Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories
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up at him, she said, “Don’t you recognize me, Celsus?”
She knew the guard from prior visits, and she had invoked blessings for his family, casting spells for his sick child. But today, dressed in rough cloth instead of white robes, Celsus failed to recognize her.
“How is your little boy?” she asked. “Has Crispus fully recovered from the fever?”
“Priestess Elissa Rubria.” The guard’s face flushed, and he bowed with the reverence due a vestal. “Please, forgive me. Crispus is much improved. I thank you for your prayers. Of course you may pass.”
Elissa hurried up the steps, aware that running was improper for a vestal virgin, but there was no time for propriety.
She glanced around the balcony, hoping to see Nero.
Esteemed guests of the princeps sat on ivory curule chairs, their bottoms resting in curved seats, preparing to watch the games in shaded comfort from under a midnight-blue canopy embroidered with silver stars. Tables, laden with bowls of purple grapes and figs, platters of all kinds of breads and ripened cheeses, ran along the perimeter. The scent of spiced meat, cooking on an open flame, wafted toward Elissa. Guests sipped wine from gilded chalices, while flute-girls played. A concubine wandered toward Elissa, trailing silk and jasmine perfume.
“Have you seen Nero?” Elissa asked.
The concubine smiled, eyes dreamy with opium, and nodded toward Ofonius Tigellinus.
Nero’s constant watchdog looked up from his plate of food as Elissa approached. He sat by the stairway which led down to the imperial chambers. The horsehair crest of his helmet, dyed red as blood, and his scarlet toga, denoted his position as Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, Nero’s personal assassin. Though weapons weren’t allowed in Rome, Elissa knew within his robes Tigellinus carried a dagger.
“Elissa Rubria Honoria,” he said, a sausage poised at his teeth. “What brings you here?”
As if he didn’t know.
“Where can I find Nero?”
“I haven’t seen you at the Circus since the Ludi Romani.” Tigellinus bit into the sausage, squirting fat.
The Ludi Romani. Fifteen days of brutal games culminating in near riot when Nero showered the stalls with rubies and pearls, laughing as spectators crushed each other in their scramble for the gems.
“The princeps sent for me,” she said.
“Hungry?” Tigellinus wolfed another bite.
“Tell me where he is.”
Using the battered knuckles of his hand, a hand that had killed scores of men, Tigellinus wiped grease from his mouth. A purplish scar cut through his upper lip and gave him the appearance of a snarling dog. He glanced toward a narrow stairway that led down to Nero’s private quarters.
“He’s busy.”
The concubine giggled.
Tigellinus stuffed the remainder of the sausage into his mouth.
Attempting to calm her voice, Elissa said, “The princeps requested my presence. Would you defy his wishes?”
Tigellinus shot her an angry glance, threw his plate against a wall and clambered down the steps.
Elissa gazed back at the arena, wondering how much time she had before the games commenced.
The sound of heavy footsteps announced the return of Tigellinus.
“The princeps will see you shortly—”
Pushing past him, Elissa hurried down the stairway. She found herself in a small, circular hall. No guests. No guards. Nero’s private sanctuary. An oil lamp smoldered on a granite table. Carved doors surrounded her, closed and heavy. One door stood ajar. Nero’s laugh boomed out from it, ricocheted around the walls.
Chapter III
Gallus Justinus had no intention of accepting Nero’s invitation to attend the games. As a soldier in Britannia, he’d had his fill of war and had lost his taste for violence. Lost his taste for Nero’s atrocities. With every passing year his childhood friend grew more perverse.
Within the courtyard of his domus, Justinus examined his apple trees. He breathed in the aroma of ripened fruit, sweet and heavy, the scent of encroaching winter. Shorter days. Long, lonely nights.
“A visitor has come,” Akeem announced.
The slave stood, shivering, in the doorway leading to the house. He peered
into the courtyard, unwilling to step outside. Akeem came from the warmer clime of Alexandria and bore the haughtiness of an Egyptian prince.
“Master, come inside,” he said, his Latin immaculate. “Attending to horticulture is no fitting pastime for a hero—”
“I think these trees have mites.” Bending a branch, Justinus searched the leaves. “I see their evidence.”
“Those gardeners don’t do their job. I will summon them again.”
“Who’s my visitor, Akeem?”
“That troublemaker, Lucan, back from Greece. The one who calls himself a poet. I will send him on his way.”
“Too late!” Lucan’s thunderous voice was followed by a boom of laughter. His frame filled the doorway. Before Akeem could stop him, he barreled through the threshold. Three strides brought him halfway across the courtyard. With a grip worthy of a bear, he clasped Justinus. “Dear friend, how are you?”
“Better, now that you’ve turned up.”
“Like weighted dice, you can count on me.”
The poet’s laughter was infectious.
The two men clamped each other in a hug, and for the first time since his return from Britannia, Justinus felt at home.
“Have you grown taller?” he asked as he broke away from Lucan. Justinus wasn’t short by any measure, but he felt dwarfed beside the poet.
“Maybe broader.” Lucan patted his stomach. “Greek wine acts as fertilizer. Golden piss they call it, but its taste never slowed my drinking.”
Akeem sniffed.
“When it came to women,” Lucan said, “I found Athens dry. No wonder the Greeks favor boys.” He winked at Akeem, and the slave left in a huff. “They let their women wither on the vine, keep them locked away like vestal virgins.”
Justinus turned away from Lucan, forcing himself to think of other topics. He ran his hand over the trunk of a tree and wondered if the soil might benefit from ground fish bones. “It’s a good year for apples,” he said. “Despite a few mites, the crop has been abundant.”
“You still have feelings for her, don’t you?”
“Feelings?”
“For Elissa.”
Justinus gazed through the branches at the cool October sun. Past noon. And what had he accomplished? Today or in his life? Not much. Death and destruction was his trade. And what use was a warrior who despised violence? The one person he trusted, the one person who truly understood him was Elissa.
“I have feelings. Yes.”
A breeze rustled the apples trees. Justinus kicked at a fallen leaf.
“How long have you been back in Rome?” Lucan asked.
“Six months.”
“How fares the Druid Queen?”
“Boudicca died three years ago in battle. As fierce a warrior as any man I’ve ever
fought. I can still see her, driving her chariot, red hair streaming to her knees, as she led blue-faced men, shrieking women, even children into war. ‘Justice,’ she called out as she faced her death. ‘My people fight for justice.’”
“As should all of us,” Lucan said. “These days Rome is short of justice.”
“Nero takes too much pleasure in the role of king.”
“The role of tyrant, you mean.”
The two friends stood side-by-side, watching leaves swirl to the ground. A nightingale trilled its melancholy song, long past mating season.
“I feel old,” Justinus said.
“Don’t be absurd, we’re twenty-four and in our prime.”
“I couldn’t stop my men. It was a blood-bath, not a battle.” In his mind’s-eye Justinus still heard the battle cries, still smelled the stench of death. “When the Britons advanced, our infantry charged. So did the cavalry. Our lances spared no lives. No women.
No children. Not even animals.”
“Another glorious victory for Rome,” Lucan said.
“I wish I could take back that day—”
“Time heals, they say.”
“Does it?”
Lucan shrugged.
“According to Horace,” Justinus said, “the perfect meal begins with eggs and ends with apples. Green or red?”
“Who am I to disagree with that illustrious poet? I’ll take red.”
“My father planted these trees years ago.”
Each tree stood twenty paces from the other and lined the courtyard’s perimeter. Now they formed a canopy of green tinged with yellow. Justinus reached for a branch laden with fruit, winced when the old war wound twitched his back.
Lucan had no need to stretch. With ease, he plucked two apples and handed one to Justinus.
“Forget her.”
“I can’t.”
“Find another girl. Marry. Raise a family.”
Justinus rubbed his thumb over the apple. Smooth skinned without blemish. Perfect. The result of his devotion. In theory, Lucan spoke the truth. But how could he forget Elissa? She was honest, pure, and infinitely good. No other woman met her measure. Only work that had some meaning might drive her from his mind, his heart. But these past months he’d found little in Rome to occupy an Equestrian, a knight of the empire. He had no use for politics. Since the fall of the Republic the senate served only as a mouthpiece. And he wanted no part of Nero’s tyranny.
“What will you do, now that you’re back?” he asked Lucan.
“Nero has appointed me quaestor.”
“A great honor for one our age.”
“He wants me close, so he can keep his fingers in the treasury.”
“Not as close as your uncle, Seneca, I hope.”
“I plan to keep my distance,” Lucan said. “Nero has the habit of killing off his intimates. What of you, Justinus? Will you seek a civil appointment? Overseer of the Roads? Master of the Aqueducts?”
“My father left me extensive properties—apartment buildings, store fronts, farmland beyond the city walls—without tremendous effort, I live quite comfortably. But if I had my choice I’d be tilling fields.”
Justinus bit into his apple.
“A man needs something to believe in,” Lucan said.
Justinus took another bite and chewed. “I’ve met a philosopher named Paul. He
speaks of a kinder world, a world ruled by compassion.”
“What world is that?”
“Paul says a man’s soul is his greatest possession, that a single soul holds more value than a treasury of gold. He follows The Way of Jesus of Nazareth.”
“Jesus of Nazareth!” Lucan spat chunks of apple. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken up with wayward Jews.”
Akeem appeared at the entryway.
“Another visitor,” he said. “Someone important.” He glanced at Lucan, his dark eyes flashing with disdain. “A vestal virgin.”
“Which one?” Justinus asked, his heart quickening.
“Priestess Angerona. She requests to see you—privately.”
Justinus failed to suppress his disappointment. “What does she want?”
“The priestess claims it’s urgent.”
A visit from a vestal virgin had to be a matter of importance, but Angerona had been known to overstep her bounds. She flaunted her body, pursuing men as if she were a prostitute. So unlike Elissa. Elissa, Justinus felt certain, never entertained a lustful thought.
Lucan slapped him on the back. “Perhaps I’ll see you later at the baths. This evening I’m going to the theater with some friends. You’re welcome to—”
“Priestess Angerona waits for you,” Akeem said.
“I’m leaving, but I’ll soon return.” Lucan grinned at Akeem, and the slave made a sour face. Ducking through the doorway, Lucan left.
“Akeem,” Justinus said, “must I remind you to treat your betters with respect?”
Akeem pursed his lips.
Justinus tossed the half-eaten apple against a wall. The core bounced along the peristyle, struck a bright blue pillar, and settled on the tiled walkway.
Akeem sniffed, loudly.
“Are you ill?” Justinus asked.
“I’ll tell Priestess Angerona you will see her now.”
Justinus sucked juice from his fingers, but felt no pleasure at its taste.
For years, Angerona had set her sight on Elissa’s brother, hunting Marcus whenever she had a chance: dinners of state, imperial games, even public rituals. At every turn, Marcus shunned her. Finally she’d given up, but not without a fight. And, recently, she’d taken aim at a new target.
“Gallus Justinus.” Her voice carried through the courtyard, too loud for a
any proper Roman matron. “It’s impolite to keep a woman waiting.”
“Since when do vestal virgins visit men alone?”
“This is a dire circumstance.”
He tried not to notice how her hips swayed as she walked. Burnished curls, the color of chestnuts, escaped her suffibulum and the scent of perfume, seductive and no doubt expensive, preceded her.
“Bring wine and folding chairs,” he said, snapping his fingers at Akeem.
“We have no time for niceties.” She stood closer than appropriate, her breasts teasing Justinus. Lowering her voice, she said, “Marcus Rubrius has been arrested.”
“For what?”
“For being a traitor. No trial. Nero has condemned him to be a gladiator.”
“Has Nero lost his senses?”
“Marcus may be wrestling lions as we speak.”
Justinus felt the blood drain from his face. He’d known Marcus all his life, thought of him as a brother. “Did you have something to do with this?”
“Of course not. I care about Marcus—though he insulted me. Some might think I have good reason to be angry.”
“I’ve heard rumors about you—”
“Lies! I would never harm Marcus.”
Tears threatened Angerona’s eyes, but Justinus doubted their validity. Rumors claimed she played two sides and relayed information to Nero.
“How is Elissa taking this?” he asked.
“Elissa, of course,” Angerona said, her voice harsh and all trace of tears vanishing. “It’s always about her.”
“Is she all right?”
“You know how stubborn she can be, how irrational. I warned her not to go to the circus, but did she listen? No! “
“She went to the circus?”
“By herself to speak to Nero. The Vestal Maxima sent me after her, and I’ve come for your help. I brought a lictor and the coach.”
“We must leave at once.”
Justinus knew too well the games Nero liked to play, especially with innocents.
Chapter IV
Elissa moved toward the open door, peered into the chamber.
Light fell through a high window, illuminating the jewel tone colors of a Persian carpet, one of many strewn across the alabaster floor. Along muraled walls, slaves stood in attendance, their eyes widening at her appearance. At the far end of the chamber Nero reclined on a couch, his curls buoyed by silk cushions, his robe bunched around his gut. He grimaced.
Whether in pleasure or pain, Elissa wasn’t certain.
A concubine knelt before him, yellow hair streaming over Nero’s lap.
Elissa stood, overcome by shock, rooted by curiosity. Of course, she had seen paintings, heard whispered tales of lust, but her imagination had not come close—
Nero glanced at her, and tried to sit. The concubine’s head bobbed frantically and Nero fell back on his cushions. “I told Tigellinus not yet.”
“I’ve come about my brother.”
Nero cuffed the concubine. “Hurry up and finish.”
The concubine complied and Nero gasped.
The head of yellow curls turned toward Elissa. A grin split the bearded face.
Eyes wide, Elissa backed toward the door.
/> “No need to leave.” Amusement played on Nero’s face. “Corrupting a vestal virgin, whatever would my mother say? Thank Jupiter she’s dead.”
“Rome is better off without Agrippina,” the whore said.
Nero slapped the concubine, and he yelped. “Now, fetch my robe like a good bitch.”
The whore jumped to his feet and retrieved the garment.
“Excuse me, Priestess Elissa, Nero said. “I wasn’t expecting you just yet.” He draped himself in shimmering brocade and cocked an eyebrow. “Elisssaaah,” he said, opening his mouth so wide she stared into the cavity. “Your name is most unusual. Phoenician, I believe.”
“I took the name of my great-grandmother. She came from Athens.”
“A daughter of Apollo. How divine.” Nero resettled on the couch and two slaves fluffed the cushions behind his neck. “Your name refers to Elysium, dwelling place of happy souls. Are you a happy soul, Elissa?”
“I want you to pardon my brother.”
“The traitor?”
“After all my family has done for you—”
“Nothing lately.”
“—you treat my brother like a common criminal.”
The whore poured rose-scented oil into his palms, reached for Nero’s foot.
“Not now.” Nero kicked him.
Elissa wanted to escape, but forced herself to forge ahead. “By my authority as a vestal virgin,” she said, “I demand that you—”
“Demand?”
Nero squinted at her through the emerald monocle he wore around his neck, a polished stone as large as an apricot. He sniffed and made a face.
“What’s that unpleasant smell?”
“I came by foot. A wagon splashed—”
“Douse yourself.” He tossed the flask of scented oil to her. “How old are you, Elissa? Nineteen, maybe twenty? Vestals are known for their perfection, but your nose is too long, your eyes too wide, your lips too narrow, and your complexion freckled.”
“From working in the garden.”
“I’ve watched you. My palace affords me a fine view of the House of Vestals, of the courtyard and the gardens.”
“I’d better go.”
“What of your dear brother? Forgotten already?”
The question stopped her.