The Shield of Rome

by William Kelso

  “Easy now, easy Sir, I’ve got you.”

  ***

  It was mid morning before Numerius woke. He lay on a couch in the fire station HQ to which they had carried him. The malaria attack had left him weak and thirsty and drenched in sweat. Nicomedes had arrived at dawn and gave him a bitter tasting potion. It hadn’t seemed to help but Nicomedes had said it would. For a while he remained in bed, gathering his strength and thinking about the strange conversation with the Punic spy he’d caught. Then he forced himself up onto his feet. He was wasting time.

  “Capua has gone over to Hannibal,” Nicomedes announced as he packed away his doctors instruments.

  “Oh no,” Numerius muttered closing his eyes. “Fabius was so sure that they would remain loyal, the traitorous swine.”

  “I think Syracuse may join them,” Nicomedes said apprehensively.

  “That would be a true disaster,” Numerius replied reaching for his cloak and sandals. “But it won’t happen as long as Hiero remains in charge. He has been a friend of Rome since I was born.”

  “Hhhhhmmm,” Nicomedes stroked his chin, “There are rumours that one of his sons may force Hiero from power. If that happens then the party that favours Carthage will gain a foot in the door.”

  The doctor stood up. “If that happens, Sir, I hope you will not think any less of me. Syracuse is my home town but I have sworn to serve the Fabian house.”

  Numerius made no reply and continued to dress himself. Then when he was done he turned to Nicomedes.

  “Of course,” he said, “These are difficult times for all but Rome will win in the end. It is our destiny, Nicomedes. Nothing will stop us.”

  “Thank you Sir,” the Greek bowed gracefully. “Fabius also has a message for you,” the doctor said. “He told me that you might want to know that your father’s freedman was murdered a few days ago.”

  Numerius whirled round and stared at the doctor.

  “Janus?”

  Nicomedes nodded. “Apparently he was killed in broad day light by a single man in a tavern on the Caelian. A dozen witnesses and some prostitutes all saw it. The tavern owner was also murdered.”

  “Who would want to kill Janus?” Numerius frowned as he spoke. “Have they caught the killer?”

  Nicomedes shook his head, “They haven’t, the man escaped. But we did get a good description of him.”

  Numerius felt his heart begin to pound with excitement.

  “It matches the description of that new spy the Macedonian told us about yesterday,” the doctor said with a triumphant smile.

  ***

  Something was bothering Numerius as he made his way through the city. Instinct drove him onwards. He passed through the forum and turned into the Argiletum, the street of the booksellers. He hardly noticed the horde of pawn brokers who bustled around him. A thought had taken hold of him and it wouldn’t let go. Images of the assassin flashed through his mind. He remembered the Macedonian spy’s words and now Janus was dead. Could it all be a coincidence or were all these things connected somehow? He passed through the Subura and for once didn’t notice the stink and poverty. At the city gate he was pleased to see that his orders were being carried out and that extra soldiers had been posted to the walls. He identified himself to the guards and passed under the gate and out of the city. It was a warm beautiful evening and he could hear the crickets in the grass. He turned to look at the sun setting over his home on the distant Janiculum.

  The summit of the hill was rocky and barren apart from a line of Cypress trees. He approached with some caution but found to his relief that he was alone. The earth was dry and parched. He entered the low brick building and shuffled past the long lines of urns of the dead. It had been a very long time since he’d last been here. He stopped as he found what he was looking for. Slowly he got down on his knees. Her ashes were still there. She was still in the same resting place he’d arranged for her all those years ago. He sighed as he saw the coin he’d left her. Then he got down on his knees and bowed his head in sombre prayer.

  “To the spirits of the departed,” he muttered, “Honour to you Flavia and happiness too. I wish you to know that I have kept my promise. Many years have passed but you are still always in my thoughts and prayers. Sleep well and prosper, my love.”

  He raised his head and glanced at the urn. Their love affair had been brief but intense. It had started one night when he had sneaked out of his father’s house and joined his friends in a binge of drinking and partying. He had noticed her right away. She had been different to all the other girls who were so quick to sell their virtue to a rich man and his promises. Flavia had spirit and courage. He had fallen in love. He had wanted to marry her but then one fateful night, he had introduced her to his brother. Caeso had in all likelihood never known about his brother’s feelings. But then he had never asked either. He had just taken her from him, taken his girl and Flavia had decided that she liked Caeso more. She had never told him why but it had been the wrong decision. It had broken his heart.

  He looked away. Those days were long gone now and he had moved on. But he still remembered that day she had died. He had been there. There had been complications during the birth and she had lost too much blood. She hadn’t understood why Caeso had not come. She had kept calling out his brother's name, over and over again. He had tried to explain but she had been too weak to understand and then, as the life had seeped out of her, she had made him promise that he would look after her baby. He sighed. He should have come more often to honour her he knew, but it had been difficult during the long years in which he’d been married. But at least he’d kept the promise he’d made her all those years ago.

  He was about to touch the urn when his fingers froze in mid air. Someone had left two small figurines on the top of the urn. Gently he lifted them up and examined them. It had been done recently for there was no dust on them. Then his eyes widened

  as he finally understood. His instinct had been right. His hunch was correct.

  “So you have returned brother,” he whispered.

  Chapter Eighteen – The loss of innocence

  Pompeia stood on the banks of the Tiber watching the river traffic. Her long hair fluttered in the cool breeze. On the river a couple of barges were heading downstream to Ostia and the sea beyond. They were piled high with timber. It was noon and the august sun burned down on her. A small group of beggars had gathered in a rough semi circle behind her. They sat without speaking on the ground like a class of children waiting for their teacher to speak.

  Pompeia ignored them. In her hands she held a sieve. She had quickly understood the implications of what that horrible woman, Publius’ intended wife, had said to her. The priests were preparing to sacrifice a Vestal. She had never believed it possible. As a young girl, newly acquainted with the order, the older girls had tried to frighten her with stories of innocent Vestals being sacrificed to appease angry gods. But they had just been stories, now it looked like it was happening for real.

  The horror of what was about to happen had left her dazed. How was this possible? A vestal had not been buried alive for many generations. What wrong had they done? The rumours of unchastely were just lies, terrible lies spread around the city for reasons she didn’t understand. With no one in which to confide she had again asked herself what her mother would have done. But her mother, as far as she could remember, had never made a decision in her life. Her mother had never set an example for her to follow. No she was on her own. She had to follow her own example. She felt her stomach churning as she thought again about how important this decision was going to be for the rest of her life.

  She glanced down the Tiber at the river traffic. The shock of what that horrible woman had told her had made her come to a decision. It was time to choose as Cantilius had said. She fought back a tear. Cantilius, poor Cantilius would he understand? Would he accept that she had chosen to remain and serve the goddess? She struggled to contain her emotions. She would stay, she resolved and defend her
sisters and the goddess and their good names. That was what was most important. If she ran away now, she would not be able to live with herself. It was a tough decision but the right one and now that it was made, she felt a strange sense of relief.

  She glanced down at the green water of the Tiber which lapped at her feet. She didn’t have much time left. Her father had tried to reassure her that she would not be picked but she hadn’t believed him. He could not guarantee her safety however he much wanted too, nor could Fabius. Once the priests had started to rouse the public there would be no going back. Of the six Vestals, she was the obvious choice. Musa and Julia were too young, too innocent, Floronia and Opimia had very powerful family connections which would protect them and no one, in their wildest dreams, could ever be convinced that Aurinia had been unfaithful.

  There was just one thing left to do. She would give them a miracle. She raised her eyes to the sky and muttered a prayer to Vesta. Behind her the beggars stirred. She bent down and swept the sieve into the green water and raised it with both hands. There was a gasp from her audience. The sieve did not leak. The greenish river water swayed and then settled yet not a drop leaked through the holes.

  Calmly Pompeia rose, turned and began to walk towards the Trigemina gate holding the sieve before her. People stopped to stare at her. A murmur grew amongst the crowd as the beggars began to follow. The procession, with Pompeia at its head swept through the gate and into the cattle market and still not a drop of water leaked from the sieve. As she turned into the street leading to the forum the farmers and merchants fell to their knees and men called out her name. Pompeia’s face was a mask of detached composure, as if she was the only person in the street and the crowds around her just imaginary people. She held her head high and looked straight ahead of her, oblivious to the sensation she was causing and as she walked, people scrambled to get out of her way.

  The procession swept into the forum and as she passed the Senate house and the Curia, the senators piled out of the building to watch her. The money lenders, lawyers, merchants and bankers too stopped what they were doing and rushed to get a glimpse of her. The crowds gasped as they saw the water being carried in the sieve. Pompeia continued up the Sacred Way until she approached the temple of Vesta. Here a hastily assembled group of priests belonging to the order of Aruspices blocked her way. The priests clad in their long scarlet and purple robes with hoods over their heads linked arms and barred the road shouting at her to turn back. But if they had thought that their presence was going to stop her, they had not reckoned on the wrath of the horde of beggars whom had following her. With a loud angry and rebellious cry the mob stormed forwards and the thin line of priests vanished under a wave of angry and unwashed bodies. The crowd that remained lining the street cried out in delight, and through the chaos Pompeia passed on, as if nothing and nobody could touch her. At the steps to the temple of Vesta, another crowd had gathered around the matron and the remaining Vestals. All the girls were there, staring at her in awe and trepidation.

  Pompeia stopped before the matron and bowed.

  “I bring Vesta the sacred water. Will you receive it, gracious mother?” she said.

  The matron seemed unable to speak. Then a tear appeared in her eye and she nodded.

  “Fairest Pompeia, Vesta will accept this gift,” she replied. Then she moved to embrace Pompeia and as she did so the crowds cheered.

  “Oh child,” the matron whispered in her ear, “What have you done?”

  ***

  It was evening when they finally came for her. Pompeia was in her apartment with Julia and the matron when the doors to her rooms were flung open. Metellus and a company of his priests marched in, their boots crunching on the fine mosaic floor. Metellus looked furious. He half ran towards her and when the Matron tried to intervene he roughly pushed her to the floor. Julia cried out in fear but Pompeia placed a reassuring hand on the young girl’s shoulders. Metellus face was a dark red, his eyes flashing, his chest heaving.

  “Leave us,” he bellowed at Julia and the Matron.

  Then only he and Pompeia remained together with one of the priests who stood guard by the door.

  “You do not scare me,” Pompeia said calmly standing her ground. She had known Metellus ever since she had joined the order of Vestals. He’d been a young boy then training to become an Augur. She had always known him to be a bully, a man who was easily angered when he did not get his way. He owed his advancement up the religious hierarchy solely due to his ruthless determination to carry out his master’s wishes.

  “You were always a stuck up bitch,” he retorted.

  “Does it please you to bully us Vestals? Do you think that Vesta will look kindly upon your contempt for us?”

  The two of them stared at each other; she calm and composed; he furious and aggressive. She could not show any weakness Pompeia thought. A man like Metellus thrived on finding and exploiting weakness. She had seen him so often reducing priests to pitiful shaking wrecks with just words.

  He slapped her hard across her face. She gasped at the sudden searing pain but then raised her head defiantly once more. He slapped her again but this time she just laughed.

  “What’s this? Have you no respect woman?” he shouted.

  “I shall not be bullied by a liar,” she hissed.

  He raised his hand to slap her again but then thought better of it.

  “No you are wrong,” he said with a great effort.

  Pompeia felt a sudden shiver of unease. Metellus was not only feared for his bullying, he was feared for his cunning and deviousness.

  “I am not the liar, but you are,” he said. “You see I know all about your tricks,” there was a hint of triumph in his voice now. “The people may think you performed a miracle out there but you do not deceive me. I know that you filled the holes of that sieve with glue. What did you do with the sieve by the way, disappeared has it?”

  He laughed softly to himself as if challenging her to deny it.

  “The Vestals are faithful to their vows,” she said. “You wish to murder an innocent woman. I cannot allow you to do this.”

  “No decision has been made on which Vestal will be sacrificed,” he said, “So maybe you should think about being a little nicer to me,” he chided.

  “What for?”

  “Because our holy father has given me authority to decide which Vestal will be sacrificed,” he cried.

  “I will not let you kill any of my sisters,” she hissed and with a move that surprised him, it was her turn to slap him across the face.

  He staggered backwards caught by surprise but then recovered and launched a flurry of blows at her head. Pompeia shielded herself as best as she could but it didn’t stop her from crying out in pain.

  “Really, do you think you can stop me?” he cried mocking her words. He paused stepping back and breathing heavily. Pompeia lifted her hands protecting her head. She felt a cheek swelling up into a bruise. She stared at Metellus with teary eyes, yet they were not tears of pain or fear but of determination.

  “The decision has already been made in the Senate,” Metellus shouted. “I too have made my decision. I had another in mind before you tried to pull off that trick today, but now that you have proved yourself to be so stubborn, it will be you who will be buried alive beneath the cattle market.”

  “I have done nothing wrong,” she whispered, “The people will not believe you. You are a monster. You do not serve the gods. You only serve yourself.”

  Spit flew from Metellus’ mouth as he interrupted her.

  “You should not believe that your pious little miracle will bring the people onto your side. The crowd is fickle.”

  But she shook her head. “The people will believe their eyes. They will believe in my miracle. They will think you offend the gods if you dare to sacrifice one of us. There will be rioting.”

  When Metellus spoke it was not the answer she had been expecting.

  “Oh don’t count on your admirers to set you free
,” he cried, “They will believe me when I tell them about Cantilius, the young priest whom you have been fucking.”

  Pompeia opened her mouth and closed it again in shock.

  “How did I know?” Metellus crowed triumphantly, “Well if you really want to know, Cantilius came to me. He told me everything, everything about you and your trysts in the temple of Jupiter.”

  “It’s a lie,” she responded weakly.

  “Oh is it,” he glared, “Let’s ask Cantilius himself shall we.”

  Metellus nodded at his priest. The door was opened and after a short pause Cantillius was dragged into the room. Pompeia gasped. The young man’s face was badly bruised and one of his eyes was swollen up. He seemed hardly able to stand on his feet.

  “Is this the Vestal whom you fucked?” Metellus’ sharp coarse voice cut through the room.

  Cantilius’ head lolled from side to side and Metellus shook him and repeated the question.

  “Yes, this is the woman. She seduced me in the temple. She told me she wanted to have a baby,” Cantilius whispered hoarsely.