Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  “Followers of Jesus believe in one almighty God,” Justinus said quietly. “We believe, Jesus, his son, died for our salvation.”

  “Outcasts of society! I’ve always thought of you as a son, part of this family. And now, as a father, I’m warning you—”

  Spurius returned, bearing a tray of goblets, and talking abruptly ceased. Spurious uncorked a flagon and poured wine.

  Elissa glanced from her father to Justinus. In many ways they were alike—stubborn, courageous. She admired Justinus for speaking his mind and standing up to her father. He feared no one. Not even Nero.

  Honoratus drank from his goblet in awkward silence.

  After a few minutes, Elissa said, “It’s warm in here.”

  “I feel cold,” Angerona said. “In any case, we need to leave. Soon it will be dusk, and we’ll be late for the evening ritual.”

  “I’ll escort you,” Justinus said.

  “My slaves will light your way with torches,” Honoratus offered, his civility returned. “The streets of Rome are dangerous.”

  Not as dangerous as Nero’s court, Elissa thought. She glanced at Justinus. Not as dangerous as her own heart. Clutching the book of poetry, she said, “Goodnight, Pater.”

  “Goodnight, Daughter. Pray for your brother’s safe passage and offer sacrifice.”

  “I will, Pater.”

  What good was offering sacrifice, she wondered, to gods whose power faded in the presence of a tyrant? And what sacrifice would that tyrant demand of her family? Once she’d thought of her father as invincible, a hero among mortal men, but now he appeared as tired as a defeated gladiator. He would remain in Rome, not out of courage, but exhaustion, endangering his life and the lives of his family.

  CHAPTER IX

  Flavia lay on her sleeping couch, staring at the ceiling, blue sky and wisps of painted clouds. But she imagined thunderheads rumbling in the distance, bolts of lightning striking her father’s domus, setting the heavy beams ablaze. Her fingers touched the plaster wall, solid and invincible.

  A breeze clattered the shutters of the window, disturbing her turtledoves—secure within their cage. Fellow prisoners. Romulus and Remus had been a gift from Marcus in celebration of her fourteenth birthday. The birds flitted from perch to perch, restless and unsettled, as if they knew the fate that had befallen him.

  She focused on a painted cloud, told herself she wouldn’t cry. Not for a traitor.

  Marcus had been ten when she was born, four years older than Elissa, and he hadn’t had much use for a baby sister. But Flavia had thought the world of him. He filled the house with friends and laughter, sang songs and told stories. When Marcus was at home, loneliness did not exist.

  Unlike now.

  Her vision blurred, and a tear fell on the bedcover staining it a darker shade of white. Elissa had left home when Flavia was too young to remember—they were almost strangers. In truth, Marcus had been her only sibling.

  Romulus and Remus pecked at their cage.

  Flavia tossed aside the coverlet, got up, and peered at the birds through iron bars. Romulus, the larger dove, fluffed his gray feathers.

  “Go to sleep,” she said, draping a black cloth over the cage.

  The room felt close. She threw open the shutters, resting her elbows on the sill, breathing cool night air. Through tangled branches of the fig tree, she peered down at the courtyard. Moonlight spilled onto paving stones catching a small creature, probably a mouse, as it scurried to the colonnaded walkway. Crickets chirred halfheartedly, bidding their short lives farewell. She breathed in the scent of moldering leaves and fallen apples. Music drifted on a breeze from the twisting lanes of the Subura far below, and she caught the smell of frying onions.

  The doorway’s curtain rustled. She hurried back to bed, drew the coverlet over her head, and pretended to sleep.

  “Still awake?” her mother said.

  Flavia burrowed deeper. Her nose tingled, and she fought the urge to sneeze. She yawned, but the sneeze erupted—not just once, but three loud bursts.

  The coverlet was drawn away, and Flavia stared at her mother’s face—worry lines tugged at Constantina’s mouth. She placed an icy palm against Flavia’s forehead. “You feel feverish.”

  “I’m fine, Mater.”

  “Why is the window open?”

  “This room is stuffy.”

  Constantina pulled the shutters closed. “You’ll catch your death.”

  “We all die. What difference does it make if it’s now or later?” Flavia kicked aside the coverlet. “Was Marcus really a traitor?”

  “Go to sleep, child.”

  Constantina alighted on the edge of the sleeping couch, her face pinched and tired. Usually, she kept her hair pulled back, every plait neatly secured, but now a silvery strand fell across her forehead.

  “Tell me,” Flavia said. “Did Nero really murder Marcus? Elissa told Pater—”

  “Eavesdropping is unbecoming in a girl.”

  “Is it becoming in a man?”

  “Don’t twist my words.” Constantina stood, drew the coverlet around Flavia’s chin. “Close your eyes and go to sleep.”

  “If I don’t listen to what others say, how will I learn the truth? No one tells me anything. Was my brother murdered or did he commit suicide?”

  Doubt flickered over Constantina’s face, and for a moment Flavia thought her mother’s barricade of platitudes might crack. But taking a deep breath, Constantina fortified herself. “Things will appear different in the morning,” she said, tucking in the coverlet. “You’re too young to concern yourself with the world of men.”

  “I’m old enough to wed.”

  “And some day soon you will.”

  “Who?”

  “We’ll leave that for your father to determine.”

  “Not Egnatius!”

  Constantina picked up a cushion from the floor. “Why is your chamber such a mess?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  Constantina sighed. “Your cousin is quite suitable.”

  “He’s a pompous idiot. And he’s done worse than eavesdropping. One night he sneaked into my room.”

  The cushion fell from Constantina’s hands.

  “He what?”

  “When Marcus gave that dinner party, Egnatius thought I was asleep, but—”

  “He must have lost his way.”

  “No, Mater. He knew exactly where he was. He slid his hands beneath my bedcovers— ”

  “You must have been dreaming.”

  “—pushed up my tunica, and forced his fingers between my thighs, insisting, as my future husband, it’s his right. He said if I told anyone, he’d claim he’d ruined me.”

  Constantina sank onto the bed. “If this is true—”

  “It’s true, Mater. I swear on Venus.”

  Constantina touched Flavia’s cheek, gazed at her with frightened eyes. “Say nothing of this to your father.”

  “Now do you understand why I despise Egnatius?”

  “Say nothing to anyone,” Constantina rubbed her temples as if hoping to erase what Flavia had told her. “Reputations are so easily destroyed.”

  “Why should I care about his reputation?”

  “Not his, yours.”

  “Mine? I didn’t do anything. That isn’t fair!”

  “Lower your voice, Flavia. It’s time you learned life isn’t always fair, and you must make the best of it.”

  “The best of it?”

  With lips as cool as melted snow, Constantina kissed Flavia’s forehead. Straightening her robe, she headed for the door.

  “Did you marry for love, Mater?”

  Constantina paused, her expression troubled. “Your father is a good man, a fine husband—”

  “But do you love him? Passionately? Would you die for him?”

  “Enough, Flavia.”

  “I won’t marry Egnatius. Ever. Not in a hundred, hundred years.”

  Constantina’s tone was hard as granite, “As the daughte
r of a senator, and a member of one of Rome’s leading families, it’s your duty to set an example and abide by your father’s authority.”

  “If I can’t marry for love, I won’t marry at all.”

  “You will marry whom your father chooses. I expect you to serve your husband well and run an efficient household.” Her voice softened. “At your age I was frightened too.”

  Flavia pushed off the coverlet, threw it on the floor. “This room is stifling.”

  “When you’re older you will understand.”

  “Understand that I’m a slave to men?”

  “Goodnight, daughter.” Constantina snuffed the lamp.

  Flavia stared into darkness.

  Why did her father have the final say over everything? He might be paterfamilias, but even he couldn’t force her to marry stupid Egnatius.

  Slipping her hand between her thighs, her fingers sought the place Egnatius had pillaged. His touch had left her dry and raw, but her fingers brought liquid shivers. She breathed the scent of her own musk, closed her eyes, squeezing them, till she saw stars—a whole universe. There had to be more in this world besides marriage, childbearing and drudgery. She thought of Elissa: powerful, respected, yet doomed to live a loveless life.

  Swearing on the gods, Venus in particular, Flavia vowed her life would be different. She would be an actress and perform in pantomimes. She would be famous and travel to distant lands. She would be pursued by countless men.

  Her fingers rubbed harder, faster.

  She would be the envy of every woman in the empire.

  Her back arched, and waves of heat rippled through her thighs, her groin, building into lightning bolts, until she thought she’d split in half. She moaned.

  A gurgle rose from her throat and she began to giggle—at first the sound a girl would make, then deepening into the robust laughter of a woman.

  Spent, she lay on the tussled linens and stared at painted clouds.

  The doves cooed.

  Weak-kneed, Flavia crawled from her bed, and lifted the cover of the cage.

  Romulus and Remus cocked their heads.

  “I will die,” she swore to them, “before I marry Egnatius.”

  CHAPTER X

  VII days after the Nones of October

  Year IX, reign of Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus

  Dear Gallus Justinus,

  Today, on Fontinalia, I should be weaving garlands to honor the god of springs and fountains. But I feel no cause to celebrate. On this day, nine years ago, Nero claimed the throne. And, since that day, the Tiber flows with blood.

  Elissa dipped her stylus into the ink pot.

  Today I meet with Nero in his guise as Pontifex Maximus, high priest of the collegiate. An abomination. Proof that, if the gods exist, they have lost their potency.

  If the god you follow offers greater strength, please pray for me.

  Elissa Rubria Honoria

  With a heavy hand she blotted the papyrus.

  * * * * *

  “We mustn’t keep the Pontifex Maximus waiting,” Mother Amelia called over her shoulder. She walked briskly toward the Regia, official residence of the Collegiate of Pontiffs.

  Elissa trailed after her, measuring each step, attempting to appear composed.

  The Regia stood across from the House of Vestals, a small palace built by King Numa, bordering the forum. Sentries stood vigil at the gates. She glanced at the marble pilasters inscribed with the Fasti—records of Rome’s history—a history now tainted by the tyranny of Nero.

  Dragging her feet, Elissa followed Mother Amelia past the sacred spring, wishing she had come to collect holy water, wishing she had come for any reason other than to meet with Nero.

  Guards escorted them up granite steps flanked on either side by columns.

  At the door the Major Flamine, high priest of the pontiffs, greeted them and led them through the vestibule. It wasn’t often that a vestal was summoned by the Pontifex Maximus. Marking the solemnity of the occasion, the high priest wore his sacramental robes—the purple-trimmed toga praetexta.

  He led them to a tablinum where high-backed chairs stood beside low marble tables and shuttered windows overlooked the Via Sacra.

  “Refreshment?” he asked.

  Before Mother Amelia or Elissa could answer, he snapped his fingers and two servants appeared. One of them offered a tray of sweets to the priestesses while the other poured pomegranate juice into jewel-studded goblets.

  Elissa took a goblet, but didn’t drink.

  If she must see Nero, she was anxious to be done with it.

  Mother Amelia settled onto a cushioned chair. She sipped her pomegranate juice, dabbed her lips, and helped herself to a date stuffed with pistachios.

  “I’ll inform the Pontifex Maximus of your arrival,” the high priest said and left the room.

  Elissa ran her tongue over her gums, worrying the double incisor.

  “Stop fidgeting, Elissa. Sit. Have a sweet.”

  Elissa remained standing. She gazed around the room. The walls were frescoed with exquisite murals. One panel depicted the twins, Romulus and Remus, suckling the she-wolf. Another panel showed the brothers fighting; a third showed Romulus victorious and crowned as king. Rome had been founded on the blood of brothers, and Nero held to the tradition.

  She wandered to a window. The shutters had been drawn, muting sounds of the street. Through the slats she saw a man, shaggy haired and bearded, hawking bits of cloth.

  “How simple life would be if I were a rag-picker.”

  “Thank the gods you’re not.” Mother Amelia perused the tray of sweets and selected a honey cake encrusted with poppy seeds. “Try not to be willful when you see the Pontifex Maximus. Practice obedience.”

  The mention of Nero made Elissa cringe. She stared at the rag-picker, envious.

  The high priest returned. “The Pontifex Maximus will see you now.”

  Mother Amelia smiled, a poppy seed caught in her teeth.

  “Not you, Mother,” the high priest said. “The Pontifex Maximus requests a private interview with Priestess Elissa.”

  The high priest closed the door against Mother Amelia’s protests and escorted Elissa out into the vestibule. They walked along a white marble corridor.

  “Where is the library?” Elissa asked.

  The high priest nodded toward an ornate double door.

  “Is that where the Sibylline Oracles are housed? I’d like to see them.”

  “Women are not permitted to view The Book of Fates,” the priest said, curtly.

  “But women wrote the books.”

  “The Sibyls merely spoke the prophecies. Priests of Apollo translated them to hexameter.”

  Elissa glanced at the door and wondered if they kept it locked.

  “Come along,” the priest said. “The Pontifex Maximus awaits you.” At the far end of the corridor he paused before a door, raised his hand and knocked three times.

  “Enter,” a voice called from within.

  Through a smoky haze of frankincense, Elissa stared in wonder. The chamber was large, at least twenty paces from one end to the other, but it was dimly lit and choked by clutter. Armaments covered the walls: swords, double-headed axes, javelins—not the kind of decoration expected in a sanctuary. Through a high window, the only window in the room, light fell upon a statue of Anubis, the jackal-headed god of the Egyptians, guide to the underworld.

  The door shut behind her.

  “I come here to contemplate,” said a disembodied voice.

  Elissa squinted, trying to decipher who spoke. Beneath the window, Nero sat on an alabaster throne unmoving as a statue. He wore the white toga of the Pontifex Maximus, folds of fine cotton falling with arranged perfection. His curls were crowned with gilded laurel leaves like a Greek Olympian. In one hand he held the eagle-headed scepter, symbol of the empire, in the other hand he held a lyre.

  “Apollo welcomes you, Lord of the sun and music’s muse.”

  Elissa stared, u
nsure of how she should respond.

  “Bow, when We address you,” Nero said. “And repeat these words: Oh, Great One, how insignificant am I in the glory of Your presence.”

  Had he gone completely mad?

  “Speak!” He pounded his scepter, startling cobwebs from the ceiling.

  “Oh, Great One—” Elissa stammered unable to complete the sentence.

  “How insignificant am I—” Nero prompted.

  “In the…something...of your presence.”

  “Glory! Glory! Glory of My presence!” Nero pounded his scepter, so hard even the floor trembled. “You are disobedient and must be punished.”

  “How am I disobedient?”

  “Silence!”

  Nero hurled the scepter at the wall, narrowly missing Elissa. It clattered to the floor.

  She edged toward the door.

  “We’ve frightened you.” Nero leaned back in his throne, his face composed and almost pleasant.

  “Why have you summoned me?”

  “As We said, you’re disobedient. And We believe you doubt Our power.”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “I? There is no you. There’s only me. I am The Roman Empire. The Pontifex Maximus, your king, your ruler. Your very thoughts are mine. Do you understand?”

  “I…yes.”

  “We thought you might.” Nero smiled.

  Elissa bit her lip, angry at herself for agreeing, but what recourse did she have?

  “I’m waiting for your apology,” Nero said.

  “Apology for what?”

  “You have insulted Us. Your emperor. Your god.”

  “How?”

  “You said that I can’t sing, but I intend to prove you wrong.” Nero picked up his lyre, cleared his throat and ran a scale.

  Was this her punishment?

  “I will sing a song, made popular by Menecrates, the famous citharode. Do you know him?” He didn’t wait for an answer. With a strum of his lyre, he broke into the song. His voice was shrill. Midway through, the words escaped him.