Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  "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-grandmo
ther. 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.

  Nero crooked his finger. “Come closer.” She took a step toward him. “Open your mouth.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I tell you to.”

  She clamped her lips shut.

  “You’re a she-wolf like my mother. Like her, you bear the double fangs—the mark of Fortuna.”

  “You flatter me.”

  She-wolf was another name for whore. Elissa ran her tongue over her gums and felt the deformity, the sharp point of a second incisor above her right canine. The tooth was an embarrassment. More so, the comparison to Agrippina. In order to gain power, Nero’s mother had bedded scores of men including her brother, Caligula. Many of the men she coupled with died suspiciously. Her second husband lived only long enough to change his will in Agrippina’s favor; the third—her doddering uncle, Claudius—died swiftly after naming Nero heir to the empire.

  “Women should be savored like fine wine,” Nero said. “I prefer full-bodied red to insipid white. My mother was dark and spicy, begging to be drunk. Like you.”

  He grabbed Elissa’s wrist.

  “Remove your hand,” she said.

  “Forbidden fruit is so enticing.”

  “Remove it.”

  “Rules are made for commoners. That’s what Uncle Gaius always said.”

  Before wise men murdered him. If Nero considered Gaius Caligula a fine example of a princeps, Rome was headed for disaster.

  Nero tightened his grip and Elissa flinched. He drew her down onto the couch, so close to him that she could taste the mint leaves on his breath.

  “What is the life of Marcus worth?” he said.

  “Let me go or I’ll report you to—”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No man may touch a vestal.”

  “No mortal man.” Nero snapped his fingers at the whore. “Tell Tigellinus to call off the lions. Tell him I will spare Marcus Rubrius from fighting, in honor of his sister. Go now, all of you.”

  The whore and the slaves backed out of the room.

  “Thank you, Caesar,” Elissa said. Worry lifted from her heart. She wanted to dance, to shout.

  Nero pulled her back onto the cushions. “Not you, Elissa.”

  “My brother—”

  “Is tiresome. But everyone has their price.” Nero plucked a fig from a bowl of fruit, shoved it in his mouth.

  Elissa thought of a stuffed pig, imagined Nero, plump and pink, roasting on a spit. She said, “Your clemency is legend, Caesar.”

  “You put me in a quandary Elissa. Lately, I’ve been puzzling, what does it mean for a vestal virgin to be sacrosanct? I concede vestals must remain pure in order to uphold the purity of the sacred fire for the good of the empire. They must be held in reverence, untouched by any man, but surely not untouched by gods.”

  He selected a plum. His fingers—elegantly manicured, more like a woman’s than a man’s—pressed the fruit between her lips.

  She spat it on the floor.

  “Don’t care for plums?” Nero sighed. “I find it close in here, don’t you? Allow me to remove this rag.” He pushed aside her palla, exposing her hair. “Your best feature. Blacker than obsidian.”

  Gooseflesh rose along Elissa’s arms as he drew the palla from her shoulders, allowing the shawl to slip onto the floor. Within the bodice of her stola, she felt the page of the letter, felt the heat of her words. It gave her strength to know she’d written the truth—words only a friend would understand.

  Nero loosened the fillet of white ribbons that held her curls in place.

  “You no longer wear the shorn locks of a novice.”

  “I’m fully consecrated.”

  He lifted her chin.

  She gazed into his face—eyes cold as the winter sea, lips well-formed yet cruel. If not for his petulant expression, he might be handsome.

  “I take after my father,” he said. “Bronze curls, gray eyes, a classic nose.”

  “I notice the resemblance.” Elissa couldn’t help but smile.

  Dometius had been a swindler and a cheat. Once, when driving his coach through a sleepy village, he’d whipped up his horses and trampled a small boy for sport. Upon seeing his newborn son, Dometius had stated that, like him, Nero was destined to be loathsome.

  “You find me amusing?” Nero asked.

  “Not in the least.”

  “You lack humility.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Did the Vestal Maxima grant you permission to visit me alone?”

  “I came at your request.”

  “You came because you wanted to.”

  His stare unsettled her.

  “You’re shivering.” He handed her the palla.

  She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders, drew the wool over her head. “I must go.”

  “Not yet.”

  Nero poured wine into a chalice, added water and a pearl. He handed her the cup. “Seawater lends the tang of salt, the pearl a hint of mystery. Did you really believe I’d throw your brother to the beasts? My dearest friend.”

  She sipped the blood-red liquid, imagining the lions, torn from their home in Africa, starving as they paced their cells. The wine tasted brackish.

  “Does your brother plan to have me assassinated?”

  Nearly choking on the wine, Elissa sputtered, “No.”

  “Perhaps I have been misinformed.”

  Nero headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To see your brother.” Nero’s mouth twisted in a smile. His eyes cut through her like a blade. “Please join me.”

  * * * * *

  Elissa peeked through curtains, into the arena. Nero stood beside her, observing the spectacle through the green twilight of his monocle.

  The door opened behind them. Hoping to see Marcus, Elissa turned.

  Tigellinus entered. A snarl tugged at his upper lip, distorting the scar.

  “Is my brother coming?”

  “Soon.”

  Elissa gazed through the window. Slaves were dragging firewood across the sand. They lay down kindling, crisscrossing branches, stacking logs to build a pyre.

  Mimes circled the arena, holding up placards:

  THE DEATH OF HERCULES

  “A play is to be performed?” Elissa glanced at Nero.

  He nodded. “A reenactment. I’m sure it will prove amusing.”

  “I adore theater.”

&n
bsp; “Excellent. I offer this performance as a gift to you. It will be memorable, I promise.” Nero ran his fingers through his waves of hair. The signet ring that had once belonged to Julius Caesar glistened on his hand. “Tigellinus,” he said, “Is everything in order?”

  The prefect gave a thumbs-up sign.

  The clash of cymbals, followed by a drum-roll, announced the beginning of the theatrical. Elissa parted the curtains to gain a better view. Armed guards led an elephant across the sand, the largest animal she’d ever seen. When they reached the imperial box, they paused.

  “The pachyderm represents Nessus the centaur,” Nero said. “I chose the beast myself. See how the tusks are serrated and filed to points? I think it will provide more drama than a common horse. Don’t you agree Elissa?”

  “The poor beast seems docile.”

  “Not for long.”

  Elissa glanced at Nero then the elephant. With one thrust those tusks could gore a man, and the trunk might fling him to his death. The armored guards encircled the beast, goading it with javelins, scorching its hide with glowing irons. The elephant stamped its mammoth feet and kicked up dust. With a battle-cry, the men raised their javelins and let them sail.

  The great beast reared and bellowed.

  Elissa turned her face away and said, “This is horrible.”

  “You’re missing the best part.” Nero grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at the arena. A man, wearing only a loincloth, was being rolled around the arena in a small two-wheeled cart, his back strapped to a plank, his arms and legs fettered with iron chains.

  From the front row to the bleachers the mob stamped their feet and yelled, “Hercules! Hercules! Hercules!”

  Aristocrats, seated closest to the action, leaned forward on their padded benches. A well known Equestrian stumbled toward the railing, teetered over, and splashed into the moat. Arms thrashing, he showered onlookers with muck. Others, equally as drunk, dove in after him.

  The prisoner rolled toward the Imperial box and the cart stopped. A mask depicting Hercules hid his face, yet he seemed familiar. His build, the tilt of his head, the flaxen curls—the same color as Flavia’s.

  “Bastard!” Elissa turned to Nero, raised her hand to slap his face.

  He caught her wrist and wrenched her arm behind her back. She tried to scream, but he clamped his hand over her mouth. Tigellinus closed the curtain so there would be no witnesses.