The Advocate

by Randy Singer

  “I’ll never be able to take his place,” I said softly.

  “I know,” she said. “I’m not asking you to.”

  I probably should have left it there. But I had already risked everything, and my heart was speaking now. “We could have something different. Special in our own way. Surely Mansuetus would want you happy.”

  She brushed her tears away and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I just need time,” she said. “Thank you for understanding.”

  CHAPTER 69

  “If you wish to be loved, love.”

  That was Seneca. And it became my mantra for the next six months as I pursued Flavia with renewed zeal. We would meet at night, our locations varied. The banks of the Tiber. Lying on our backs, gazing up at the stars in a meadow on the Esquiline Hill. Huddled next to each other, leaning against the Servian Wall. Staying warm by the fire at my family’s estate.

  We talked about Mansuetus—his heroism and bravery, his love for the arena, the way we had honored his memory. We shared our own dreams and hopes and frustrations. We talked about religion and our families. I told Flavia about my time in Judea. My regrets at the trial of the Nazarene. She regaled me with stories about the intrigue in the House of Vestal. She admitted that she didn’t really remember me from that first meeting—the scared young equestrian anxious to impress one of Rome’s famous Vestals. “I am sure you were charming,” she offered.

  During those months, we both developed a grudging admiration for Claudius as emperor. He was more concerned with running the empire than with his own comfort or popularity. “It’s refreshing not to worry about somebody looking down on us from the Palatine Hill when we’re in the baths,” Flavia said.

  Every hour we spent together seemed like seconds to me. My life was divided into segments of days—countdowns until my next evening with Flavia. I lived for those moments, and I relived them for days afterward.

  There were times—some of my favorite times—when she leaned into me and I pulled her close and we both said nothing. I had learned to relax with her and forget that she was a Vestal. We parted each time with a kiss.

  On one of those nights, when I sensed the mood was just right, I asked the question again. This time I told Flavia that I couldn’t imagine living without her. Six years of waiting would be a single day if she said yes. But I only wanted her to be happy. And I would understand if she didn’t have the same feelings toward me. I held my breath and waited for a response.

  She took my hand and looked me in the eye. “What took you so long?” she asked.

  I smiled, and she gave me a long kiss. It reminded me of the kiss we had shared six months earlier, but this time it was more relaxed, and neither of us wanted it to end.

  “Is that a yes?” I asked.

  “It’s a yes that I love you, Theophilus. But on a matter as important as marriage, I’ll need to check with the gods.”

  The gods? Who cared about the gods?

  “What if the omens are bad?” I asked.

  “If we are meant to be together, the omens won’t be bad.”

  Unless the gods are asleep or the entrails are ambiguous or a thousand other things go wrong, I thought. But how could I argue with a priestess who wanted to check with the gods?

  “Just remember, the heart should triumph over the entrails.”

  “Seneca again?” she asked.

  “You should know by now that my quotes are better than Seneca’s.”

  The next day, Flavia sacrificed a fully grown bull. She slit its throat and carved it open. She spread the liver, intestines, and kidneys on the altar. She poured out the incense and the wine and prayed that the gods would be pleased with her sacrifice.

  But the gods were not pleased. The liver was damaged. The intestines scarred. She spread them gently with her fingers, flipped them over. She tried to separate them, but the scar tissue held them together. The kidneys and heart were the only organs not damaged.

  What did it all mean? Certainly there would be no children. The scarring promised heartache, but the liver was the most disturbing omen of all. She stared at it, trying to reconcile her feelings for Theophilus with this foreboding message.

  Until now, she had not realized how much she wanted the gods’ approval. She had stayed awake at night thinking about her relationship with Theophilus. It was certainly different from what she had shared with Mansuetus, but that no longer bothered her. Was it better? That was impossible to say.

  Theophilus was a kindred spirit. He had a keen mind and a good heart, and she felt her own heart race when he was around. Her love for Mansuetus had been the kind that made her risk everything, putting her life on the line to make love with him. These feelings she had toward Theophilus, this new love, was very different. Not as reckless, but just as real. It felt so natural to be around him, as though they were created for each other. He was tender and focused on her. He believed in her. He was the kind of man who would make twenty years of marriage seem too short a time.

  Yet it seemed the gods were having none of it. She could break his heart now and tell him the truth about the omens. Or they could marry, and his heart would someday be broken just the same, his death painful and anguished.

  Perhaps the gods were wrong. But could she take that chance?

  Maybe this was their punishment for conspiring against Caligula, a man who claimed to be a god himself. She and Theophilus were both strong. But were they strong enough to defy the will of the gods?

  She pondered these things as the flames flickered up and charred the entrails. She watched the flames grow and engulf the organs, disintegrating each of her offerings.

  Who can allay the wrath of the gods? she wondered. The gods were angry, and the entrails of a bull were not enough to satisfy them.

  Well, she had her answer. The gods had spoken.

  She wished she had never inquired.

  CHAPTER 70

  SIX YEARS LATER IN THE SEVENTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF TIBERIUS CLAUDIUS CAESAR AUGUSTUS GERMANICUS

  For Flavia, at thirty-nine years old, it was a day of bittersweet emotions. She had all but forgotten life apart from being a Vestal. She would miss the others, miss the privileges and responsibilities of her exalted office, and she would desperately miss Rubria, who was growing into a beautiful young woman.

  On her last day as a Vestal, she spent as much time as possible with Rubria. The younger Vestal helped Flavia fix her hair in the traditional style worn on such a special day. Using just the point of a spear, Rubria divided Flavia’s hair into six braided locks that were then coiled and held in position by ribbons on top of her head. For extra flair, Rubria wove several flowers and sacred plants into the hairstyle.

  Late in the afternoon, Flavia put on a hemless white tunic with a band of wool tied in the knot of Hercules around her waist. She had dyed her sandals saffron for the occasion. She and Rubria spent nearly an hour on her makeup.

  Finally Rubria held the mirror and Flavia nodded in approval. She put on a flaming-orange veil that covered her head and face, along with a saffron palla, a sleeveless flowing cloak worn over her tunic.

  Now ready, she spent time in the garden of the House of Vestal, saying good-bye to the other Virgins. There were six of them leaving that evening. In a few weeks, Claudius would select six more.

  When Flavia had finished her good-byes, she moved to the portico of the house, where she waited for her groom. She looked out over the Forum and saw the upturned faces of her admirers stretching as far as she could see. It seemed all of Rome waited with her.

  Nobody could remember a spectacle like this—a Vestal being taken away in marriage the same day she finished her service. Flavia stood there patiently, surrounded by friends and adoring Roman crowds, and she couldn’t keep herself from smiling.

  It was the happiest day of my life, and there wasn’t even a close second. I arrived at the House of Vestal and sang the traditional marriage hymn while a few thousand onlookers and friends joined in.

  I climbed the sta
irs and stood next to Flavia and the other Vestals on the portico as we watched Rubria sacrifice the pig and spread the entrails on the altar. Adrianna came over, pushed the intestines and liver around, and nodded her approval. A few years ago, she and Flavia had ended their feud, and everyone knew the omens would be favorable on this day.

  Still, I had a catch in my throat. I remembered the look on Flavia’s face when she first told me that the original omens had been bad. She had agonized for months about whether we should even move forward while I carefully built my case. I claimed that the omens had been wrong on so many occasions it made one wonder what the gods were doing. I told her of my own personal experience with the oracle and the prediction of a noble prince. “Is that what you would call Caligula?” I asked. We both recounted other times when the omens had been good and disaster had followed. She admitted that she had sometimes questioned the entire ceremony herself.

  But most important, she eventually agreed that I had been right from the very beginning. The heart triumphed over the entrails. The prospect of spending our lives together was worth whatever heartache might come our way.

  We decided not to go through life looking over our shoulders. We made a pact not to mention the bad omens again.

  When the marriage sacrifice was complete, we signed the contract. I wrote my name with a flourish, and ten friends sealed it with their signet rings. In a traditional wedding ceremony, I would yank the bride away from the arms of her mother. But because Flavia was a Vestal, I pulled her away from the arms of Adrianna, the Vestal matron.

  From the portico, we followed three young boys who led a procession from the House of Vestal to my own newly purchased doma on the Esquiline Hill. The crowd shouted and sang and straggled behind us. I occasionally turned and tossed nuts, sweetmeats, and sesame cakes. Along the way, whenever we went by a temple, Flavia dropped coins in tribute to the gods. Maybe the omens couldn’t be trusted, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep the gods appeased.

  When we arrived at my house, Flavia spread wool over the doorposts and anointed the door with oil and fat. She turned to me, pulled back her veil for the first time, and I picked her up and carried her over the threshold.

  Once inside the atrium, I placed her gently on her feet and handed her a pitcher of water to signify that she would be the giver of life in my household. Next I handed her a torch to represent her role as the matron of the house. I watched as she lit the hearth.

  The place immediately warmed with Flavia’s presence. The crowd that had squeezed into the atrium behind us cheered. She turned her back to them, blew out the torch, and tossed it over her shoulder. The gods would smile on the man who caught it.

  After a lavish banquet that lasted well into the evening, the moment I had been craving finally arrived. Flavia and I retired, alone, to our chambers. We talked about the day’s events and our future together. I told her I was ready to step away from the stress of being an advocate in the Roman courts. I had spent years dedicating myself to my clients. I was ready to dedicate myself to my family.

  “I want to teach. Maybe set up my own school of rhetoric. I want to spend time with you and travel.”

  “Where to?” Flavia asked.

  “Everywhere. Let’s start with Greece and go from there.”

  She gave me a kiss, and it was clear our travel plans could wait. “You know what I want to do?” Flavia asked.

  “Tell me.”

  “I want to have a family. I want to give you a son.”

  And so we tried. On a day that couldn’t possibly get any better, the omens were the furthest thing from my mind.

  CHAPTER 71

  IN THE NINTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF NERO CLAUDIUS CAESAR AUGUSTUS GERMANICUS

  Fifteen-year-old Mansuetus, my only son, dragged his crossbeam down the Appian Way alongside twenty-one of his classmates. I was now fifty-three, but the memories came flooding back as if it were yesterday. It helped that the weather was every bit as dry and miserable as I remembered it from my own childhood. My students and I choked on dust the entire way, and my skin was covered with a thin film of dirt. I kept the pace brisk, much faster than Seneca ever walked, and my students struggled to keep up. Of course, I was the only one not dragging a crossbeam.

  Unlike my own class nearly forty years ago, Mansuetus and his schoolmates did not complain. My son was built like me—thin and wiry—but he had his mother’s nose and eyes. I kept an eye on him, watching as he grimaced and changed the crossbeam from one side to the other. I smiled to myself because my son was determined to stay a few steps ahead of his classmates, the same way I used to when I had followed so closely behind Seneca. The only difference was that Mansuetus was not self-conscious about it.

  After a few hours of walking, we arrived at the same clearing, several miles outside Rome, where Seneca had taught my classmates and me about crucifixion. I had the boys gather around and sit on their beams. I kept glancing down the Appian Way, hoping that Seneca himself would soon appear as he had promised.

  I let the boys get a drink of water and waited a few more minutes before I started. I told them about the rebellion of Spartacus and the slaves. How Crassus had crucified the rebels along the Appian Way from this clearing all the way to Rome. How the slaves had cried out for mercy, begging to be thrust through with a spear. I described the crucifixions I had witnessed myself in Judea and at the games in Rome.

  Just when I was ready to engage the students in dialogue, I saw Seneca’s litter approaching in the distance. I strung out the story a little so he would have time to reach us.

  It had been no small feat getting someone as famous as Seneca to address my school of rhetoric. But he owed me.

  He had returned from exile during the eighth year of the reign of Claudius. The emperor’s notorious fourth wife, Agrippina the Younger, had requested that Seneca tutor her son, Nero. Five years later, Claudius died under suspicious circumstances, shortly after consuming a bowl of mushrooms. Nero became emperor, and Seneca served as his chief adviser.

  Early in Nero’s reign, Agrippina lost favor with the spoiled young emperor. When she was bludgeoned to death, most Romans suspected that the emperor had ordered it done. But Seneca drafted a letter to the Senate claiming that Agrippina had first conspired against her son and that the men who killed her had saved the emperor’s life. Seneca’s letter carried the day in the Senate, though public suspicions against Nero never faded.

  With Agrippina out of the way, the impulsive young emperor had proven impossible to control. Several months ago he had limited Seneca’s own influence by accusing him of embezzlement. Seneca turned to me, even though I hadn’t served as an advocate for years. I negotiated a deal that allowed Seneca to retire from public life peacefully with the embezzlement charges dropped. In exchange, he was required to publicly show his support for Nero in the final days prior to leaving office.

  “How can I ever repay you?” Seneca had asked.

  That’s when I first thought of having him address my students on the Appian Way.

  When his entourage stopped at the clearing, Mansuetus and his schoolmates were enthralled. They knew somebody of great importance had arrived. The litter opened, Seneca stepped out, and I watched their jaws drop.

  The reign of Nero had aged my old mentor noticeably. He was mostly bald with just a few tufts of gray hair over his ears and a ring of hair around the bottom of his head in the back. His teeth had yellowed, and he’d lost so much weight that I worried about his health. His skin was wrinkled and spotted, and excess amounts of it hung on his bones as a reminder that he was not the man he once was. Veins protruded in his forearms and legs and formed spiderwebs on the backs of his bony hands.

  He apologized for being late.

  I introduced Seneca to the students and told him where we were with the lesson. I asked if he would take it from there.

  He began by detailing the horrors of crucifixion as only a man who had witnessed it up close could do. His grim descriptions and hollow eyes drove home the p
oint in a way that I had failed to accomplish. Mansuetus soaked up every word.

  When Seneca posed a question—“Was Crassus right to crucify the slaves?”—I was not surprised that Mansuetus was the first to raise his hand.

  “I would side with Spartacus and the slaves,” he said. He stood ramrod straight and looked Seneca directly in the eye, just as I had taught him. “Why should we allow crucifixions of everyone except Roman citizens? It is either an effective form of punishment or it is not. If it is, Romans should be prepared to reap what we sow.”

  Seneca’s lips formed a bemused grin. I knew what he was thinking. He was seeing me all over again—an idealistic young man, someone who had not yet been marred by evil, someone who saw the world in black-and-white.

  “Spartacus and the slaves are the heroes in this story because they found a cause worth dying for,” my headstrong son continued. “The slaves fought for freedom and equality. In Rome today, Master Seneca, we have nothing that inspires us to sacrifice. We live for entertainment and pleasure. We value life for its own sake and prolong it at all costs.”

  I almost felt sorry for Mansuetus because I knew what was coming next. Nobody could use the Socratic method of teaching more lethally than Seneca. He would ask a few pointed questions that would cut my fifteen-year-old son down to size. It would be a good lesson for the confident young man.

  Instead, Seneca just nodded, his expression pained. “You have spoken well,” he said. “The real danger in life is not to die a painful and humiliating death while you are young. There is no shame in dying like the slaves did. The shame is dying young yet living to be old. That, my son, is a fate worse than any crucifixion.”

  CHAPTER 72