Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome (24 page)

Her heart slamming so hard it hurt, Flavia ran toward the olive grove. Ducking under branches, tripping over roots, she ran to the safety of the trees. Tears streamed down her face.

She felt powerless and stupid.

She ran until the sound of the feast grew distant, the laughter and the music faint. The olive grove gave way to untamed woods. Cypress trees towered overhead blotting out the moon, their weeping boughs barred her way. The scent of cedar filled her nostrils, and each breath pierced her lungs. Torches flickered through the veil of branches. She ran toward the light then slowed. Drawing aside a drooping limb, she peered into a clearing.

Torchlight revealed a gathering of women. They sat in a circle, chanting.

Flavia grabbed onto a low-hanging limb of Cypress and pulled herself into the tree’s crook, to gain a better view. The bark chaffed her knees and thighs as she shimmied along a bough. Pushing aside a branch of prickly cones, she peered down at the clearing. Poppaea lay naked on a bed of moss, surrounded by women Flavia recognized from court. They knelt beside the empress, stroking her arms, massaging her thighs, anointing her plump belly.

Stories of Poppaea’s strange gatherings ran rampant through the court. Some said Nero’s wife dabbled in magic, some said she consorted with sorcerers, some said she practiced the black arts—casting spells to blind, or maim, or even kill.

Flavia inched closer, and the bough dipped toward the clearing. Digging her fingernails into the bark, she struggled to keep her balance.

A priestess of Venus stood before a slab of granite that served as an altar. Smoke spiraled from a fire fed with frankincense. The priestess poured salt into an earthen bowl while the women chanted. Her voice rose above the others, “Great goddess Venus, we call on you to protect Poppaea Sabina. Set Furies on her enemies. Putrefy their entrails, pluck their eyeballs from their sockets, and toss their bones into eternal fire.” The priestess stirred water into the bowl.

Flavia watched with fascination.

“We beseech you, great goddess, to bless the womb of Poppaea Sabina that she may receive Nero’s child.” The priestess dipped her fingers into the bowl, touched Poppaea’s right eye then her left, touched each of her ears, each of her nostrils, her mouth, her nipples, and her navel. She parted Poppaea’s thighs, sealing every orifice.

“May her womb be bountiful and bring a son to term,” the priestess said.

The other women echoed her.

The priestess brought a chalice to Poppaea’s mouth, and Poppaea drank. Flavia knew of herbs that might induce a child into a womb—lemon balm steeped in wine, orchis tuber crushed into powder and dissolved in goat’s milk, even simple watercress. What if they worked on Poppaea?

Clinging to the branch, she whispered, “Great goddess, Venus, hear my plea. Curse Poppaea Sabina’s womb, allow no seed to germinate. And make my womb fertile for Nero’s son.”

The priestess moved around Poppaea, blocking Flavia’s view.

She edged further along the branch.

“By the power endowed in me,” the priestess chanted, “may Poppaea Sabina bring forth a manchild, heir to The Roman Empire.”

“No!” Flavia screamed. Losing her balance, she tumbled from the tree and landed in the circle.

Rising on her elbows, Poppaea stared at the intruder. “Who are you?” she asked.

The women whispered, pointing at Flavia.

Poppaea crooked her little finger. “Come closer, let me see you, soldier.”

Flavia scrambled to her feet.

“Come back here, boy!”

Flavia ran into the woods.

The women followed, shouting, screeching, but Flavia outran them. Rays of a lantern swung through the dark, casting light on a patch of earth, a branch, a stream of rushing water. Jumping the creek, her foot sank with a splash. She stumbled from the water, saw a deer track, and veered onto the narrow path. Clouds cloaked the moon and made the woods a shadow-play. The path grew dense with brambles, and thorns slapped her face.

Behind her, a twig snapped.

She heard breathing.

Not her own.

The panting of a predator.

She ducked into a patch of briars, fell onto her knees, and crawled. The vines clawed her, tore her clothes, but she kept going.

Behind her, she heard cursing.

A cry of pain.

Then nothing.

She stopped, breath catching in her throat, sweat pouring down her neck. She lay prone on the ground, heart pounding against the earth, sweat stinging the scratches on her back and arms, listening. She heard tree frogs. Water running in the creek. The distant sound of shouting and music from the feast. A rock cut into her ribs, but she didn’t dare move until she felt certain her pursuers had given up the chase.

Finally, she crawled out of the briar-patch and staggered to her feet.

The lantern blinded her.

“Who sent you to spy on me?”

Flavia recognized Poppaea’s voice. She squinted, but couldn’t see.

“Nobody sent me,” she said.

Poppaea raised the lantern. Lifting Flavia’s chin, she stared into her face. “You’re not a boy,” she said. “You’re my husband’s whore.”

Flavia glanced toward the brambles, wishing she had stayed there.

“After your run, you must be thirsty,” Poppaea said.

Flavia swallowed, and her throat felt parched.

Poppaea reached into her robe and found a flask. “Drink.”

Flavia sniffed. The contents didn’t smell like wine or anything she’d ever drunk.

“Go on,” Poppaea urged.

The taste was not unpleasant, sweet and milky. It numbed her throat, warmed her stomach. “What is this?” she asked.

“Poppy juice,” Poppaea said. “A specialty of mine. Drink up. I insist.”

Flavia finished it and handed Poppaea the flask.

“Feeling better?”

She nodded.

“You see, there’s no reason to fear me. Is there?”

“I thought you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you, Flavia.” Poppaea’s eyes burned into hers. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know.” Flavia moved her head, and the landscape traveled with her, blurring. The lantern left a trail of light, and her legs felt weak.

“Now, tell me, dear, who sent you?” Poppaea’s voice sounded distant.

“No one.”

“So no one knows you’re here?”

The question floated through Flavia’s mind, but she could make no sense of it. She stared at Poppaea. Flames danced in her eyes.

With surprising strength, Poppaea pushed Flavia down, forcing her to kneel. Rocks cut into her knees, but the pain seemed distant, as if this were happening to someone else.

“The female tongue is more agile than the male’s,” Poppaea said. “And I’ve heard your tongue is amazing.”

“My tongue?”

A halo encircled Poppaea’s head. Or was it the lantern’s light?

“Your tongue.” Poppaea drew her lips back in a snarl.

Flavia watched, in awe, as Poppaea’s incisors lengthened into fangs. Her face narrowed, and her nose grew longer. Her paws loosened the cord binding her robe. The silk slipped from her body, pooling around her feet.

Flavia shook her head, trying to wake up.

And Poppaea blew out the lantern.

Justinus hadn’t shown his face among the aristocracy in weeks, and if he had they would have turned him over to Tigellinus. His domus on the Esquiline stood vacant, while he found sanctuary in one of his tenements. The apartment was above a perfumery, close to the Circus Maximus—a hodge-podge district favored by actors and prostitutes, charioteers, artisans and would be writers—the dregs of society. It suited him.

On the night of Tigellinus’s banquet, despite the sultry temperature, he lay on his pallet, fully clothed, a pile of bedcovers drawn to his chin. He studied each twist and turn of the cracks in the ceiling.

Upon hearing of Elissa’s impending trial, he had sent Akeem with a message to Nero declaring her innocence, demanding she be released. Akeem had returned with Nero’s answer: if Justinus dared to interfere in any way—if, for example, he appeared before the Senate to protest, if he posted notices, or made speeches on the Rostra—he would be arrested. And, if Elissa’s trial found her guilty, he would be stoned to death for desecrating a vestal virgin.

Rolling onto his side, Justinus closed his eyes and tried to find a comfortable position. He mumbled a prayer. But since Paul’s departure from Rome, his prayers seemed to have no effect. The pallet felt lumpy. He rolled onto his other side. His hand went numb, and he shook his wrist attempting to revive his fingers, vaguely aware of a pounding noise.

Waves crashing on a shoreline.

He looked out at a dismal sea and breathed the smell of putrefying fish. His lips tasted of salt. Barefoot, he walked along a rocky beach. Wind whipped the water into swells, and waves pummeled the shore. He stumbled, falling to his knees. Caught by the undertow, he somersaulted, couldn’t breathe.

“Justinus,” someone called.

Fighting his way to the surface, he sucked in air. A wave sent him crashing to the shore. He dragged himself onto the beach. Gold sand shimmered in the sun. The gates of paradise appeared before him. He crawled toward them, grabbed the bars and shook the gates with all his might, begging to gain entrance. They opened with a sigh. Jesus sat on a throne of light, surrounded by the twelve apostles.

He spoke to Justinus.

The battle you fight is mine.

The pounding waves grew thunderous, drowning the words Jesus spoke. Justinus strained to hear, but someone kept banging at the gates.

“Justinus!”

He woke with a start. Rubbed his eyes. Found himself entangled in sweaty bedcovers.

The banging persisted.

He glanced toward the door, wishing his unwanted visitor would leave. He’d warned Akeem to stay away. Running his hands over his face, he pressed his palms into his eyes trying to recall the dream. So vivid. More like vision.

Something about a battle.

Hadn’t Paul called followers of Jesus soldiers of the Lord?

The door rattled on its hinges, threatening his barricade.

“Open up!”

The voice wasn’t Akeem’s.

Groping beneath the pallet he found his dagger and wrapped his fingers around the hilt. Falling to the floor, he crawled toward the enemy. He’d honed pugio’s blade to a fine edge, prepared to cut through cartilage and bone.

“I know you’re in there, Justinus.”

Spies. Within his troops.

How else had they guessed his name?

He reached the door. Levering a chair beneath the latch, he fortified his barricade.

“Open up. It’s Lucan.”

Justinus pressed his eye against the peephole. “How did you slip past the watch?”

“Let me in.”

“My troops have deserted me?” He cracked open the door.

Lucan shoved his way inside. He grabbed the pugio and tossed it on the sleeping pallet. “You stink and your beard’s as long as a Jew’s. When was your last visit to the baths?”

Justinus shrugged.

“This place is sweltering.” Lucan crossed to the window and unlatched the shutters. Justinus followed him. The moon, full and bright, poured light into the room. Music and shouting wafted through the window from the street.

“The enemy is close,” Justinus said. He slammed the shutters, taking care to latch them.

“You look half-starved,” Lucan said. He surveyed the sideboard and found a jar of water. Opening the lid, he made a face. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll buy you supper.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re delirious.”

* * * * *

Justinus sopped the last remnant of gravy with a crust of barley bread. Fat soaked into the chewy grain and tasted wonderful. His first bite of food had left him ravenous. He couldn’t remember his last meal.

Lucan snapped his fingers and the tavern maid came running, anxious to serve so prosperous a customer. “More wine,” he said, waving his hand over their empty cups. “This time bring a flagon.”

Justinus turned away from the girl, hoping to remain inconspicuous—bearded and stinking, he doubted he’d be recognized. Lucan, on the other hand, was clearly an aristocrat. The Fatted Calf’s usual clientele were the sort to count every quadran, but Lucan threw around denarii as if he were a gambler. The tavern’s tables were placed close together, and from where he stood Justinus could see most patrons ate pastries stuffed with sausages. They watered their wine liberally or drank sludgy ale. But Lucan ordered pheasant and the finest honey wine. The Fatted Calf’s proprietor stood behind the food-bar where a variety of dishes, hot and cold, could be bought for dining in or taking out. Through clouds of grease he smiled across the crowded room at Lucan.

Justinus buried his nose in his empty cup. Fatted Calf—Greasy Pig would be more appropriate. If the proprietor smelled a fat reward for turning in a fugitive, no doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to run his mouth to the authorities.

The tavern maid refilled Lucan’s cup, leaving him the flagon. She removed their plates and wiped down the table.

“Custard for dessert,” she asked Lucan, “or snails?”

“Rose pie,” Justinus mumbled, licking gravy from his fingers.

The tavern maid smiled winningly at Lucan, then hurried off to fill the order.

Lucan chuckled. “And you claimed you weren’t hungry.”

“Starved for justice.”

The tavern maid returned before he could elaborate. She set the plate of steaming pie in front of Lucan. He slid it toward Justinus. Using a wooden spoon, Justinus dug into the crust, stuffed pie into his mouth and chewed, savoring the delicate flavor of rose petals and baked calf’s brains. Wiping his mouth, he glanced at the next table. The neighbors paid him no attention. One of the men broke into a boisterous song, and his companions joined him.

“We need to talk,” Justinus said. “Need to make a plan.”

“About?”

“I’ve had it up to here.” Justinus sliced his hand across his throat. “And I’m not referring to my dinner.”

“There’s only one solution,” Lucan said.

“We can’t get close enough.” Lowering his voice, Justinus leaned toward his friend. “He no longer trusts you, and if I so much as show my face—” He pushed away the empty plate. The thought of Elissa, held a prisoner and facing trial, made him sick. “What if she’s found guilty?”

“A lot of girls claim to be virgins,” Lucan said. “A physical examination has proved otherwise.”

“Are you calling her a liar?”

“I’m merely suggesting—”

Justinus slammed his fist on the table and nearly sent the pie plate crashing. “Her whorish sister wrongly accuses her.”

“So you and she never—”

“No!”

“If she’s pure she’ll be exonerated.” Lucan calmly sipped his wine.

“With the Pontifex Maximus as judge?” Justinus grabbed Lucan’s cup and downed the wine. Heat rushed through his gullet.

Lucan poured another cup. “You have a point,” he said.

“I wish she weren’t a virgin. I wish we’d lain together when we had the chance.”

“Sometimes fate has other plans.”

“Fate be damned. I plan to change the course of history.”

“How?”

Justinus glanced at the next table. The men were laughing, didn’t notice him. “As you’ve often stated, violence may be required.”

“What happened to your faith?”

“I’m a soldier of the Lord.”

“What of turning the other cheek?”

“This is war.”