Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  Elissa surfaced, breathing heavily, sweat pouring down her neck. The fabric of her tunica stuck to her back. Bodies pressed against her, holding her afloat. Justinus stood by her side. He broke bread from a loaf and offered her a piece.

  She placed the morsel in her mouth, tried to chew. But the bread felt dry against her tongue.

  He handed her a chalice.

  She sipped the wine, allowing it to soak the bread.

  “Flesh of His flesh. Blood of His blood.”

  Voices echoed through the room, repeating what the prophet said. “Flesh of His flesh. Blood of His blood.”

  “Drink, and become one with God.”

  The bread grew warm and slippery. Elissa tried to swallow. Gagged. She spat the bread into her palm.

  “I feel sick.”

  Justinus led her from the room, pushing through the swarm until they escaped into the hallway. Feeling faint, Elissa leaned against the wall.

  “The way of love is powerful,” Justinus said.

  “Love is a weakness.”

  “Love gives us strength—the strength to have faith. Love brings light to life’s darkest hours. I love you, Elissa. You are my light.”

  His words rushed through her like a fever, coursing through her veins, her limbs. Justinus leaned toward her. She turned her head, and his lips brushed her cheek.

  “I have to go.”

  She ran along the hallway, and prayed he would catch up with her. His touch caused her knees to buckle. She wanted to be swept into his arms, to feel his body against hers. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. She wanted to be one with him.

  “My vows,” she whispered.

  “Give yourself to love, Elissa. Give yourself to me.”

  He lifted her chin, gently pressed his lips on hers. Her mouth parted. Fire shot through her body, a melting heat that sealed her wounds. But the vow of chastity she’d pledged to Vesta was branded on her soul. And now it burned.

  “I can’t,” she said, drawing away. “I have been chosen.”

  Justinus slammed his fist into the wall and chips of plaster rained from the ceiling. “Chosen to live a loveless life? To follow gods who have no power? Let’s leave Rome together, start a new life—”

  “That’s foolishness.” She saw that she hurt him, but what he proposed was madness. “I’m a servant of the empire.”

  “You mean you serve Nero?”

  “I must go now.” She started for the stairway.

  Justinus caught her by the arm. “Do you believe in miracles?”

  She shrugged.

  “You have been chosen, Elissa, not by Rome, but by a greater power. You’ve been chosen by the one true God. As a vestal you can gain the ear of Nero, convince him to follow Jesus.”

  “Is that why you brought me here?” She would have laughed, but saw he spoke in earnest. “You want me to persuade Nero to become a Messianic Jew? Nero believes himself a god.”

  “Miracles are possible,” Justinus said quietly.

  Elissa doubted it. Gathering her palla, she attempted to regain her composure. Justinus had lost all reason to this foreign god. He was a fool to hope that Nero might follow Jesus, a fool to believe that she might run away with him.

  And she’d been a fool to consider, even for one moment, breaking her vow of chastity.

  CHAPTER XV

  Elissa tugged the handles of the massive doors, but the doors were locked. The sky deepened to a dusky blue and Venus winked, warning her that she was late for the evening ritual. She pounded the heavy knocker so hard she bruised her knuckles.

  Finally the doors of the House of Vestals opened, and Thais peered out.

  “The evening meal has finished,” she grumbled in her broken Latin. “Trouble follows you.”

  Elissa hurried through the foyer, still carrying her bundle of ragged clothes. Lifting her skirts, she sprinted across the atrium, ran along the colonnaded vestibule and up the marble steps.

  “There you are.” Angerona stood at the top of the stairway. “Mother Amelia sent me to find you.”

  “I feel ill.” Elissa headed for her cubicle.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Visiting my father.” Elissa slipped through the curtain of her cubicle and Angerona followed.

  “You’re lying. I saw you.”

  “Where?”

  “With Gallus Justinus.”

  “He walked me home.”

  “By way of a cobbler’s shop in the Subura?”

  “You followed us?”

  Elissa sank onto her bed. A rotten taste surfaced from her stomach. She wanted to run, get away from Angerona. But that wasn’t possible. She had to maintain protocol.

  Angerona hovered over her, like a bird of prey. “I can guess what you’ve been doing,” she said. “Meanwhile you pretend to be so good, so pure.”

  Elissa felt the contents of her stomach churning. “You’re making assumptions, Angerona. You know me well enough—”

  “Not any more.”

  Elissa stared at Angerona. “Maybe I don’t know you either. Maybe I never did. Maybe you’re a spy.”

  “What if I am?” Angerona set her jaw, her eyes impenetrable.

  “You’d better go,” Elissa said.

  “And you’d better watch yourself.”

  Elissa sat, listening, until Angerona’s footsteps faded. She stared at the space where Angerona had just stood. Nothing in this world was solid, nothing safe. Exactly what did Angerona know? If she had learned of Paul’s illegal gatherings the prophet’s life might be in danger, and if she knew Elissa and Justinus had attended a meeting of Messianic Jews, she might use that information to lord it over Elissa. But if she had witnessed the kiss, she would be uncontrollable.

  She touched her chest, her throat, her lips, recalling the scent of him.

  The temple bells sounded the call to evening ritual.

  Elissa stood, tore off her stola, tossed it on the stool. Bending over the water basin, she stared at her reflection. Her eyes held a new light, a fire. She splashed icy water on her face attempting to extinguish it. Then she donned her sacramental robes and hurried to the evening ritual.

  * * * * *

  The vestals stood, encircling the sacred fire—a copper cauldron of flames. Elissa tried to take her place unnoticed.

  “You’re late.” Mother Amelia’s voice echoed off the temple’s domed ceiling.

  Ancient Junia, her eyes hooded and rheumy, stood beside the high vestal. Covering her mouth, she coughed. Even at the age of sixty-three she refused to retire, preferring to retain her status as a vestal virgin, rather than live under the roof of resentful relatives. Next to Junia stood Cornelia, barely eight years old. She smiled at Elissa, and Elissa winked at her. Most girls of Cornelia’s age spent their days playing with dolls, arguing with siblings. Elissa felt sorry for the child. But she felt no pity for Marcia, a beefy woman in her thirties. Marcia came from a wealthy family, and she liked to throw around her weight—making everyone’s business her concern. She and Angerona exchanged a knowing look as Elissa took her place.

  “Your slippers are filthy,” Mother Amelia said, “your robe in disarray. Where have you been, Elissa?”

  “Visiting my father—”

  “You left this house again without permission. Your behavior is unacceptable.”

  “I apologize, but—”

  “Come here.”

  Head bowed, Elissa approached the high vestal.

  Mother Amelia lifted Elissa’s chin. “You eyes shine unnaturally and your cheeks are flushed.” She pressed her palm against Elissa’s forehead. “Yet, you don’t seem feverish.”

  “My father isn’t well and—”

  “Go back to your place.”

  Grasping an amphora by both handles, the high vestal raised the vessel over the granite altar. “Goddess, Vesta, Daughter of the Hearth, Keeper of the Sacred Flame, we call on you to purify your servants.” Pointedly, she glanced at Elissa before pouring wine into the stone basin.

/>   “So may it be,” the priestesses recited in unison.

  Mother Amelia dipped her hand into the basin, sprinkled wine over the fire.

  Elissa chanted incantations and performed the rituals, as if in a trance. Her thoughts dwelled on Justinus. Until recently she had accepted her fate, accepted her role as a vestal virgin, but now she wondered what it would be like to lie beside a man. To be his wife. To bear his child. Was her destiny to be the same as Junia’s? Would she spend her days, withered and unloved, unknown, except within the sisterhood?

  Frankincense filled the temple, smoky and resinous. Clouds of incense drifted to the ceiling and out through the latticework walls, carrying the vestals’ prayers and blessings to the sick and dying—and beyond to the netherworld.

  Elissa’s thoughts wandered to Flavia. Ambition ruled her sister’s heart. She prayed that Spurius had delivered her message to Nero. It wasn’t a lie. Flavia would be married soon. If she lacked a groom, that would be rectified. Meanwhile, betrothal was a sacred vow which made her untouchable. Even to Nero. He would be furious, of course. Let him be. If he continued to pursue Flavia, he would bring the wrath of Vesta down on Rome.

  Mother Amelia’s voice rang out, waking Elissa from her trance. “We invoke you, goddess, to grant Rome your protection.”

  “So be it,” the vestals proclaimed.

  Elissa wished she could believe in Paul’s almighty God, wished she could have faith like Justinus. But the idea of blindly following a formless, nameless God seemed impossible. And yet, Paul’s message haunted her.

  We are nothing without love.

  One by one, the priestesses retrieved an olive branch from a carefully stacked pile. People made substantial donations to receive mention in the vestals’ prayers. As each priestess placed her olive branch upon the fire, she spoke those prayers aloud.

  “May Magia Decimitia receive—” Junia cleared her trembling voice before continuing, “—the blessings of the goddess in her recovery from childbirth and—” Her words were garbled in a fit of coughing. She seemed more ill than usual.

  Marcia was next to place a branch upon the fire. Inevitably, her prayers included Galeria Fundana, an heiress (and childhood friend) who endured a troubled marriage. “May Galeria Fundana find relief from creditors.” Marcia’s jowls jiggled when she spoke. “And may her wastrel husband, the drunken philanderer and gambler, receive the misfortune he so richly—”

  “Enough,” Mother Amelia said. “Please extend my thanks to Galeria Fundana for her continued generosity.”

  Was it good work to offer prayers only for the rich? Elissa recalled the poverty she’d seen that afternoon in the Subura. Promising salvation to the wealthy in return for payment seemed hypocritical.

  When her turn came to speak, she measured her words. “May Rome be purified,” she said, hesitating before adding, “and may the gods rid us of all plagues.”

  Nero in particular.

  The branches burned to coals as they sang in praise of Vesta. Then Mother Amelia closed as she always did. “May the goddess grant us strength to turn our backs on evil and courage to do good.”

  One-by-one the priestesses bowed to Mother Amelia and kissed her ring. They departed, leather slippers shushing on the stone.

  “Elissa, stay. I want to speak with you.”

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “What troubles you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You have nothing to confess?”

  Elissa shook her head.

  “I’m told you spent the afternoon with Gallus Justinus.”

  Trying not to panic, Elissa said, “He walked me from my father’s house.”

  “I trust you know the punishment for consorting with a man.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  A vestal’s blood could not be spilled, but if she broke her vow of chastity her suffering would exceed any pain rendered by a sword. After an inquisition and condemnation by the Collegiate of Pontiffs, she would be severely flogged. Bound and enshrouded, she would be carried through the streets as if she were already dead and taken to the Field of Iniquity where she would be entombed. Scant provisions would prolong her torment while, slowly, she asphyxiated.

  “Don’t allow your heart to rule your mind, Elissa.”

  “No, Mother.”

  “There are many forms of love—the love of a parent for a child, love of country, compassion.” The high vestal shook her head. “The love you dally with is untamed passion, a stirring in the groin. Think of Helen of Troy, think of Jason and Medea, think of Persephone and her eternal bond to Hades—”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Stay away from Gallus Justinus. Do you understand?” Lines etched Mother Amelia’s forehead. “You are a guardian of the sacred fire, highest of the elements. Nothing impure may touch your body, your heart, your mind.”

  Elissa saw her glimpse of happiness fast fading.

  The furrows in the high vestal’s forehead softened. “You must tame your emotions,” she said. “Despite your brother’s death, I cannot make allowances for your behavior. Tonight, while you tend the fire, ponder my words.”

  “Yes, Mother Amelia.”

  The high vestal started for the door, then paused. “One thing more,” she said. “I’m told Angerona is in communication with Tigellinus.”

  “Tigellinus?”

  “Take care, Elissa. I cannot protect you from everything.”

  Fear raced through Elissa as the doors swung shut after the Vestal Maxima. If Angerona reported to Tigellinus, she was a spy of the worst sort. Not only could she not be trusted, but she must be avoided.

  For ten years Elissa had dedicated herself to the goddess, but now she felt like an outsider. Angerona had deserted her, Marcia shunned her, Cornelia was too young to understand, Junia too old. She had no one in whom she could confide. Except for Justinus.

  She sank onto a stone bench and stared at the cauldron—wide and deep, supported by four legs—the womb of the Great Mother cradled by the four winds. Each night a priestess sat vigil by the fire. Once a year, on the Kalends of March at the new moon, the flame was permitted to spend itself. The Pontifex Maximus then rekindled the fire using a quartz crystal and the sun to create a divine spark. Otherwise, allowing the fire to die was considered an offense against the state. Through flakes of ash, the embers glowed. Fire might be damped, but it was not easily extinguished.

  Her thoughts returned to Justinus.

  She added several lumps of coal and watched the flames ignite.

  Too restless to sit, she wandered the temple’s perimeter. Latticework adjoined the circle of pillars allowing her to see out to the forum. Night had fallen and the streets teemed with traffic. The ban on carts was lifted and wooden wheels clattered on cobblestones. She heard shouting, laughter, music. On Palatine Hill lights from the Domus Transitoria glittered, welcoming Meditrinalia revelers to Nero’s feast.

  “Jesus,” Elissa said softly. “If you’re listening, protect my sister.”

  Feeling guilt at having invoked a foreign god, she quickly said a prayer to Vesta.

  She wandered to the doorway of the inner-sanctum, and stepped into the cool, dark chamber. Here lay all the secrets, earthen jars said to house ashes from Troy; divining stones, so polished you could peer into the future; and holy of holies, the Palladium. Elissa had never seen it, but she’d heard the stories—to look directly at the relic would cause instant blindness. Carved by the goddess Athena for her mortal friend, Pallas, legend claimed that upon Pallas’s death the Palladium fell to earth along with Athena’s tears. At the fall of Troy, Aeneas salvaged the relic from the flames and carried it to Rome.

  Elissa glanced at the temple doors. No one would be coming here tonight, not on the night of the feast.

  Lifting the veil carefully, she stared in wonder, not at a statue of the goddess as she’d imagined, but at a phallus. Carved from ebony, black and smooth and intricately detailed. She reached out her hand to touch it, ran her fingers down the sha
ft, and felt heat rising through her body, a surge like she had never known. She waited, expecting to be blinded. But, if anything, her vision grew sharper. Her senses intensified—touch, smell, hearing.

  The taste of Justinus.

  She ran her hands over her breasts and her nipples grew taut. Sliding her hands down her belly, and then lower, she sought the forbidden place.

  She should be tending the fire.

  Reciting a prayer.

  Thinking about what Mother Amelia had told her.

  What had the high vestal said?

  But the only thing she could remember was his kiss.

  CHAPTER XVI

  “More lentils, Master?”

  Akeem’s manner made it obvious that he found saying “Master” difficult. Sometimes Justinus wondered why he put up with the slave, but he reminded himself, as a follower of Jesus, he must practice tolerance.

  Akeem offered him the bowl of lentils.

  “I’ve had enough.” Justinus reclined on his dining couch and held out his chalice. “But more wine would be welcome.”

  “You haven’t touched the milk-fed calf.” Akeem pointed to a platter. “The cook especially prepared it with honey and coriander.”

  “Remove the food,” Justinus said. The dish was his favorite, but tonight he desired the oblivion of wine.

  “You need to eat.”

  “I’m celebrating Meditrinalia, the harvest of grapes.”

  Akeem gave Justinus a surly look as if he, not the cook and kitchen slaves, had prepared the dinner. He removed items from the table and set them on a wooden tray, carefully arranging each piece of crockery, each bronze plate, each copper bowl and silver spoon with irritating deliberation.

  Justinus reached for the wine jar and Akeem snatched it away.

  “Must I remind you that I’m your master?”