Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome (18 page)

He pressed his hands against his eyes, green slime running down his cheeks. “You’ve blinded me!”

Nero stopped mid-song to glare at Tigellinus. “How dare you interrupt my performance?”

Blinking his red eyes, Tigellinus pointed at Elissa who’d edged out of his reach. “That bitch tried to poison you.”

“Play on,” Nero shouted at the orchestra.

They began a boisterous tune, drowning out all conversation.

Elissa glanced toward the exit, but guards blocked her escape.

Nero leapt down from the stage, landing in front of her. “You tried to poison me? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“There’s proof,” Tigellinus said.

A slave-boy crawled under the table to retrieve the empty vial.

Nero sniffed it. “Mandragora,” he announced.

“An aphrodisiac,” Elissa said.

“My Saturnalia gift?” Nero spoke so only she could hear, leading her away from Tigellinus. “I require no aphrodisiac to tup your sister.”

“Keep your hands off Flavia.” She grabbed the vial from him.

“I should kill you now,” he said.

“You have no evidence.” She dropped the vial and crushed it under her heel.

Nero chuckled. “I enjoy our little game, don’t you, Elissa? By the way, I’ve deciphered the prophecy. It’s not about my mother after all.”

“I don’t care about your stupid prophecy.”

“I
am
Rome, am I not? And I
burn
for you.”

What nonsense.

She tried to walk away from him, but he stayed at her heels. “From union unholy the sister will bring forth a son. I see the meaning clearly now: I, Rome, burn for you—and your sister will bear my son.”

Elissa turned to face him. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

“But we’re having so much fun. Come with me, Elissa, it’s time for the lottery, and I want you to draw the lot.”

Tigellinus trailed after them, ensuring she followed Nero onto the dais. The King of Misrule retrieved his scepter and pounded the heavy staff until the guests grew quiet.

“Fellow citizens, the moment you’ve been waiting for has come.” He spoke to the crowd’s upturned faces. “Priestess Elissa Rubria Honoria will draw the name of the next vestal virgin, Priestess of the Sacred Flame.”

Poppaea Sabina handed him a bowl.

The clay lots rattled as he stirred them. He handed Elissa the bowl. “Draw.”

She reached her trembling hand into the bowl.

Please God, let it not be Flavia, she prayed, and I promise to devote my life to Jesus. She’d lost all faith in Roman gods.

Her fingers wrapped around a small clay tablet.

“Read the name aloud,” Nero commanded her.

Her sister’s name swam before her eyes. The lot fell from Elissa’s hand and shattered on the floor.

“Most inauspicious,” Poppaea said.

Nero thrust the bowl in front of Elissa. “Draw again.”

Again?

Was it possible Flavia had escaped, and another girl would be chosen? Elissa reached into the bowl, withdrawing another tablet. Before she could read the name, Nero grabbed the lot out of her hand. He held the bit of clay above his head.

“The gods have spoken,” he proclaimed. “Rome’s next vestal virgin will be—” He cleared his throat. “Flavia Rubria Honoria.”

“It can’t be,” Elissa cried. But no one paid attention.

All eyes turned to Flavia—so pale, so young, and so afraid.

End of Part Three

Thing of Evil

Who can watch, who can tolerate this evil?

Only the shameless, only the voracious gambler,

wealthy Mamurra of Gaul, living in a distant land.

Oh Rome, debauched and decadent,

do you bear witness to these atrocities?

Everything he touches turns to gold,

And, pridefully, he beds them all without discretion.

For this thing of evil, did the brave captain go to war,

for this you voyaged west to that far island?

—Catullus

Flavia bent over the copper cauldron and blew on the embers. It was her night to tend the sacred flame, a weekly task she’d come to hate.

When she’d arrived at the House of Vestals, she’d held hope for her new life—imagined, as Nero’s favorite, she would have fine clothes, jewels, anything she desired. But instead of feasts and parties, she’d been sequestered within the House of Vestals, as if, knowing he had captured her, the princeps had lost interest. Her days were squandered in the library reading tomes of history, writing legal documents—endless pages of dreary copying—all under the scrupulous supervision of her sister and the Vestal Maxima.

She fed the fire several lumps of coal then wiped her hands on her white robe, leaving sooty smears. What was she, but a glorified scullery slave?

She pulled at the strand of pearls Nero had given her, a forbidden ornament that she hid beneath her robes. After her name had been announced at the Saturnalia feast, she had expected him to claim her as his prize, carry her off in front of all of Rome. Instead, she had been escorted by her sister to the House of Vestals. For days she’d waited for a summons to the palace.

But the summons never came.

At night, alone in her cubicle without even Romulus and Remus to keep her company, she’d cried herself to sleep. Days dragged into weeks, weeks added up to months until winter became spring. Now it was May, the time of Lemuria—when the dead woke from their tombs to walk among the living.

For all she’d seen of Nero, she might be a ghost. Forgotten. Dead. Invisible.

She ran her fingers through her shorn locks, evidence of her position as lowly novitiate. What a fool she’d been to think she might replace Poppaea. Now that Nero held her in his snare, he had no use for her.

Scooping more coal onto the fire, she watched the flames leap. She banked the ashes, coughing as they choked her. Seeking air, she headed for the temple doors. A flurry of moths swirled through the dark like snow and rushed toward the fire, as if begging to be burned.

She stepped outside into the green-smelling air, into spring bursting with life.

Silvery light shimmered on the buildings of the forum. Dawn wouldn’t break for several hours, and the constant clatter of cart wheels had finally ceased. An owl hooted in the nearby grove. Flavia glanced toward the House of Vestals—dark and silent. If she left who would know?

She ventured down the temple steps, her slippers whispering against the stone. Circling the temple she gazed up at the Domus Transitoria, wishing she might see a light, wishing Nero would appear. The palace loomed over the forum like a sleeping giant.

A twig snapped behind her and she caught her breath.

“Who’s there?”

“Flavia?”

Before she could scream, a hand clamped over her mouth. She recognized his scent. Nero loosened his hold, nuzzled her neck. She shivered.

“Did I frighten you?”

“A little.” Her heart still raced. “What brings you here at this hour?”

“Wandering.”

“By yourself?” She glanced around, expecting to see guards, or worse, Poppaea Sabina.

“I often wander by myself at night. When else can I be invisible?”

“You want to be invisible?” She cocked her head. “I want to be seen.”

He touched her face, traced his fingers down her cheek and over her lips. “You’re lovely,” he said.

“I thought you would send for me.”

“I’ve been busy, practicing my music. I plan to travel, perform as a citharode. It’s a dream I’ve had.”

“I have dreams too.”

He smiled and looked quite handsome.

“What do you dream about, little Flavia?”

“Of you.”

She lifted her face to his, and he bent to kiss her mouth. His tongue slid between her lips, flicking like a serpent’s. She flicked her tongue in response. Meanwhile she considered what her next move should be—this time he wouldn’t get away.

According to rumors, after his recent performance in Naples, an earthquake had destroyed the theater. The senate hoped he would view the disaster as an omen, return to Rome and stop performing. The aristocracy considered Nero’s concerts an embarrassment. But, Flavia mused, kindling his dream of being a citharode might prove her ticket to escape.

Nero’s kisses moved from her lips to her shoulders.

“I want to travel too,” she said.

“You have a fine sense of adventure.”

“Will you go to Greece?”

His caresses stopped. He ran his fingers through his hair. “My journey to Athens has been cancelled. The Greeks were heartbroken, of course. Now I plan to visit Alexandria. I don’t want to disappoint my followers again, but my astrologers insist that I consult my ancestors before making the journey.”

“What can ghosts tell you?”

“They’ll tell me if the omens are auspicious.”

“I want to go with you”

He searched her eyes, and she looked into his—steady and unblinking.

“I’d like you to come,” he said.

Heat shot through her body, not from his next kiss, but from knowing she was one step closer to her goal. She wanted him to sweep her off her feet, rescue her from her dreary life, and take her far away from Elissa’s hawkish eyes.

“I want to bear your son.”

He studied her.

“Willingly, you’d break your vows?”

“For you.”

“The penalty for infidelity is death.”

“The priests won’t question Caesar. You are above the law.”

He hesitated. “I’m not the man you think I am.”

“I know exactly who you are.”

My brother’s murderer, she thought, keeping her gaze steady.

“I’ve done loathsome things.” He looked at the sky. “A thousand years from now,” he said, “stars will shine as they do now, the moon will rise and set. But who will remember us?”

“Who cares what people think a thousand years from now?” She took his hand in hers, and led him toward the sacred grove.

III days after the Nones of May

Year X, reign of Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus

Dear Justinus,

I’m glad to hear your studies with the prophet Paul are going well. Each day I say the prayers you have sent me in your letters, and perhaps your prayers are working. The last few months have been blessedly uneventful—Flavia has settled into our routine, my father’s health is much improved, and Nero has been gone from Rome. Perhaps Mother Amelia is right, and everything will work out for the best.

But, yesterday, Nero returned from his travels. And now, sleep escapes me.

Yours as Ever,

Elissa

She set down her stylus. The moon stared through the window of her chamber, bright and insistent.

She got up from her stool and peeked into the dormitory. From behind the other cubicles’ closed curtains, she heard the steady sound of breathing. She wandered to Cornelia’s doorway. The little girl slept on her stomach, clutching the one possession she’d been permitted to take from home—a rag doll she called Lucia. Stealing past the other doorways, she heard Marcia snoring, Angerona mumbling in her sleep.

She parted the curtains of Flavia’s cubicle and saw her sister’s empty bed. Tonight was Flavia’s night to sit vigil by the fire. Why, then, did she feel afraid?

* * * * * *

Throughout the morning ritual Elissa watched her sister. Flavia yawned as Mother Amelia began the convocation. Her lips barely moved as dreamy-eyed she recited prayers. And when she laid a branch of cedar on the flames, she tripped on her hem and nearly fell. Her robes were smeared with soot, not unusual after tending the fire all night. But what was that stain? According to Elissa’s calculations her sister’s monthly flux wasn’t due for days. Most troubling was the laughter Elissa detected in Flavia’s eyes.

Mother Amelia finished the closing prayer, and as the vestals left the temple, Elissa followed Flavia.

“You look different,” she said.

“Do I?”

“You look—” And suddenly Elissa knew. “You’ve been with him, haven’t you?”

Flavia’s flush provided the answer.

“You’ve bedded him!”

Before Elissa could stop her, Flavia fled the temple.

Elissa wanted to strangle her sister, pull her flaxen hair out strand by strand—

“Elissa—”

“Yes, Mother Amelia?”

“As you know, Lemuria begins at midnight, and the Pontifex Maximus intends to join us for the ceremony.”

“He always joins us for the ceremony.” Elissa edged toward the door, hoping to catch up with Flavia.

“The Pontifex Maximus is concerned about the auspices.”

“As he should be.”

Mother Amelia’s eyes widened. “You’ve had a vision?”

“Many visions.”

She often dreamed of Nero’s death: his entrails shriveling in the sun, his body writhing on a pyre, his mother greeting him in Hades—arms outstretched, fire flaring from her eyes, smoke pouring from her nostrils. Elissa pushed open the temple door, but didn’t see Flavia.

“I have more to say to you, Elissa. The Pontifex Maximus has made a special request. He wants you to call forth—”

“—Agrippina.”

“Yes.”

“I won’t.”

“You must try.”

Elissa gazed out at the forum. The buildings, dazzling in the morning sun, were no better than a prison. Here she would live, and here she would die.

“Help me, Jesus,” she whispered.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.” She bit her lip.

“I forbid you to speak that name. I’ve warned you to stay away from Messianic Jews. Have you been attending meetings?”

“No.”

“Look at me.” Mother Amelia raised Elissa’s chin, peered into her eyes. “Have you seen Gallus Justinus?”

“No!” She spoke the truth, at least in theory.

She had attended no more of Paul’s meetings. But, in her dreams, she often saw Justinus. And, in her prayers, she called on Jesus.

“Are you listening, Elissa? Tonight, when veils between the worlds are thin, you will call forth Nero’s mother.”

“The dead don’t like to be disturbed.”

Already, she felt Agrippina’s fingers reaching up from Hades, clutching at her ankles.

* * * * *

“The Lord is my shepherd,” Elissa read for the hundredth time, “I shall want nothing....”

Except Nero’s death.

She refolded the papyrus, placing her last letter from Justinus on top of all the others. Carefully, she rewrapped the letters in silk, tied the blue ribbon in a bow and kissed the bundle, before hiding it between the pallet and the leather webbing of her bed.

Nero had gone too far, coupling with her sister. There was only one solution, and this time she would seek assistance. The aristocracy’s discontent with the princeps had been simmering for months and now it reached a boiling point. Dissatisfaction brewed in the Senate. Nero needed no more than a push to send him tumbling from the throne into a roiling stew. The recipe required only a dash of salt, someone to turn up the heat and rally those in power. Who better than Justinus, a valiant knight and war hero?

But visiting his home would be unwise. Since Saturnalia, Tigellinus kept close watch on her, his spies were everywhere, and Elissa was well known on the Esquiline. According to his letters, Justinus spent most of his time studying with Paul. No one would recognize her in the Hebrew Quarter. Her heart raced at the thought of seeing him.

Digging through her cedar chest, she came up with the rags that served so well as her disguise. She drew them on, wishing she could go to him wearing something more becoming. She combed her hair and pinched her cheeks, regretting that she lacked carmine for her lips. Cosmetics were considered an indulgent vanity as were mirrors. She gazed at her reflection in the wash basin, wondering if Justinus thought of her, at this moment, as she thought of him. Touching the double incisors, covering them with her fingertips, she wished she might be beautiful. Pale and perfect like her sister. The water in the basin rippled, transforming her face. And the image she saw was Agrippina’s.

The basin crashed onto the floor, splashing water. It crept over the tiles, reflecting memories, pictures from her childhood. She told herself she must be faint from hunger, dazed from lack of sleep.

On her knees, she mopped the water, trying to forget what she had seen.

She placed several cushions on her bed and pulled a coverlet over them. From the doorway, it looked as if she lay sleeping.

At this hour the dormitory was quiet. Her fellow priestesses were partaking of the midday meal. She’d claimed to be suffering from her monthly flux, and told Mother Amelia she needed rest. She hurried past the servants’ quarters, down the stairs, and through the atrium. Thais had left her post, and the front door stood unguarded. She glanced around, saw no one, and slipped out.

The sun lurked behind a cloud and shadows fell across the forum washing the white buildings bluish-gray. At midday, most people went home to eat and take a nap, returning to work after several hours. She walked along the near-deserted Via Sacra.

A drop of rain fell on the paving stones, and more drops followed. Jupiter released a bolt of lightning and then a crack of thunder. Elissa ran for cover, finding shelter in a recessed doorway. The downpour drove stragglers into taverns—the only open shops. Further along the street a door swung open. Voices burst out of it, along with the smell of onions and boiled meat. The tavern door opened, admitting two soggy men, and then slammed shut.

Finally the rain subsided. Elissa headed for the river and the Trastevere, hoping to find Justinus in the Hebrew Quarter.

* * * * *

Wanting to avoid her sister’s questions, Flavia claimed to have a headache and planned to spend the afternoon hiding in her room. Under no circumstance did she want to speak to Elissa. She had a scare when her sister appeared in the dormitory instead of going to the midday meal. Narrowly escaping an encounter, Flavia had ducked into her cubicle.

Though Elissa guessed her secret, Flavia told herself nothing would come of it. Even Elissa was powerless against the will of Nero. And of one thing Flavia was certain—Nero desired her. Last night had been proof.

She lay on her bed, running her fingers over her strand of pearls, caressing their smooth surface. She ran her palms over her belly, remembering how he’d touched her—here, and here, and even there. Remembering what she’d done to him, and how he’d begged for more.

No one could deny she was a woman now. Not even Elissa.

The smell of goat stew wafted through her window making her mouth water. She regretted missing the midday meal. Her midnight activities had left her ravenous.

Too restless to sleep, she got up, wandered to the narrow window, stared at rain.

Here she was, trapped behind locked doors again, but, after tonight, her life would change. If the Lemurian auspices were favorable, Nero promised he would marry her, take her as a second wife. He’d told her about Ramses the Great, how the Egyptian Pharaoh kept three wives, hundreds of concubines, and had fathered over forty children. Ramses had ruled for sixty years. But Nero wouldn’t live that long. Not after Flavia bore his son.

She imagined drifting up the Nile, reclining in a golden barge while slaves fanned her with peacock feathers. She imagined wearing gossamer robes, perfumes from the Orient, treasuries of gold and jewels.

Be Cleopatra to my Antony, he’d said.

What would Elissa say to that? Elissa still thought of her as a child, but Nero saw her as his queen—his empress.

Soon Poppaea Sabina would fade into a memory. She grew old, and her time was running out. She couldn’t bear a healthy child. So, what use was she to Nero?

Thrusting aside the doorway’s curtain, Flavia left her cubicle. She meandered through the dormitory, past the servants’ quarters, toward the front of the house. A bolted door didn’t stop her from entering the archives where wills and documents were kept. But she had no interest in musty tomes. Passing shelves of vellum scrolls, sheets of papyrus and wax tablets, she walked the chamber’s length and stood before the row of windows, looking out at the Via Sacra.

Barred to keep intruders out, or to keep the vestals in? She pressed her face against the iron grate. The forum appeared quiet. A single figure, dressed in rags, walked along the avenue. Something about the person seemed familiar.

Elissa.

Where was she going?

Determined to find out, Flavia ran to the door. The fall of footsteps on the stairway made her retreat. Peering through the door jamb, she watched Marcia clomp past the servants’ quarters and into the dormitory. She might look like a cow, but Marcia had the hearing of a cat. Trying to sneak down the stairway would be risky.

But there might be a better escape.

Returning to the row of windows, Flavia found the one she sought. The iron bars wobbled in the crumbling casement. Easing the grate back and forth, she loosened the plaster, lifted out the grate and set it on the floor.

She looked out at the pouring rain, and saw her sister huddled in a doorway, a ragged palla draped over her head.

Definitely up to something.

She leaned over the window-ledge, ignoring the downpour. Ivy crept along the wall, and the twisted branches appeared sturdy. The ground below looked wet and slippery. Climbing would be difficult, but she enjoyed a challenge.

* * * * *

Veils of mist rose from the Tiber’s rushing waters and swirled around Elissa’s feet. She walked across the bridge and felt like she was walking through a cloud.

Footsteps, muffled by the fog, tapped softly behind her.

Or was it rain?

She stopped. So did the tapping.

She glanced back, half expecting to see Angerona. Shifting vapors swallowed the river, swallowed everything. Clammy wetness seeped through her palla, and the tunica beneath her stola clung to her back. Brushing a limp strand of hair out of her face, she listened for footsteps, heard only the steady beat of rain.

When she reached the far side of the bridge, a labyrinth of twisting lanes told her she was in the Hebrew Quarter. Here, women remained cloistered in their homes and were rarely seen, men mumbled prayers in Hebrew, and pork was a forbidden meat. The Jews were a strange people, though Elissa saw few of them today. The Day of Saturn was their Sabbath and all the shops were closed.

She wondered which way she should turn. She only knew she sought the shop of a tentmaker. There were no streets signs, no numbers on the houses. Just graffiti. The cobblestones were slick with rain. Reaching out her hand to steady herself, she touched a wall dripping with water, and something slimy brushed her face.

Stifling a scream, she hurried on. Saw no sign of a tentmaker.

Backtracking, she walked along another street.

Fog crept toward her from the river, and she could barely see her shoes. The idea of finding Justinus seemed ludicrous. Commonsense told her to return to the House of Vestals before she was discovered missing.

Or worse.

People often met their death in Rome’s deserted alleyways. Just last week a woman had been raped and stabbed. Retracing her steps, she sought something familiar. She would have asked for help, but every door she passed was closed.

She hurried by a stinking pile of rags.

The rags shifted.

From beneath the tattered pile of cloth a gnarled finger appeared, beckoning for her to come closer. She heard a wheezing sound. Blood-shot eyes peered out from the mud-caked rags.

“You seek the truth?” said a rasping voice.