“You’ve had enough.”
“Pig’s balls,” Justinus grumbled. “Can’t a man drink at his own table?”
“Wine won’t drown thoughts of that girl.”
“What girl?” Justinus splashed wine into his cup, adding only a dash of water.
“You know which.” Akeem picked up a bowl of olives and popped a green olive into his mouth. “In Egypt the act of copulation is considered sacred, priestesses are encouraged to have conjugal relations. The union of Mother Sky and Father Earth maintains the world’s balance.” He spit the pit into his hand.
“What else would one expect of sand-lovers?” Justinus said, vaguely aware the wine was creeping up on him. “Egyptians worship animals—cats and dogs, and some kind of river-horse. I think the desert sun has fried your brains.”
“And wine has pickled yours.” The bowl slipped from Akeem’s hand, crashed on the mosaic floor, and olives scattered like marbles. He made no attempt to retrieve the olives or the shattered bowl. “Roman gods might appear human, but they act like beasts and argue like fishmongers.”
“Forgive me for insulting you, Akeem.” Justinus waved his empty chalice. “I’m not myself. I need to think.”
“Wine muddles your thoughts.” Akeem whisked away the serving tray and, dishes rattling, swept out of the dining room.
Justinus punched a cushion, shoved it under his head, and resettled himself. He poured another cup of wine and sipped.
He studied the frescoed walls, remembering when his mother had commissioned one of Pompeii’s finest artists to paint the lavish murals. She had taken great care to see their home was immaculate, as she had taken care of him. He remembered how she’d listened to his childish woos, kissed his bruises when he fell, nursed him through fevers. He remembered how she’d told him stories late at night, tales of courageous sailors, terrifying monsters, magical princesses.
She’d promised him a baby sister.
But on the night his sister was due to arrive, his mother had screamed—so loud and long, her shrieks still echoed through his memory. There had been no baby sister. No more nighttime stories, no more mother. His father, claiming Justinus was coddled, had sent him to school and trained him for the military.
In Britannia, most of the men placed under Justinus had exceeded him in age by ten or even twenty years. Tough and experienced professional soldiers—they didn’t trust members of the aristocracy, didn’t trust him. He held himself responsible for the massacre of Boudicca. His men had refused to heed orders barked out by a novice in his twenties. He’d lacked the strength to properly direct them. Lacked their respect. They’d whispered that his friendship with Nero had earned him rank, not his merit. Maybe that was true.
His war wound ached. He changed position on the couch and took another gulp of wine, trying to forget the day he had received the battle-scar. But memories came rushing back.
Autumn, an afternoon of golden light. Haystacks in neat rows. A flock of sheep. The boy appeared, as if from nowhere, eyes blazing, shouting obscenities. Justinus didn’t have the heart to fight, and he turned away. But the boy charged him with a pitchfork. Not even a javelin. Stabbed him in the back.
He’d had no choice but to kill him.
Justinus adjusted his cushion, but found no comfortable position.
If the boy had lived, what would he be doing now? Tilling fields? Seeing to his flock of sheep? Tending apple trees? He might be old enough to take a wife.
Chubby cupids stared from the walls. They hovered in a blood-drenched sky above two lovers. The lovers embraced heart to heart, limbs intertwined, lost in eternal bliss.
Or eternal damnation.
And he was damned to love a woman sworn to chastity.
Akeem was right. Wine did nothing to drown thoughts of Elissa.
Justinus closed his eyes and saw her face. Solemn, proud. Sensual as Venus. What was she thinking now? She was stubborn. She would never forgive Nero for her brother’s death. Never forgive his insult to the House of Rubrius. And now Nero planned to sink his teeth into Flavia. Or, even worse, Elissa.
Justinus sat up. He had to act. He had to stop the princeps. He couldn’t be responsible for another slaughter, another Boudicca.
He drank more wine, felt its warmth slide down his throat. Akeem was wrong on one account: wine didn’t muddle him. On the contrary, it clarified his thoughts. He swung his feet onto the floor and stared at the mosaic pattern, waiting for the tiles to come back into focus. Placing one hand on the couch, he steadied himself and got up. Blood rushed to his head, and through a wine-red haze the cherubs watched.
But his path was clear.
He would confront Nero, convince him to offer an apology to the House of Rubrius and declare Marcus a hero, demand that Nero put aside his lust for Flavia. His lust for Elissa. He had seen the way Nero looked at her.
Justinus downed the dregs of his cup for fortitude. Tonight he would convince Nero that Rome’s fate lay in the hands of the one true God, in the hands of Jesus.
“Akeem,” he called, “my chariot.”
* * * * *
Flavia unlatched the shutters.
Music from the festival drifted through the window of her chamber, but her father’s domus was silent and stultifying. The servants had gone out to celebrate while her parents slept. She would have left too, but Spurius stood guard.
Careful not to make a sound, she placed a footstool beneath the window. Romulus and Remus stirred in their cage, cooing and ruffling their feathers.
Hiking up her stola, the new green silk, she climbed onto the stool and then onto the windowsill.
Clinging to the shutters, she tottered.
The paving stones seemed far away. Further than she remembered.
She recalled a story the servants whispered about an actress falling to her death. Her lover found her body the next morning, but no one knew if it had been an accident.
Refusing to look down, she steadied herself.
“Venus, protect me.”
The goddess of love might not be the most dependable, Venus could be fickle, but Flavia relied on her.
Reaching out her hand, she leaned out of the window, as far as she dared, and touched the fig tree’s closest branch. The slippery bark escaped her fingers. She tumbled backward, falling off the window-ledge and back into her chamber. The footstool skidded, crashed against the wall.
Romulus and Remus fluttered in their cage, wings batting the iron bars.
Flavia sat on the floor, listening, attempting to determine if the noise had roused her parents. Except for the doves, the house remained quiet.
She rubbed her buttocks. No doubt there would be a bruise.
Her bed seemed inviting. Safe. But the feast offered her a chance for life, a chance for freedom. The thought of marrying Egnatius propelled her to the window. She brushed off her stola and climbed back onto the ledge.
To escape, she’d have to jump, grab hold of a branch. She tucked her stola around her waist, studied the tree, and found a sturdy branch. She imagined grabbing hold of it, imagined swinging easily over the roof.
She bent her knees, took a deep breath, and froze.
Looking down, she felt dizzy.
She considered sneaking down the stairs, but Spurius waited by the door along with Cerberus, and she’d never get past them.
She focused on the tree, bent her knees and jumped.
The branch groaned, and she thought it might snap. Scrambling for a foothold, she wrenched herself higher and locked her hands around another branch. Her weight dragged the branch down, and then it rebounded nearly throwing her off. She prayed to Venus as she dangled over the courtyard and bobbed like a fish caught on a line.
The moon had not yet risen and the night was dark. Below, not far from where she hung, a lower section of the roof jutted off at an angle. If she could maneuver her way over it, she could drop to safety.
Her arms ached and sweat poured down her back. Her palms felt slick against the bark.
Humming a song she used to sing with Marcus, pretending this was just a game, she swung her legs, willing herself toward the roof. With every swing, she got closer. Just a few feet more—
The branch gave way with a crack. Breaking from the tree, she tumbled toward the tiles. It didn’t feel like flying.
She landed with a thud, arms outstretched to break her fall. The terracotta tiles cut into her palms, her knees. She moved her arms, her legs. Blood trickled down her thighs. Her hair had come undone and fell in sweaty strands around her face. She’d survived the jump without broken bones, but her stola had ripped from the shoulder broach. She managed to refasten it.
Barking echoed through the courtyard.
Digging her fingernails between clay tiles, Flavia wedged her sandaled toes into a crevice and dragged herself toward the pinnacle. A tile broke free, slid down the incline, and clattered in the courtyard below.
She heard the jangling of keys, followed by the voice of Spurius.
She lay still, her body flat against the roof, willing herself to be invisible.
“These old tiles need to be replaced,” Spurius spoke to the dog. “Probably a squirrel.” She heard him kick the broken tile across the courtyard.
Cerberus whined.
“Come on boy, you’ll catch that squirrel in the morning.”
Flavia listened to the slave’s shuffling footsteps until she was certain he and Cerberus had left.
She raised her head and surveyed the courtyard. It appeared empty. No noise came from the house. She imagined Romulus and Remus pecking at their cage, hoping to escape.
Inch by inch, she crawled to the roof’s pinnacle.
Houses of the aristocracy surrounded her like Roman matrons, boring and respectable. But in the distance, the Subura’s tenements winked like bawdy actresses. The lights of Rome studded the seven hills, mirroring the heavens. Lantern-lit barges floated down the Tiber like stars in the Via Lactea.
On her hands and knees, Flavia crept along the rooftop, then carefully began her descent down the far side of the house. Finally, she reached the eaves and found the water-drain. She tossed her palla from the roof, watching the shawl as it billowed and twirled and toward the garden. Then she hiked her stola around her waist and shinnied down the thick lead pipe. The drain stopped several feet from the ground. She jumped into a hedge of rosemary, falling to her knees—a little worse for wear, but free. She brushed off her stola and tied the belt beneath her breasts.
Her father’s domus remained dark. Protected by the night, she headed for the Domus Transitoria.
* * * * *
A riot of coaches, donkey carts, litters, and pedestrians choked the narrow streets. Justinus snapped the reins, urging his horses through the crowd. Heads turned and people gawked at the matched black stallions. Justinus cared little for luxury, but he took pride in his horses, Numidian, imported from North Africa.
The chariot veered, narrowly missing a wagonload of hay. The jolt unsettled Justinus. Drinking wine without benefit of food muddled his reflexes, but the need to speak to Nero acted as a stimulant.
At the forum’s gate, Justinus brought the stallions to a halt. From here he would walk to the Domus Transitoria. A young tough leaned against the wall, chewing on a stalk of straw.
Justinus knew the type—seventeen and full of piss. Justinus jumped from the chariot, but the wine made him clumsy and he caught his toga.
The young man rushed to his aid. His laughing eyes and long dark curls made him appear innocent, but the tattoo on his arm told Justinus he was a member of a street gang.
“Want me to water your horse, sir?”
“No thanks.” Justinus jerked free the fabric of his toga, nearly ripping it.
The young man patted one of the stallions. “Be a shame if they broke free.”
Justinus read his meaning. “You’ll be here for awhile?”
“Depends…”
The young man’s smile reminded Justinus of Marcus, and he handed him several coins. “There’ll be more when I return, and if my horses aren’t here, make no mistake, I’ll find you.”
Feeling a bit unsteady, Justinus crossed the forum, careful to avoid the Well of the Comitia. Tonight no crowds of thousands gathered in the circular pit to hear a politician speak. Tonight, screaming children ran down the steps in pursuit of a mongrel dog, while a soothsayer stood on the rostra ranting about the apocalypse.
Taking the long way round, Justinus approached the Temple of Vesta. He stopped, attempting to see through the latticework. The sacred fire cast light on the walls, but he saw no priestesses. No Elissa. It was useless, he told himself, to dwell on hopeless fantasies.
Feeling the weight of Atlas on his heart, he headed toward the steps of the Temple of Castor and Pollux—the sons of Jupiter. Gaius Caligula had knocked out the back wall, transforming the temple into the entrance of the Domus Transitoria. In his day, Caligula had found it amusing to pose alongside statues of the gods and receive tribute from terrified supplicants.
Flaming stanchions lined the temple’s stairway, and Praetorian Guards stood at attention. A guard saluted and said, “Good evening, Captain Gallus.”
“Evening.” Justinus saluted back.
“I’ve never had a chance to thank you, sir,” the guard said. “You saved my life in that wretched hole.”
Justinus had no recollection of the soldier, but he clapped him on the back. “You’re a brave man.”
They had all been brave. The Romans. The Britons. The dead.
Weighted by memories of war, Justinus trudged up the steps toward the massive Corinthian columns. Music spilled from the temple’s entryway, along with shrieks of laughter. The air stank of rich perfume and rotting fruit, reeked of decadence. Every sinew of Justinus’s body begged him to go home and make this an early night, but he steeled himself. Like Jesus and the moneylenders, he would confront Nero, steer Rome back to righteousness.
He walked briskly through the temple’s sanctuary trying to ignore the grunts and groans that emanated from darkened corners.
The sight of Tigellinus, sitting before the palace doors, strengthened his resolve. The prefect sat in a chair, feet propped on a table inlaid with semi-precious stones. He gnawed on a boar’s rib, cracked the bone and made sucking sounds as he extracted the marrow.
“Gallus Justinus,” he said.
“Good evening Ofonius.”
Tigellinus removed the bone from his mouth, frowned, and ran his fingers down a list of names. “You’re not on the list.”
“I’ll take the place of Flavia Rubria Honoria.”
Tigellinus swung his feet onto the ground and let out a protracted belch. “You’re not much of a substitute for a pretty girl.”
Justinus slammed his fist on the table, and said, “Don’t bother getting up.”
He entered a colonnaded courtyard. Exotic flowers perfumed the air—lilies, night jasmine and camellias raised in Nero’s steam-heated, sunken garden. Fueled by wine and opium, Nero’s guests didn’t seem to notice the evening’s dropping temperature. Scantily clad bodies lay entangled on carved benches; couples kissed beneath the portico, writhed against the walls, and slid to the mosaic floors.
Two pavilions stood at the garden’s center. Within one of the pavilions a flutist played, providing accompaniment for a dancing courtesan. She removed her remaining veil and threw the sash at Justinus. Cupping her ample breasts, she pinched her nipples till they blushed, and Justinus felt a twinge within his groin.
He hurried on, walking along the portico. Footsteps tapped behind him. He turned to see who followed, and a man drew behind a pillar.
Justinus felt every muscle in his body tighten, and instantly his mind grew lucid as if he’d been transported back to the battlefield.
The man leaned against the pillar, ignoring Justinus, and stared at the courtesan.
Justinus continued walking, weaving through small groups of people, nodding at the guests he knew without stopping to chat. At the courtyard’s far e
nd, fountains splashed in Nero’s famed nymphaeum. Sheets of glistening water cascaded over walls of rose-veined marble and sea-green serpentine. A scalloped fountain stood between two stairways. In the center of the fountain Venus spouted crimson wine from milk-white marble breasts. Two boys, not much older than eleven, stood beneath the goddess, their mouths open as they guzzled her offering. A gray-bearded senator stood by the fountain admiring the boys.
The man from the pillar stood nearby.
Justinus headed toward the stairway on the right, then abruptly turned the other way and ducked into a chamber adjoining the nymphaeum. He slipped through the crowd, hoping to lose his pursuer. The room was one of Nero’s favorites—a vaulted ceiling and sky blue walls, bordered by glass tiles the color of indigo. On the far wall frescoed windows gave way to frescoed views, and painted porticos stretched endlessly through halcyon gardens. On the adjacent wall a mural depicted the adventures of Odysseus. Justinus hoped he might run into Nero, but the princeps was not to be found.
“Gallus Justinus,” a woman’s voice purred. “My, my, how you’ve grown up.”
Justinus recognized Vibia Petilia, a widow with an appetite for younger men. Lead powder caked the wrinkles of her face. The starkness of her complexion contrasted with the slash of her vermilion mouth and made her appear more gorgon than human. Talon-like fingernails dug into his arm.
“You look well,” Justinus said, attempting to be polite.
“Donkey piss!” Vibia chuckled. “I rival an Egyptian mummy.” Her kohl-rimmed eyes ran down his body, lingered at his crotch.
“Have you seen our host?” Justinus asked.
She nudged her sagging chin toward the ceiling. “Upstairs in the banquet hall.”
Escaping Vibia, Justinus headed back to the nymphaeum. He climbed one of the double stairways, pausing at the second story to look down at the garden and didn’t see the man who had been following him.
He hurried along the vestibule, rehearsing what he planned to say to Nero. When he reached the banquet hall’s entrance, powerful fingers snagged his shoulder.
“Let me pass Ofonius,” Justinus said quietly.
Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome Page 12
