CHAPTER XI
The Ides of October
Year IX, reign of Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus
Dear Priestess Elissa Rubria Honoria,
I hope this missive finds you and your family well.
I saw you at the chariot race as dawn broke this morning, but I found no opportunity to speak with you. Please advise me, if your family is in need, of any help I may provide. And please give my regards to your father. I fear I’ve angered him.
Your friend,
Gallus Justinus
Elissa touched the book of poetry Justinus had given her—leaves of vellum bound in leather, a new technique imported from the Orient. The binding felt smooth, soft as skin. She folded his letter and tucked it into her stola.
She must write to him.
Clenching her fist, she felt the cut Nero had rendered. The wound made writing difficult. Cleopatra to his Antony, the idea sickened her. Tightening the bandage on her hand, she told herself that she had work to finish.
She sat at the high vestal’s desk, pages of papyrus stacked in front of her, demanding to be completed. It was the job of the six vestals to scribe legal documents. Over a million scrolls from throughout the empire were stored within their archives. Along the library’s walls, sheets of papyrus hung on racks allowing ink to dry. The last will and testament of Aulus Severus, a wealthy patron of the temple, was due today. She would receive hefty payment for the work, in addition to the vestals’ generous stipend, but three copies were required, and the documents had to match exactly.
Laughter drifted through the window. Out in the forum, flutes and drums began to play. Elissa tapped her foot in time to the music. Ignoring the last will and testament, she dipped her stylus into ink.
Dear Gallus Justinus,
Thank you for the book of poetry. Thus far I’ve had little time to read it. We have been busy preparing for the harvest celebration.
I’m sorry I missed you at the chariot race this morning. I thought of you, for I know you love horses. The victor’s steed was stunning, don’t you think? A sleek black gelding. Seeing that beauty sacrificed, the creature’s entrails smeared upon the altar of the Regia, upset me—as it has not before. It was my job to collect blood from the severed genitals in order to ensure protection of the flocks. In the past, I’ve felt honored to perform that ritual, but today I felt disgust. When I saw that butchered horse, I thought of Marcus—
She stared out the window. What was the point of writing? No words would bring her brother back. Yet, expressing her thoughts, confiding in a kindred soul, somehow eased her pain.
She blotted the papyrus.
Stretching her arms, she attempted to loosen the cramp that settled in her shoulders. She glanced at the window. Lively music invited her to join the celebration. Usually she looked forward to the festival of Meditrinalia, but this year she had no cause to celebrate.
Her gaze drifted from the stack of papyrus to the book of poetry. She picked it up, intending to place the book in a cubbyhole somewhere between the writings of Aeschylus and Zarathustra. Would it hurt to peek inside? She cracked open the binding and sheepskin pages fluttered beneath her fingers, releasing musk.
When all hope has fled, and the empty heart meets its desire,
Fulfillment of the heart—that—that is the greatest joy.
Angerona strolled into the library, the veils of her suffibulum wafting on the breeze. “Burying your nose in work?” she asked.
Elissa closed the book of poetry. “Copying legal documents.”
“What are you reading?” Angerona plucked the book from Elissa’s hands. “
Poems of Catullus
. Love poems from Gallus Justinus. What would Mother Amelia say?” She plunked herself into the curule chair reserved for the Vestal Maxima.
Elissa reached for the last will and testament and set it squarely on the desk, taking care to cover the letter she’d written to Justinus.
“That’s Mother Amelia’s chair,” she said to Angerona.
“So?”
“Do you hold nothing in reverence?”
Angerona wrapped a strand of hair around her forefinger. “I hold you in reverence,” she said. “I revere your ability to shut yourself away on such a day as this. Come out and celebrate.”
“I have work to finish. I hope to save enough to buy a farm.” Elissa reached for her stylus.
“A farm, how exciting.”
“We’re no longer children. Someday I hope to retire.”
“Someday, twenty years from now, when we’re old women. I’ve been a prisoner here since the age of seven. Remember when you arrived?” Angerona kicked Elissa’s shin.
Elissa kicked her back. “We were nine-years-old.”
“I was nine-and-a-half,” Angerona corrected her. “Your elder by six months. You were so scared you wet yourself.”
“I didn’t.” Elissa dipped her stylus into ink. “In any case, that was ten years ago. We’re women now.”
“And I’m ready for a man. Aren’t you?”
“Angerona!”
“What?”
Elissa shook her head. “You forget our place.”
“You think I can forget this prison of perpetual virginity?”
Elissa attacked the papyrus, her stylus scratching out neat letters. “I have to complete this document.”
“Finish it this evening.”
“Tonight’s my night to tend the fire.”
“The fire in the temple? Or the flame between your thighs?”
Elissa’s fingers tightened, and the letters she scribed grew constricted.
Angerona threw a stylus at her. “Where’s your sense of humor?”
“Don’t you have something else to do?”
“On this grand stage of life?” Angerona stood. Throwing out her arms, she said, “Act One: the forum and the pantomimes. Act Two: a dazzling stroll along the Via Sacra. Act Three—” She pressed her hands into the desk and leaned toward Elissa. “Come nightfall, a hundred barges lit with lanterns will float down the Tiber, carrying lovers, and I intend to be one of them.”
Elissa concentrated on an A, the beginning of a paragraph.
“Where does Mother Amelia keep her sweets?” Angerona chuckled. “She likes those honeyed nuts, and so do I.” With no regard for Elissa, Angerona rummaged through the desk’s cubbyholes. She found the bowl, scooped a handful of candy, and dropped several nuts into her mouth.
Elissa straightened the papyrus, drew the ink pot closer.
Angerona grabbed Elissa’s wrist with sticky fingers. “And then, the Grande Finale: Nero’s feast.”
Elissa pulled away from Angerona. “I have no use for Nero.”
“But he has use for you.”
“What, exactly, do you mean?”
“I mean, exactly—” Angerona licked the honey from her fingers. “How did your meeting go with him?”
Elissa stared at Angerona, wondering how much she knew. In a house of women, few secrets remained hidden. “He wants me to call forth his dead mother.”
“Perfect.”
“Perfect?”
“Allow his mother’s lemur to speak through you, and you’ll have him in your power. He’ll give you anything.”
“Can he bring back Marcus?”
“Life goes on, and we must make the most of it.” Angerona helped herself to another handful of nuts. “Really, Elissa, you must learn to be more politic.”
“Like you?”
“Why not, like me? I take care of myself, and—more importantly—I take care of my family. Someone has to protect them.”
Elissa stabbed her pen into the inkpot, spattering the papyrus. Using a rag, she attempted to blot the sooty mess. “Now I’ll have to start again.”
“Come out with us. We may run into Gallus Justinus.”
Elissa felt her face turn red.
“You’d like to see him, wouldn’t you?” Angerona goaded. “In any case, you owe him an apology.”
“An apology for what?”
“For your father’s rude behavior. He nearly threw Justinus out when he mentioned that Jew.”
“You take uncommon interest in my affairs.”
“I’m merely looking out for you. Justinus keeps strange company these days. Jews and renegades like Lucan. He’s getting money from somewhere. That book he gave you must have cost him—”
“A birthday gift.”
“What, exactly, is Justinus to you?”
“He’s a—a family friend, a sort of brother.”
“They say incest has its merits.” Angerona laughed, but it rang false. “Be careful,” she said. “You know how people love to talk.”
Elissa snatched away the bowl of nuts. “You should go.”
“Admit it. You’re in love with him.”
“We’re vestals, Angerona. Married to the sacred flame.”
“As if I might forget. You’re so chaste. So good. So pure. So utterly boring.” Angerona set the book of poetry in front of Elissa. “I’ll leave you to your…copying.” She headed to the doorway, then turned back. “By the way, I hear your sister has whet Nero’s appetite.”
“Flavia?”
“She’s been invited to attend his Meditrinalia feast tonight.”
Angerona swept out of the library, the curtain swaying in her wake.
* * * * *
Elissa rooted through her cedar chest, tossing aside silk veils, digging through finely woven pallas, in search of the rough garments she’d worn at her brother’s death. She hadn’t had the heart to burn them. Hiding the blood-drenched robes from servants, she’d stolen into the baths and scrubbed the wool until the stains had faded. Now the clothes would serve a purpose, allowing her to brave the crowds and make her way, unnoticed, to her father’s domus.
Under no circumstance could Flavia attend Nero’s feast.
No doubt Angerona had latched onto a scrap of gossip and cooked it up into a meal, but Elissa refused to see her sister on the menu.
She drew the drab stola over her tunica and belted it loosely at her waist. Instead of wearing her white suffibulum, she threw a shabby palla over her head, wrapped it around her shoulders and draped the end over her arm.
She glanced toward the doorway. All the other priestesses were out, even the servants had gone off to the festival. Lifting the pallet of her bed, she placed the letter from Justinus with the others, wrapped in silk and tied with a blue ribbon.
Parting the doorway’s curtain, she peered into the dormitory. Empty. No one stirred in the other cubicles. A floorboard creaked under her weight, and she heard water hissing as it passed through lead pipes, otherwise the house was quiet.
She paused before the door of Mother Amelia’s chambers. Nothing disturbed the Vestal Maxima’s routine, not even Meditrinalia, and she had opted for a nap. Elissa told herself, if Mother Amelia were awake, of course she would seek permission to leave the house. But the high vestal hated having her naps disturbed. Besides, asking for permission might lead to being denied. Remembering Mother Amelia’s warning.
You must practice obedience to the Pontifex Maximus
, only served to drive Elissa faster down the stairway.
The atrium’s black floor glistened like a lake. Soundlessly, Elissa glided over the polished tiles. Passing the well-appointed tablinum, where the priestesses met visitors, she entered the foyer. Thais, an elderly Greek slave, slumped on a bench beside the double doors, nodding in her sleep.
Elissa gently touched the slave’s shoulder and she woke with a start.
“Who is going there?” Thais asked in stilted Latin.
“Deliver this,” Elissa said, handing Thais the letter she’d written to Justinus.
Thais secured the letter within her robe.
“I’m going out,” Elissa said.
“Alone?” Thais sounded grumpy. She rubbed her eyes. “There is no lictor and no coach. The others have all gone. Only me they leave, poor,
poor,
Thais.”
Elissa dug into her money pouch and found a denarius. Pressing the silver coin into the slave’s palm, she said, “For your trouble.”
And her silence.
The streets of Rome were always lively, but during Meditrinalia people from the countryside poured into the city and city residents flooded out of doors—feasting, dancing, drinking. The revelry continued through the night, until it reached a frenzied peak, and finally fizzled out by dawn.
Whichever way Elissa turned she was met with bawdy songs and raucous dancing. Gambling was forbidden, except at festivals, and on every corner people rolled knucklebones and placed bets. Fighting her way through the mob, she crossed the Via Sacra and walked toward the Regia. The horse’s head, from that morning’s race, was mounted on the wall, proof that the aristocrats had won the competition. Flies buzzed around congealing blood. She hurried past.
Someone tugged at her stola. Afraid she’d been recognized she prepared an explanation and turned to see a boy disappearing in the crowd. She felt for her money pouch. Gone. Wanting to avoid a scene, she hurried on. But without money to hire a litter, she’d have to walk. She massaged her forehead, felt a headache coming on.
Smoke billowed from an alleyway, and the greasy smell of burning flesh made her stomach turn. Rome was prone to fires, and fire laws were strict, but during festivals people ignored regulations. Braziers were set out in the street and slabs of spiced mutton, beef, and pork roasted over open flames, reminding her of funeral pyres.
The throbbing in her temples became a splitting ache.
A band of bodyguards marched down the center of the street, forcing pedestrians into the gutter. Pressed against the wall, Elissa watched a litter pass, slaves groaning under the weight.
Usually, she didn’t notice the disparity between rich and poor, but lacking means to ride gave her a new perspective. Head bent, as she trudged along the road leading to the Esquiline, she considered what it must be like to live in poverty, to starve while others feasted, to perform back-breaking labor for a pittance, to suffer illness until life’s drudgery became impossible. By the time she reached her father’s domus pain pressed deep into her skull.
