As she approached, the priests acting as one body averted their eyes and refused to look at her. She halted before the raised platform and the crowd seemed to hold its breath. It had been over a hundred and fifty years since the last Vestal had stood trial. At last Metellus rose to his feet, turned and waited for the high priest to signal the start of the trial.
Metellus began with a prayer to the gods. It was an ancient ritual and as he carefully pronounced the archaic words the crowds fell into an expectant hush. Pompeia stood before the raised platform, with bowed head. A cool breeze played with her long curly hair. When Metellus finished speaking the vast expectant crowds remained silent.
“What are the charges?” the high priest said gravely.
“Incest,” Metellus cried in a loud voice, “We charge this woman with Incest.”
There was a groan of dismay from the crowd. Their worst fears had been confirmed. As the Vestals were considered to be married to Rome any relations with its citizens was judged as incest. Metellus was about to continue when there was a disturbance. The crowd closest to Pompeia suddenly bulged outwards pressing up against the shields of the guards. In the midst of the disturbance a man appeared struggling towards the front and as he reached the line of guards an angry muttering rose up from the ranks of Patricians assembled behind the high priest. Some of the younger and bolder nobles jumped to their feet and shouted at the Praetor, the magistrate in charge of public order, gesturing towards the newcomer.
“Arrest that man.” they cried.
Pompeia gasped as she saw the man who seemed to have caused the disturbance. It was her father. He looked agitated and there was wildness about him as he pushed his way through the crowd. He was searching for her she realised but it wasn’t until he finally saw her that he seemed to calm down. As their eyes locked she felt the stir of some deep emotion. In that moment she felt an overwhelming sadness for him, he looked so vulnerable and so alone amongst the hostile crowd, so exposed and in such danger and yet he had come to be with her. In that moment it was as if they were united, two people sharing the same predicament, the same fate. He smiled sadly as he held her gaze and there was a knowing sparkle in his eye that nearly brought tears into her eyes. Across the divide and through the wall of shields she felt him reach out and suddenly she knew she was no longer afraid.
The Patricians were still shouting at the Praetor. The magistrate had begun to look distinctly uncomfortable but he didn’t move and his predicament was only relieved by the booming voice of the high priest.
“Silence,” the high priest roared rising to his feet.
Slowly the crowd settled back down and the Patricians reluctantly returned to their seats but the bad tempered muttering would not entirely die down. Then Metellus’ voice cut once more across the forum.
“The gods declare this vestal to be impure,” he cried, “They have provided us with inescapable proof. This woman has allowed her impurity to infect our city and has brought down the wrath of the gods. This is what the Augurs tell us. This is what they have seen.”
Metellus watched the crowds allowing his words to linger.
“These are terrible accusations,” the high priest said gravely and then turning to Pompeia but without looking at her he spoke again. “What do you say to these charges? Well, are you still a virgin?”
Pompeia sensed the bitter delight in the priest’s voice as if the man knew he had her cornered and knew that she knew it too.
“I have chosen to serve Rome,” Pompeia’ voice was strong as she turned to address the crowd and not the priests. “The welfare of our city is my only concern. I ask you to believe your eyes and your hearts and not the words of men who are wrong. You all know me. You have seen me on your streets. I am still the purest of the maidens of Rome. My love for this city is in my blood and whoever or whatever you think I am, I know this to be the inalienable truth. I shall not lie to you today. I shall love this city and always work for its people whatever verdict you decide upon. That is the only truth that will be spoken today.”
“Answer the question,” Metellus cried. “Are you still a Virgin?”
“I was until I was raped.”
As she spoke a cry of disbelieve and anguish rose from the crowds but it was not in sympathy for her, it was the shock of hearing that the priests had been right. The people were fickle, she knew, they would care only for the health of the city.
The high priest raised his eyebrows and for a fleeting moment Pompeia gained the impression that the man had been surprised. Could it be that he didn’t know what Metellus had done?
“Who raped you?” the high priest frowned.
Silently Pompeia raised her arm and pointed a solitary accusing finger at Metellus. Her action caused the court to erupt. Some of the priests jumped to their feet shouting angrily and waving their fists whilst from the crowds someone hurled a half eaten apple at her. Slander one of the Patricians roared. Metellus just smiled and raised his hands for silence.
“Calm yourselves,” he cried, “Can you not see that these are the words of a desperate woman. But what do you expect from such a creature, entrusted with the purity of Rome as she was, who has allowed her virtue to be taken so easily. This woman will say anything to escape her punishment. Look how easily she lies, how she wishes to accuse her accusers but the facts remain unaltered. Her guilt is confirmed. She admits that she has broken her vows.”
But Pompeia stood her ground, her finger pointing resolutely towards Metellus and as the seconds passed and she didn’t lower her arm the crowds began to mutter.
“No, I shall now tell you what really happened,” Metellus shouted ignoring the accusing finger, “There was no rape and she did not perform a miracle.”
One of the priests handed him a sieve similar to that which Pompeia had carried through the streets of Rome. Metellus held it high above his head so that all had a clear view.
“Filled with glue to prevent the water from running away,” he shouted. “See how she mocks you all.”
There was a surge of anguish from the crowds.
“But she did have a lover and he has confessed,” Metellus continued. “Bring him here so that all can hear him.”
A few moments later the badly beaten figure of Cantillius was dragged up to the front of the platform by two guards. The young man trembled, swaying on his feet and he looked terrified.
“Is this the man?” the high priest said.
Metellus nodded. On his platform he seemed to tower above the trembling boy like some great shadow. Metellus looked down at Cantillius and as he spoke his voice was contemptuous.
“Tell this court how you defiled this Vestal,” he ordered.
Cantillius stared up at the high priest and then suddenly he fell to his knees weeping and clawing at the paving stones.
“Forgive me father,” he cried, “Forgive me for what I have done. It was madness.”
“Get up boy and answer the question,” the high priest retorted irritably.
Slowly Cantillius rose to his feet.
“I would meet her in the shrine to Terminus. She told me she wanted to have a baby. She seduced me in the shrine. The affair went on more than a year.”
As he spoke a mutter of horror and disapproval spread through the crowd.
“How many times did she press herself upon you?” Metellus snapped as his dark eyes flashed triumphantly.
“Many times,” Cantillius replied lowering his head.
A howl of outrage erupted from the crowd and the high priest shook his head in disgust. “Shame, you shame us,” he growled. Then he rose to his feet and stepped off the platform. The high priest slowly circled the weeping young man who knelt before the court and as he did so a slave handed him a coiled whip.
“You have admitted your guilt,” the Pontifex Maximus hissed,
“Your punishment is to be flogged to death,” and with that he personally raised the whip and stepped back.
“No.” Cantillius yelled as his head shot upward
s in shock and he stared wild eyed at the high priest, “You promised...”
But his words ended in a high pitched scream as the whip caught him across the face opening up an ugly red line across his cheeks.
“Cantillius,” Pompeia cried suddenly, “I know what they have done to you. I know what they have told you to say, I know you are a brave man, show them you do not fear death. Tell us the truth. Do not go to the next world as a liar.”
The whip cracked once more followed by another scream of pain.
Then as the high priest raised the whip for a third strike Cantillius staggered to his feet. His face and chest were bleeding heavily and one of his eyes was completely closed and yet he managed to half turn and look at her and in that split second she saw his deep haunting shame.
“Forgive me,” he shouted raising his hand to try and protect his face, “Stop, the Vestal speaks the truth. I have lied.”
The whip came in fast and furious and caught him across the chest spinning him around on his feet and yet Cantillius managed to stay upright. “I lied,” he cried spitting blood from his mouth. He raised both his hands towards the sky as if imploring the gods and sank onto his knees as the whip struck faster and faster cutting and lashing his body to bloody pulp but despite the frenzy of the whipping his voice still managed to break free.
“She is still a virgin. I did not touch her. It was the other two, Floronia and Opimia, they came to me in the shrine. I defiled them both.”
As Cantillius spoke those words the high priest, his face contorted with rage, hesitated in surprise, the crowds gasped, the matron rose to her feet, Floronia’ face turned a deep red and Opimia fainted.
“What?” Metellus stuttered looking confused. The forum held its breath as all eyes turned slowly to look at the Vestals clustered around their matron. Then before anyone could speak the whip lashed out once more through the air and the force of its blow sent Cantillius tumbling to the ground.
“Lies,” Metellus shouted staring at Cantillius’ bloodied corpse,
“You all heard him. He confessed. He cannot change his mind now,” but somehow Metellus’ voice lacked its usual conviction.
“No, he speaks the truth,” a woman’s voice suddenly cried. “I have known it for some time.”
Pompeia turned to see her matron. The old woman was still on her feet and staring defiantly at the priests on their raised platform.
“Silence,” the high priest bellowed wiping the sweat from his face, “You do not have the right to speak.”
But the matron did not back down. Stubbornly she thrust her chin outwards. “Pompeia is one of mine,” she cried, “I will not idly stand by whilst she is falsely accused. Vesta has spoken to me. She has told me the truth. You are accusing the wrong woman.”
“Nonsense,” Metellus shouted but as he did he glanced at the crowds in surprise for suddenly voices could be heard; voices that were raised against him. The murmurs grew louder and Pompeia suddenly realised they were coming from the women in the crowd. Then the storm erupted and a single lower class woman’s voice drifted across the forum.
“Listen to the goddess.”
The shout was speedily picked up by the crowd. Metellus blushed and raised his hand for silence but the crowd ignored him. The Patricians gathered behind the platform began to cast nervous looks around them as they sensed the beginnings of a riot.
“Pompeia speaks the truth,” the matron’s voice seemed to rise above the tumult, “She was raped. I know because I was there.”
“Shut up you stupid woman,” Metellus hissed.
The high priest had begun to look alarmed. He glanced at Metellus who was trying to silence the crowd.
“Impossible. Do you have proof?” he asked lamely.
“Do I have proof?” the matron’s voice came close to mocking him, “What proof can I offer but my own word as a witness that it is the truth.”
“She lies Sir,” Metellus shouted, “This is slander. I will not stand for this.”
“Sit down Metellus,” the high priest roared.
It was Pompeia who brought the court to order. For a moment she stared at Cantillius’ broken and bloodied corpse. Then she half turned to look at her two sisters. Floronia’ face was still a deep red and she looked in shock. The girl refused to look at her. Opimia was being helped up onto her feet. She should have suspected it Pompeia thought as she remembered Cantillius’ comments about the two girls the last time they had met in the shrine to Terminus. It explained their hostility. It explained why they had been so competitive with her. They had all fallen for the same man. She felt a deep sadness. The girls were still so young and naive. They must have been unable to cope with their bodies natural desires. The discipline of being a vestal was tough for it prohibited so many earthly pleasures but over time a woman could get used to the regime. Perhaps Floronia and Opimia had not had enough time to learn the real value and happiness that could be found from serving the goddess.
“Vesta has spoken,” she cried in a stern voice, “Hear her words and praise her wisdom,” and as she spoke Pompeia knew that she had broken the bond with her fellow sisters. A tear appeared in her eye.
The high priest had retreated to his chair. Metellus had ignored his master and was still on his feet. The crowds beyond the line of guards grew more and more restless as they waited for the verdict.
“Well?” a dozen or more voices cried from the crowd.
Metellus turned to the high priest with an almost pleading look that slowly grew in alarm. The Pontifex Maximus waved his hand in irritation.
“Acquitted,” he muttered.
The crowd yelled that they had not heard him.
“Acquitted, the charges are dropped,” the high priest shouted.
***
Pompeia bowed her head as she heard the verdict. Her relief was tempered by the sight of Cantillius’ bloodied body and the knowledge of what now awaited her two sisters but she had little time to dwell upon their fate. The priests and the Patricians who had remained behind were in a state of uproar and confusion. Metellus stood on the platform looking lost as if he still couldn’t understand how he had managed to lose the case. The high priest had sunk deep into his chair and was stroking his chin and staring moodily into space. His prestige had taken a serious blow she thought but it was his own fault for trusting his secretary. There would be repercussions for Metellus now and as the knowledge of that brought a faint smile to her lips it was as if Metellus had read her mind for suddenly he jumped down from the stage and advanced towards her with menacing strides.
“You bitch,” he cried.
Then his path was blocked. The man seemed to come out of nowhere and suddenly the point of a Gladius was hovering over the priest’s throat. Metellus lurched to a halt, looked down at the metal and then up at the man who threatened him.
“Are you the man who raped her?” Numerius said.
Metellus stumbled back in surprise as he recognised Numerius. Then he regained his composure.
“Careful old man,” he snarled, “if you lay one finger on me you will die.”
“I am not afraid of death but I think you are,” Numerius said and with a speed that took everyone by surprise he slashed the priests cheeks with the point of the sword. Metellus cried out more in shock than pain and fell over backwards onto his arse. A line of dark red blood appeared across his cheek. He looked up at Numerius with growing horror.
“Did you rape her?” Numerius shouted raising his sword.
Pompeia was aware of a commotion. A party of patricians and priests were rushing to Metellus’ aid. Some of them were armed and others were calling out to the Praetor to have his men arrest her father. It was spiteful. Just because they couldn’t have her they were going to take her father instead. The crowd gaped in astonishment at the speed of the turn of events. No one had expected a fight to break out but now that it had their surprise quickly turned to feverish excitement.
“Father,” Pompeia cried out in warning.
&n
bsp; Numerius however had already seen the men rushing towards him for he stepped backwards to shield her with his body.
“Titus,” he cried.
“Here Sir,” a man’s voice spoke from behind her. She jumped for she had not heard the stranger approach. The young man was holding a sword. “I’ve got your back,” he said watching the approaching men.
Metellus had risen to his feet as his colleagues reached him. The priests were unarmed but the Patricians were holding knives and clubs. Hostile faces stared at Numerius and Pompeia could see the dark malice, hatred and spite in their eyes as the men spread out to surround her father. She didn’t understand the reason for their hostility and she didn’t care. Her father had been the only one who had been with her from the beginning, the only one who had never doubted her innocence.
“How is Milo?” Numerius called out to the men closing in around him, “Does your pimp master miss his eye?”
“Milo died this morning from his wounds,” Metellus screeched regaining his confidence now that his colleagues had come to his aid. “You will stand trial for his murder. Praetor, for the final time, will you do your duty and have this man arrested or must we do it ourselves?”
The Shield of Rome Page 26
