The silent procession left the Sacred Way, passing through a covered antechamber whose iron gates swung open for them and into a paved courtyard. Pompeia stared at the grey stone walls that seemed to close in around her. The yard was open to the sky and some twenty yards long and eight deep. Torches burned from iron holders set into the stone walls. Two wells and a cistern had been sunk into the ground and at the far end she could make out the dark shape of the door through which one stepped when visiting the shrine of Mars. Only the high priest and the Vestal Virgins were allowed to enter the shrine and in her time as a Vestal, Pompeia had only once been to the shrine and that had been on the day when Rome had formally declared war on Carthage, some two years ago.
Metellus was waiting for her. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, the hood of his purple tunic pulled over his head. As she approached him he averted his gaze.
“Why did you allow her to dress and walk freely?” he snapped at the man with the protruding lip.
The man shrugged. “She promised she would not escape.”
“That’s not the point,” Metellus growled, “She has defiled the purity of Rome and she should not be allowed to show the dignity of her office. Lucky for you, that it was night time.”
“Look at me Metellus,” Pompeia said suddenly but the priest shook his head and kept his eyes averted. “You know that it is forbidden for us to look directly on a Vestal who is accused of breaking her vows,” he replied. “Take her clothes and lock her up,” he ordered.
***
Pompeia was led into a small room without windows and just a solitary stone bed for comfort. Her Vestal robes were taken from her and she was given a simple white Peplos, a sleeveless dress which was fastened at her shoulders with two large pins and had a belt around her stomach. Then she was left alone. She sat on the stone bed. She should be afraid she thought. It had been nearly a hundred years since the last Vestal had been buried alive beneath the cattle market but the rituals leading up to her death were well known. She would be condemned and then allowed to lower herself into the underground room which would become her tomb. A small quantity of food and water would be placed in the room and then the cavern would be quickly covered over and blocked up until no trace of her remained. The food and water were meant to keep her alive for a few days so that the priests could claim they had not actually executed her. Her death would be left for Vesta, as final judge, to decide. If Vesta decided the Vestal was innocent she would be resurrected and allowed to rise from her tomb. But no Vestal had ever risen from her tomb.
She slipped off the bed and knelt on the ground and quietly prayed to Vesta. The goddess was wise and merciful. She would not let her servant die and the more she prayed the calmer she began to feel.
She was half asleep when her first visitor arrived. She heard him shuffling outside her door and then the bolts were undone and a young nervous and distracted looking man was shown in. He bowed but did not move beyond the doorway.
“Yes,” she said rising to her feet and straightening her dress.
“I have been instructed to represent you at your trial,” the young man declared avoiding her gaze.
“You are a lawyer?” she asked.
He nodded looking uncomfortable. Pompeia stared at him and then laughed but it was laughter devoid of any joy. It was clear that the man didn’t want to be here. In all probability he had been told he had no choice. The law still required her to have a defence even though the outcome of the trial had already effectively been decided.
“Do you wish to take my case?” she said with a sigh.
The lawyer hesitated and lowered his eyes to the ground.
“Do not worry,” she said, “I do not require your services. I shall be defending myself. You may go.”
The lawyer bowed his head and then with a look of relief he left the room.
Her second visitor came an hour later. It was Floronia. The young Vestal bowed politely as she came in and placed a tray of food and a small jug of water at Pompeia’ feet. She looked nervous and tense but as she stepped back into the doorway she hissed a single word.
“Whore.”
Before Pompeia could reply she had vanished.
Pompeia was not aware of time passing. The small room grew hotter and hotter until it was a stifling oven. She ate a little of the food that Floronia had brought and dipped her fingers into the jug of water before wiping her face in an effort to cool herself. The venom in Floronia’ voice had caught her by surprise and saddened her. How quickly her friends seemed to have deserted her she thought. How quick people were to show their true colours when put under such pressure.
Her third visitor came a few hours later. Pompeia rose as she heard the bolts being undone wondering who was coming. It was her matron, the head Vestal. The old woman bowed graciously and opened her arms and touched Pompeia gently on the shoulders.
“My child, they have taken your robes,” she said with a kind, compassionate voice.
Pompeia bowed respectfully and lowered her eyes. “Thank you for coming,” she replied.
The matron nodded and glanced around the room.
“I have spoken with our father and they are going to put you on trial tomorrow at dawn. I have come to pray with you, kneel with me now child.”
Pompeia did as she was asked and for a few moments the two of them knelt on the floor as the matron offered her prayer to Vesta.
“I did not do the things they accuse me of,” Pompeia whispered when they were finished. “You do believe me, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what to believe child,” the matron replied. Our father says that you have cavorted with this priest, this Cantilius.”
“It’s a lie,” Pompeia whispered fiercely, “They are lying. You know what Metellus did to me in our home. You were there.”
The matron swallowed nervously and nodded. “I shall keep praying for you child,” she muttered.
The final visitor was Julia, the 12 year old Vestal. Pompeia’s face brightened up as she saw who it was. As the young girl came in tears appeared in her eyes and she rushed forwards flinging her arms around her older sister. Pompeia felt a tear begin to burn behind her eyes too but she forced herself to keep her composure. She did not want the young girl to grow more upset than she already was.
“It’s so nice of you to come,” she said as she held the young girl close.
She felt Julia shake as she cried.
“It’s not fair, it’s not fair,” Julia sobbed.
Chapter Twentysix – Revelations
Adonibaal wandered slowly through his brother’s house as if he owned the place. Numerius’ villa was modest and he’d learned that there were just three household slaves. In addition to his brother’s personal servant who’d let him in there was a female cook and her assistant, a boy. The cook and her assistant were away buying food and would return at night fall. Adonibaal was pleased. None of them were a physical threat to him. All he had to do was wait for Numerius to return. There had been a fourth slave, the gardener but the man had been killed when the priests had come to take away Numerius’s daughter. It was his blood that Adonibaal had seen on the tiled floor.
The servant had asked him to wait in the room specially designed for this purpose but he’d ignored the slave. It was curiosity of course. He wanted to know how his brother had lived all these years. He wanted to understand what sort of man Numerius had become. He entered the master bedroom. Numerius’ bed was a simple couch covered with a couple of blankets and on the ground stood a bowl of half eaten broth. Adonibaal picked it up and sniffed. Fish soup, his brother’s favourite. He smiled and placed the bowl back on the ground. The bedroom was a disappointment, there was nothing personal in this room and he stepped back into the Atrium. Through the hallway he could see the slave on his hands and knees scrubbing away with a cloth at the blood stained tiles.
His attention was suddenly drawn to a closed door. All the rooms were open, all except this one. He crossed the Atrium and no
ticed that the key had been left in the lock. That was careless brother he thought. He opened the door and stepped into the room and gasped in shock.
Staring down at him from their alcoves were the faces of his ancestors.
For a moment Adonibaal was rooted to the floor. He felt the blood rush to his cheeks as he stared back at the long line of death masks. It had been such a long time since he had last seen them. Yes they were all here, all fifteen…He stopped. There weren’t fifteen, there were sixteen. Right at the end of the row, his father’s face stared down at him. Adonibaal flinched instinctively, unable to look away as a torrent of memories came flooding back. He jutted out his chin and took a step towards his father’s death mask as if challenging him to speak but the room remained silent.
“Ha,” he said contemptuously.
Beyond his father’s mask was one further alcove and this one was empty. Adonibaal looked away quickly as if suddenly ashamed. He was in a study. At the far end was a large desk and a chair and behind that a book shelf filled with books and papers.
Ignoring the masks he strode over to the desk and looked at the book shelf. The books were mainly Legal texts but in between them were a couple of histories and a geography book. He took one of the papers from the shelf. It was a trial summary and strategy paper. He looked up.
“You are a lawyer,” he muttered.
He placed the paper back on the shelf and sat down in the chair from where he could watch the doorway. The chair was comfortable. He stroked his chin as he tried to imagine Numerius sitting here whilst working on his cases. A modest comfortable house, a steady but hardly spectacular job, small staff and a quiet location outside the city he mused. Hardly the lifestyle that their father had prepared them for.
Idly he glanced at a pile of papers on the desk. They looked like letters from Senators, clients etc. As he disturbed the papers something fell of the desk and landed on the floor with a dull metallic ring. He bent forwards and picked it up and as he saw what it was he grunted in surprise. In his hand he held a small brooch but this was no ordinary brooch, it was a Phaleri, a military award. His military award! He stared at the brooch in amazement. It was the award he had won during the sea battle that had ended the first war with Carthage. He’d thought he’d lost it years ago but his brother seemed to have kept it. He shook his head and slipped the award into his pocket. Why would Numerius have kept his Phaleri?
“My master does not permit anyone to enter his study,” a voice said from the doorway.
Adonibaal looked up to see the slave standing in the doorway. There was a disapproving look on the man’s face.
“Is that so,” Adonibaal said from behind the desk.
The slave nodded and waited for him to move but when Adonibaal made no effort to leave the servants face darkened but he said nothing as he turned abruptly on his heels and left the room.
Adonibaal sniggered and unsheathed Centurion and placed the blade on the desk beside the papers. Then he pushed his chair back and lifted his feet up onto the desk so that his sandals were facing the doorway. From the Atrium he caught a glimpse of the slave watching him.
“When do you expect my brother to return home?” he cried in a loud voice.
“I do not know,” the slave answered from the Atrium.
Adonibaal sighed. He would sit here and wait for Numerius and when he came home he would know the reason why his brother had betrayed him all those years ago. And then what would he do? Would he kill him? He took the Phaleri from his pocket and examined it again. Why would Numerius have kept his award? It meant nothing to him.
“Why did the priests take our daughter?” he shouted.
There was no immediate reply from the Atrium and Adonibaal had to repeat himself before the slave answered.
“She is a vestal virgin,” the slave’s sour answer came back.
“There is only one reason for them to take a Vestal.”
Adonibaal frowned. “Does she visit my brother often?”
“When she can,” the slave’s voice sounded reluctant.
Adonibaal looked thoughtful. Could it really be true? He’d acted on instinct when he’d asked about Numerius’ daughter’s birthday and year but the answer had thrown him. Pompeia had been born on the same day and in the same year as Flavia had died. The woman had to have been adopted for Numerius had never had a woman when he’d still been in Rome. He sighed. A coincidence perhaps but he didn’t believe it. Nervously he tapped his fingers on the desk. Pompeia had to be his daughter. That was what Numerius had been trying to tell him.
He lifted his feet off the desk and turned his attention back to the bookshelf. On the top shelf were two small jars he hadn’t noticed before. He took them down and sniffed the contents. They smelt like medicines.
“Is my brother ill?” he called out puzzled.
There was a long pause from the doorway. Then suddenly the slave was standing there looking confused.
“My master has Malaria. He is dying. I thought that was the reason why you had come to visit him?”
Adonibaal stared at the slave in utter surprise. Then he just shook his head and gestured for him to leave but the man didn’t move and as he stood staring at Adonibaal the slaves face grew more and more suspicious.
“I asked you to leave.” Adonibaal snarled.
The slave’s expression turned hostile and he glanced at Centurion on the desk. Then without another word he vanished.
Adonibaal was vaguely aware that he would have to do something about the servant before he raised the alarm but he was still in too much shock to give it any thought. His brother was dying. Well that was news he had not expected. Had Numerius known for long? Then he had a strange thought. Was that why his brother had told him about Pompeia? He looked down at the Phaleri on the desk. His brother was trying to reach out to him. These things, he thought struggling in sudden confusion, were the actions of a man who still loved him. Unsteadily he leaned back against the book shelf and stared at the opposite wall. His brother wanted forgiveness.
He heard the noise of the front door opening. Then an urgent and emotional female voice cried out to her colleague. It was the cook returning from her errand.
“She’s going to be put on public trial tomorrow in the Forum,” the woman cried. “The master has gone to Fabius’ house to plead with him. They say that Fabius is going to defend her.”
Chapter Twentyseven - Trial
They came for her at dawn. Pompeia had spent the night in prayer. She had asked the goddess to protect her father and her sisters. She had prayed for Cantilius and for justice and now as the footsteps of the guards approached she knew she was ready. They led her out into the courtyard of the Regia. It was a beautiful morning with a clear blue sky and a bright sun. She glanced up as a flock of birds rose noisily from the rooftops. Her guards said nothing. Their faces looked like they were made of stone. The college of Pontiffs were going to give her a public trial. Her crimes were not against a person but against the state. Metellus would be acting as the prosecutor the matron had told her and the judge would be the Pontifex Maximus.
They led her out through the iron gates and into the forum and they did so Pompeia gasped in astonishment. A vast crowd had gathered. There had to be thousands of people crammed into the forum. As she came into view a hush spread like a ripple through the crowds as eyes and heads turned and craned expectantly trying to get a glimpse of her. A narrow pathway had been kept open and priests armed with spears and shields stood along it at short intervals, facing the crowd. And amongst the crowd she noticed for the first time, were women. Had the restrictions on their movement been relaxed? A few men at the front of the crowd called out insulting her, but she refused to look at them. They would be hired men, hired by the priests to try and upset and rattle her. But here and there amongst the multitude she noticed a head bow in respect as she passed by.
A rectangular space had been cleared in the forum where normally the market traders would have had their stalls. Metellus fla
nked by his fellow priests sat upon a raised platform and to one side, by himself, sat the high priest, clad in a toga with a purple border that partially covered his head. Pompeia felt her heart sink. She had known him and every one of these men for years but today she knew she didn’t have a single friend amongst them. Behind the priests Rome’s wealthier citizens had gathered and to her right clustered around her matron were the five remaining Vestals. Her sisters stared at her, Aurinia with pity, Floronia and Opimia with tense hostility, Julia with sadness and Musa with curiosity. Her matron looked stern and disapproving. Pompeia glanced beyond her towards the crowds. The people were watching her intently, some were crying, others looked fearful, tight lipped and yet others scowled angrily. Her immorality and lack of virtue were to blame for the catastrophe of Cannae. It was her behaviour that had sent their sons and fathers to their deaths. She knew what they were thinking. A tense religious hysteria had spread throughout the city and as she began to understand the mood she felt her own spirits sink. They would never acquit her, not in a city which desperately needed reassuring that the gods had not abandoned them.
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