Pandora Gets Greedy (5 page)

“Well, it doesn't really matter. The point is that you were chosen not only for your innocence and purity, but for your extreme good looks … as was I. As were we all. At least … I think you were. I have been known to be wrong. Not often. At any rate, let's clean you up.”

At that moment, they both heard a chorus of voices raised in song, carried toward the house on a light breeze.

“Ah … they're here!” Melania said. “Good. I'd like
them to take a look at you; perhaps tell me where I am going wrong. Come along!”

Moving down the corridor from the back of the large house to the front, she called down to two slaves, bidding them to open the large wooden doors and then, with Iole at her side, Melania again stretched her arms wide as twenty or so women entered from the street. Most were wearing white, but some of the younger ones, the junior VVs like Iole, were clad in shades of gray.

“Sisters!” Melania sang down to them, stretching her arms out even further. Iole didn't know if this was tradition or if Melania simply enjoyed stretching. It did give almost anyone who was close to her the impression that Melania not only knew exactly what she was talking about at any moment, but that she was also extremely … grand … and oh-so worthy of respect.

“Sister!” the group called up, almost in unison.

“Have we a moment?”

“We do,” answered a slightly older woman. “We received word that the battles in the Forum have concluded, but the crowd is still filing out of their seats. We may actually have several moments before we must join the procession to the Theatre of Pompey in celebration of Julie. What do you wish?”

“Julie?” thought Iole. “Who's Julie?”

“I wish a bit of older counsel with the young one here,” Melania said, as all eyes turned to Iole, who suddenly wanted to drop through the floor. “She does not understand some of our ways and I don't seem to be able to get through. She also, obviously, has trouble looking pretty. We need a Vestal intervention!”

Almost as one, the group headed up the stairs. Iole thought for a moment that they looked like an arc of doves or a flight of swans.

Then all at once, she felt a different pair of eyes on her; someone staring—the way no one else ever had. And it wasn't the first time she'd sensed it since she'd been in the house of Valerius. She'd never been able to locate the source, but now she looked all over and finally caught sight of the large front doors and one of the slaves now pushing them shut.

Crispus.

The handsome youth with the curly black hair was staring back up at her even as he threw the heavy bolt into place. When he saw her catch his eye, he immediately diverted his gaze; he knew what it would mean for both of them if he was caught looking at the pretty Vestal. Death.

Iole was beyond confused. Even her mighty, mighty brain had never anticipated this. She simply assumed that she would be alone for the rest of her life. She'd go
into a science, if she could; perhaps become the first female physician or astronomer or something of that sort. But this … this was an instantaneous shock to her system. Someone was looking at her the way Homer looked at Alcie. The way young Douban had looked at Pandy! This wasn't part of the plan! This wasn't supposed to happen to …

She suddenly started to cough. She found herself, inexplicably, unable to breathe. And she couldn't walk, at least she didn't think she could. Her legs were stiff as wood. Is this what attraction meant: utter loss of motor skills? Complete inability to do
anything
? No one had told her any of this, no one had prepared her; not her mother, nor Pandy, nor Alcie. And they were supposed to be her best friends … well, Pandy, anyway. She never
did
trust Alcie … and he was still
looking
at her!

The women crowded around Iole, blocking her view of Crispus, each one giving little tidbits of information about what it meant to be a Vestal.

They began with things Iole already knew: maintain the sacred fire in the Temple of Vesta, bake the sacred salt cakes to be used for the many ceremonies, dedicate oneself to the rites and rituals of Vesta for thirty years….

Iole began to say, politely, that she already knew all of this.

Then the advice veered toward the slightly odd.

“When you pardon a condemned man on the street, don't look him in the eye,” said one woman. “You don't want him to get the wrong impression. You're saving his life, Sister, not being friendly.”

“That's right,” answered someone from the crowd.

“Uh-huh!”

Iole saw that all the women were starting to get very worked up, very excited by the conversation.

“But we are compassionate, correct?” Iole asked.

“Right,” said another. “But superior.”

“Superior!”

“And, when you get your salary from the state treasury,” said a third woman who was so thoroughly draped in fabric that Iole wasn't certain how the woman could lift her own head, “don't thank the treasurer. After all, it's the least we're due—not being able to marry for thirty years or have children and all.”

“All right,” said Iole, thinking that was a bit haughty.

“However, you
are
allowed to not only thank the new ruler and look at him directly, but you may call him by his pet name: Julie,” said Melania. “If no one else is around.”

“Huh?” said Iole, taken aback.

“Tell it, Horatia!” Melania called to a junior VV standing at the back. “Let's see how much of the story you know.”

“Let's see!” said another Vestal.

“Well,” said Horatia, pushing her way to the front of the group—which by this time had maneuvered Iole back to her small room and, taking up every centimeter of available space, had somehow managed to sit her down at the dressing table. “Not so long ago there was a man named Sulla …”

“
What
was his name?” asked the group.

“Lucius Cornelius Sulla,” said Horatia. “The Senate drew up a list of everyone who Sulla thought was an enemy of the Roman Republic. And if the Sulla didn't like you, you were on the list. And then Sulla was given the job of carrying out the proscription.”

“Proscription!”

“Which meant that it was his job to condemn you and see to it that you were executed.”

“Harsh!”

“
Harsh!
”

“Well, one day Julius Caesar's name appeared on that list.”

“On the list.”

“Little boy!”

“Hail Caesar!”

“And he was condemned to death. But the Vestals found out about it and interceded on his behalf.”

“Put a stop to it!”

“The man's alive to-
day
!”

“And that is why the Vestals may look Caesar in the eye,” said Horatia.

“Call him ‘Julie.'”

“Because,” Horatia finished up, “we saved his life and he knows it! He's ruler, but he knows which side of his bread has the honey.”

Without warning, as Iole was listening and looking, Horatia moved slightly to the right and Iole caught a fleeting glimpse of two identical faces at the back of the group … incredibly beautiful faces. She nearly gasped as the two women winked at her in unison. Then Horatia shifted again, and the women seemed to vanish.

“Excellent, Horatia! And thank you,” said Melania. “All right, sisters, what we really need now—because
tempus fugit
—are your best makeover tips.”

“Oh, and will you just look at this child?” said the woman with the heavy headdress, tilting Iole's face upward for everyone to see the black and red streaks. “I thought she was going to run away and join the circus.”

The next instant, as Iole was trying to remember where she had seen those fleeting faces before, her face was wiped clean and there were more than several hands drawing and dabbing, painting and polishing her skin. And there were so many beauty secrets flying into her ears, Iole thought she might go deaf.

“White lead and white chalk … white complexion.”

“Charcoal for bad breath.”

“Soot on the lashes and brows. And give yourself one nice long brow. Very pretty.”

Every once in a while, a question or comment concerning Iole from one woman to another would break through.

“Do you think she was really the prettiest in her family?”

“I know you have to be mentally fit to join the VV priestess-hood, but she can't seem to grasp any beauty basics. I'm not sure she's all that smart.”

Iole craned her head around to pinpoint exactly who it was who'd questioned her intelligence. But then, all their voices began to blend into one cacophonous drone and Iole tried desperately to suppress a giggling fit. She was trying to listen to these women and their ideas but it was being crowded out by the image she was concocting in her mind. She again pictured the group as they had marched up the stairs as one single unit. Then she found herself imagining the Vestals as a pack of lovely and gentle but wild animals allowed to run free in a meadow somewhere. They were tall, shapely, pure white (like Dido), impossibly silly yet magnificent. She imagined them moving as one: something would spook them and they would run this way or that, stopping at watering holes, eating leaves off trees and
jabbering like crazy birds the entire while. What would they be called, she wondered? A passel? A flock? A herd?

She also found herself being extremely touched by the amount of time and attention they were paying her. They truly wanted her to succeed at being pretty. They didn't particularly know or care that she was smarter than any five of them put together; their concern was for her outward appearance, but in a way that was almost sacred. The Vestals represented something higher and finer, and their beauty was a … a … connection to that nobility. Again, she realized that no one had ever taken this kind of care or time with her before. Not her mother, but then, she was just a little girl when she'd left home so many weeks earlier. Not Pandy … well, she was trying to capture all the evils in the world; she had other things on her mind. But Alcie could have given her a few tips!

“And last but not least,” said Melania, shooing the others away as she moved in gently, a brush in her hand tipped with something red. At that moment, Iole felt an enormous warmth and gratitude toward the older woman as she realized that there was a part of her, down very, very deep that secretly enjoyed being beautiful and being
made to be
beautiful.

“Crocodile dung for the cheeks!”

Iole froze in horror as Melania brushed her face with the sticky substance.

“A little red ocher, wine dregs, and mulberry juice mixed in for good measure but the real trick is crocodile dung! And now, my dear, you are ready to go out in publicus.”

The passel of Vestals—Iole had decided the word was “passel”—headed back down the stairs and out once more into the street, carrying Iole along as she tried in vain to catch any scent of dung from her face. There was nothing offensive and Iole prayed that at least the dung had been dried before it was mixed with anything else.

As they walked along, pardoning condemned men and offering up the quick prayer here and there, the group was joined by Vestals from other parts of Rome until there were, Iole thought, perhaps as many as fifty beautiful women strolling the streets. When they came upon the throng moving toward the Theatre of Pompey, the common folk parted and allowed the Vestals their own spot in the procession, which the Vestals assumed with great dignity—and Iole followed suit—spreading their arms high and wide.

The series of apartments that Jupiter and Zeus had created for all the gods to inhabit during the Greek gods' visit to Rome was as large as a temple. There were four floors, each with many rooms all decorated according to the tastes of the individual immortals. Artemis's and Diana's rooms were similar in their collection of hunting bows. Dionysus and Bacchus each had a wine press and a grape arbor hanging from the ceiling. Apollo and Phoebus Apollo had an extensive medical library and walls hung with dozens of musical instruments. Persephone and Proserpine had each plastered on their walls at least five full-size posters of Hades and Pluto, covered with hundreds of berry-juice kisses. And so on. There was also an enormous roof garden, indoor bathing pool and archery range, and, although no immortal actually
had
to cook, a huge food-preparation room.
Athena and Minerva, determined to be wise and knowledgable about all subjects, had decided to prepare all the meals while in Rome—the mortal way—as long as the other gods took turns doing the dishes.

“I am only saying that I'm not sure it is the wisest course of action,” Athena said, deeply inhaling the steam rising out of the cooking pot. “Oh my, but that smells delicious!”

“Wait till you taste it!” Minerva replied. “Now, regarding today; normally, as you know, I would agree with you wholeheartedly. But if it's one thing I'm sure of, it's Rome. The populace has been seeing our pairings, albeit sporadically, for days now. I don't think anyone will be too alarmed at seeing all of us at once.”

“Zeus and Jupiter are determined that we all attend this celebration today and I am convinced that more than a few of your citizens will faint from a … a … deity overload. Did you say five peppercorns?”

“Five, that's right,” said Minerva.

“Pass them to me will you, dear?”

“Look at it this way,” Minerva said, handing Athena the small jar of black, green, and red corns. “If we all bunch together, most people will think we're some sort of theater troupe, painted up to look like gods. But if we spread out a little, I think most won't notice.”

“I hope you're right,” sighed Athena, putting the lid
on the pot to catch the steam. “I wonder what Pandora will think when she sees us. We've all been so careful to stay out of her sight. Zeus really wants us all to be strictly a safety net; he wants her to do this all on her own. But from what Hermes has said, she's lost her way.”