia’s hand. “Are you afraid?”

“Afraid he won’t call my name?”

Elissa frowned. “You would be wise to be afraid.”

They walked toward the Collegiate of Pontiffs, and curtsied to the Vestal Maxima. Flavia took her place with the other candidates, settling on a cushion. She surveyed her competition. She sat between Faustina Equita, a sullen girl who wore too many jewels, and Claudia Avisia, a child who could have been no more than seven. Her competition stood no chance.

Brass trumpets sounded and cymbals crashed, announcing the Master of Saturnalia’s arrival. The guests cheered, rising to greet Nero as he climbed the dais to claim his throne.

Flavia couldn’t take her eyes from him. Dressed in the costume of a musician—stacked shoes that made him tower over other men and robes that sparkled blindingly with every movement. His eyes sought hers. She slid her little finger into her mouth, pulled it halfway out, and smiled. His nostrils flared.

Oh yes, she would make him beg.

Poppaea Sabina stood beside him, her gaze ever-watchful. They said she bathed in asses’ milk to preserve her skin, but even from a distance Flavia could see that asses’ milk had not prevented her from wrinkling. Poppaea returned the stare, and Flavia’s stomach tightened. She saw cruelty in those kohl-rimmed eyes. Much as she hated to admit it, perhaps Elissa had a point. Perhaps she had reason to be frightened.

She glanced around the room, wishing her mother and father had come. The parents of the other candidates appeared anxious. Giving up a daughter to thirty years of service was a dubious honor that could not be refused. Most parents would prefer their daughters to marry, raise a family and live a normal life.

The Master of Saturnalia pounded his eagle-headed scepter, and the room fell into silence.

“Welcome to my home,” Nero said in a falsetto voice that set a few guests tittering. “We will open with a song.”

Still using the falsetto, he broke into an aria and pounded out the rhythm with his scepter. When he was done guests rose to their feet, clapping enthusiastically—especially the bushy-haired young men, who were trained in the Egyptian method of applause and well paid by Nero. They even had special names: The Bees made a humming sound, the Roof-tiles clapped with hollowed palms, the Brick-bats clapped with flat hands and made the loudest sound. The other guests squirmed in their seats, unsure of how they should respond. Flavia was among them.

“I am King of Misrule,” Nero announced. “And tonight I demand all rules be broken. Allow me to demonstrate.”

He climbed onto the throne, grinning at his audience. Turning his back to them, he pulled up his robe, exposing his buttocks, and bent over. Upside-down, he peered through his calves. “Anyone who takes this evening seriously will be severely punished.” In emphasis he broke wind, and the crowd gasped.

“Let the games begin!”

Panels in the ceiling turned, releasing flowers. Roses rained down on the guests, pelting them with thorns as well as petals. Nero exploded into laughter, and the guests joined him nervously.

With increasing trepidation, Flavia glanced at her sister. She sat between Mother Amelia and Priestess Angerona, rigid in her high-backed chair, her face an angry mask.

* * * * *

Elissa pinned her gaze on Nero and watched his every move. He stepped down from the dais and wandered through the banquet hall greeting his guests. He spoke to his childhood nurse, Claudia Ecloge, then kissed her gently on the forehead. With some people he showed tenderness, but she couldn’t trust him to do the same with Flavia.

He stopped at the table of a prominent merchant. The merchant’s smile quickly faded when the King of Misrule ordered him to prance around the banquet hall pretending to be Bacchus. The rotund man did as he was told, sweat pouring from his blotchy face. Nero finally allowed him, out of breath and close to fainting, to sit. The King of Misrule then commanded the merchant’s wife to bare her breasts while reciting a bawdy poem. Close to tears, the poor woman complied. Satisfied at the havoc he had wrought, Nero returned to Poppaea Sabina and reclined beside her on the couch.

The atmosphere grew more relaxed. A stage had been erected by the entryway and the orchestra began to play a soothing melody. The flutist was particularly fine, Elissa thought.

The scent of roasted meat wafted through the banquet hall and servants entered, carrying platters of the exotic animals sacrificed to Saturn.

“Pigeon stuffed with sausage then cooked inside a swan,” a boy wearing nothing but an earring offered.

“Leopard fried in olive oil with rosemary,” said another. “Guaranteed to make you virile.”

“Roasted crocodile in pomegranate.” A boy, dressed like a Persian harem girl, proudly displayed his platter.

“No, thank you,” Elissa said.

Reaching beneath her stola, she touched the vial of mandragora nestled in the crevice of her breasts. She needed only an opportunity to slip the contents into Nero’s drink. After ingesting the tincture, he would become at first elated, even delirious. In small quantity, mandragora was an aphrodisiac.

But she planned to be generous.

Josephus claimed mandragora exorcised daemons—if that proved true, the remedy would soon expel Nero from this world. The thought caused Elissa to smile for the first time that evening.

“Where is Justinus tonight?” Angerona asked. Her face was flushed from drinking wine and her palla had fallen from her shoulders. She wore gold bangles on her arms, and they clinked annoyingly.

“How would I know?” Elissa said coldly.

“I’m watching you,” Angerona said.

“I’m watching you as well.”

Of course Justinus wasn’t in attendance at this sham of a feast—this charade meant to mock the vestal virgins. Elissa hadn’t seen him since that day in the Subura. To do so would be dangerous. Through his letters, the letters she paid Thais dearly to receive, she knew that he still followed Paul. Sometimes Justinus transcribed a prayer, a phrase she could latch onto. Sometimes he wrote of love. Though she hadn’t seen him for two months, not an hour passed that she didn’t think of him.

Mother Amelia patted Elissa’s hand with oily fingers. “Your mind is on your sister,” she said, chewing a lump of chicken drowned in cream. “Never have I eaten fowl this tender.” She smacked her lips, before adding, “Your sister will be fine. In our house, Flavia will be protected.”

Protected how? Elissa wondered.

With every passing hour, Mother Amelia seemed to become more oblivious. She leaned close to Elissa, imparting a blast of scallions and wine. “After dessert, it will be time to hold the lottery and, you’ll see, everything will come out right.”

She lived in a world of children’s tales.

“Excuse me, Mother Amelia,” Elissa said, rising from her chair. “I must find the latrine.”

“Downstairs, my dear.” The Vestal Maxima waved her greasy hand in the direction of the orchestra. Lifting a honey-poached dormouse by the tail, she lowered it into her mouth.

Elissa headed for the exit. She walked past Nero. He stood on the stage, belting out a song. All eyes focused on him as he screeched.

She saw her opportunity.

His chalice stood abandoned, not far from the stage, on a nearby table. Fishing for the vial within her stola, Elissa edged toward the cup. She glanced at the crowd, making certain no one watched, uncorked the vial and quickly poured the tincture into the greenish bile that Nero drank.

A heavy hand came down on her shoulder. She dropped the vial, and it rolled under the table.

“What are you doing, Priestess Elissa?”

Plastering a smile onto her mouth, she turned to face Tigellinus. “I’m on my way to the latrine.”

The purplish scar that cut through his upper lip deepened in color. He glanced at Nero’s chalice. So did she. His hand dwarfed the cup as he sniffed the tonic.

“Nasty smell.” He pressed the cup beneath her nostrils. “Laced with what?”

“Echinacea? It soothes the throat.”

“Take a sip.”

Elissa glanced around the banquet hall, but no one seemed to notice them. Nero continued singing. By all appearances, she and Tigellinus might be discussing the weather. Across the room Mother Amelia concentrated on dessert, an elaborate cake requiring four men to carry it from the kitchens. Marcia preyed on a platter of snails dripping in oil. A red dog with a curling tail had found Cornelia and sat beside the girl, tail wagging, as she slipped it bits of meat. Angerona was too busy flirting with a knight to notice Elissa. Elissa’s gaze met her sister’s, and Flavia started to get up. Elissa shook her head in warning.

“Drink,” Tigellinus said.

Perhaps it would be best to drink, to put an end to suffering and join her brother in the underworld. Elissa’s lips met the cup’s rim. Her tongue tingled then went numb.

Tigellinus watched, curiosity glowing in his eyes. To squelch his fire, Elissa tossed the cup’s contents at him.