Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  “One move and I’ll have your cock.”

  “In your dreams.”

  Tigellinus barked out an order and guards appeared, their daggers drawn. Within the banquet hall, all heads turned and whispers stirred the crowd.

  “Gallus Justinus!” Nero’s voice rang out above the others. “I see Tigellinus has found you. Welcome to my humble gathering. You’re just in time for my next song.”

  The prefect’s paw remained clamped on Justinus’s shoulder.

  Justinus wrenched himself away and entered the banquet hall.

  Torches cast Nero’s guests in ever-changing light. Rome’s elite reclined on couches clustered around small tables littered with exotic foods: peacock tongues on a bed of asparagus, mint-fed snails, baby eels served in aspic with crushed pearls. More usual fare also graced the menu: eggs pickled with honey and liquamen, a pungent sauce devised from salted fish entrails. The delicacies were served in precious glassware from Nero’s extensive collection. Half-naked slaves wandered through the crowd serving wine and fruit, while in the corner of the banquet hall, elevated on a dais, a musician strummed a cithara.

  Larger than a lyre, the instrument’s rich notes accompanied the tenor voice of Menecrates. Nero stood beside the master, draped in Tyrian purple silk spangled with glittering suns, a gilded laurel wreath crowning his curls.

  Nearby, Poppaea Sabina, a deadly beauty who’d arranged to have her predecessor’s head served on a platter, languished on a rose-pink couch in the center of the room. She wore a stola, blue as lapis-lazuli, embroidered with silver stars. Amber tresses cascaded down her neck, flirting with lush breasts. She appeared youthful, Justinus observed, for a woman who’d discarded two husbands and now made Nero her third.

  She smiled as Justinus approached, displaying sharp white teeth.

  Poppaea might prove useful. Known to favor Jews, she had become an ear to Flavius Josephus, the Judean philosopher. She might provide the foothold Justinus required for the teachings of Jesus to scale the walls of the palace.

  She extended a pampered hand for Justinus to kiss, her eyes thirsty.

  Breaking off his song mid-verse, Nero leapt from the dais and stalked toward his wife and Justinus. “I thought you didn’t care for soldiers,” he said, glancing at Justinus and back at Poppaea.

  “Brains combined with brawn are quite delicious,” she said.

  “Then perhaps you should feast on Justinus tonight.”

  Poppaea’s expression soured. “Meaning you have other plans?”

  “Fill my friend’s cup.” Nero snapped his fingers, and a slave lifted a double-handled amphora. Nero smiled at Justinus. “My select vintage. Only the finest for an old friend.”

  Justinus said. “I’d like to speak with you about Flavia.”

  “Flavia who?” Poppaea asked.

  “Just a girl I invited,” Nero said.

  “A girl you plan to—”

  “To Meditrinalia,” Nero said, cutting her off. He raised his cup. “To old friends and new wine.”

  Justinus tried again, “About Flavia—”

  “Drink up, while I down my tonic. It soothes the throat and opens up my pharynx, so important for a singer.” Nero gulped his drink and made a face. “And now I must see to my other guests, but Poppaea is certain to amuse you.”

  Before Justinus could say more about Flavia, the princeps left.

  He sipped his wine. Caecuban, the best as promised. And hardly watered. He surveyed the banquet hall, studying the guests—senators who favored Nero’s policies and could be bribed, senators’ wives (welcome if their appearance was pleasing), aspiring philosophers whose arguments Nero found amusing, a famous gladiator and an actress, an infamous prostitute and her benefactor. And, of course, Nero’s sycophants, including Elissa’s cousin, Egnatius Rubrius, a pimply youth of eighteen.

  Egnatius basked in the glow of his father’s achievements. Neither athlete nor scholar, he was best known for liberal spending of his father’s assets. He reclined on a nearby couch; beside him lay a plumpish whore who’d passed into a stupor, and a young buck whose muscles attested to hours spent at the gymnasium.

  Egnatius called out to Justinus, “Where’s Seneca’s nephew, the so-called poet?”

  “If you mean, Lucan, he prefers intellectual pursuits.”

  “Here’s a bit of poetry: scribblers who hold themselves above the state will fall.”

  Egnatius was a viper, and vipers who’d not yet reached maturity were the most poisonous. Excusing himself from Poppaea, Justinus wandered to the far end of the banquet hall. A model of the new city Nero planned to build stood on a banquet board. He intended to rename Rome, Neropolis.

  “Fantastic isn’t it?” Nero’s voice startled Justinus. “I call my new palace the Domus Aurea, my Golden House. When my building is complete, I shall finally live like a human being.”

  What of the rest of us? Justinus wondered.

  Nero gazed lovingly at the model and pointed to a miniature replica of parkland. “My Golden House includes not only buildings, but woodland and fountains, even an artificial lake where naval battles can be staged.”

  A gilded colossus of Nero towered over the complex.

  “Impressive.”

  “I’m glad you approve of my project. Friends must stick together, don’t you agree?”

  “I have a friend that I’d like you to meet. A scholar—”

  “I have no use for books these days.”

  Nero steered Justinus back to the pink couch and Poppaea. He poked his wife, interrupting her conversation. “Take good care of him,” he said.

  “Of course.” Poppaea smiled at Justinus, patted the couch.

  He had no choice but to recline beside her.

  “And now,” Nero clapped his hands, “a special treat—my pipe organ.” He nodded toward a contraption fitted with more than a dozen pipes, a board of ivory keys, and a bellows.

  “He’s been practicing for weeks.” Poppaea yawned, revealing sharp white teeth again.

  Nero went off to play with his new toy, leaving Justinus with Poppaea. A slave poured more wine, and Justinus settled on the couch, taking care that his thigh did not touch Poppaea’s. Her perfume assaulted him.

  “Justinus,” Poppaea rested her hand on his arm, “what have you been doing with yourself?”

  “Not too much,” he said. “Managing my land, straightening accounts. I get my greatest pleasure from my apple trees.”

  “How exciting.” Poppaea stroked his arm. “Apples were Adam’s downfall, according to the Jews. Will apples be your downfall, Justinus?”

  He saw his opening. “You favor Jewish teachings, don’t you?”

  “You want to talk religion now?” Poppaea rolled her eyes. “I must be losing my touch.” She drew her hand away, her demeanor growing serious. “All right, let’s talk philosophy. It’s true I find the concept of one Almighty God fascinating. I’m interested in the mystical aspects of Judaism.”

  “And have you delved into the teachings of God’s son?”

  “Jesus?” Poppaea raised a lacquered eyebrow. “Josephus claims Jesus of Nazareth was a wise man, a great teacher and a performer of wonders—not the Messiah.”

  “Perhaps Josephus is mistaken.”

  Poppaea studied Justinus with calculating eyes. “Have you been listening to Paul of Tarsus?”

  “I’ve met him, yes. Have you?”

  “Not yet.” Poppaea plucked a morsel of spiced pork wrapped in grape-leaf from a platter and offered it to Justinus. When he refused, she popped it into her mouth.

  “Paul speaks of the one true God, an almighty—’

  “Relax,” Poppaea said. She refilled his cup, pouring from a small pitcher. “This wine is from my private stock.”

  Justinus quickly downed his wine, and Poppaea poured again.

  “I believe faith in that one God may save Rome from disaster. Faith in—”

  “What disaster?” Poppaea let go of a slice of peppered melon to study Justinus. “No
god is more powerful than Nero. Let’s drink to my husband.”

  Justinus knocked back the wine, spiced with cinnamon and strangely sweet. He’d bungled everything. Even his stomach rebelled. Hoping to settle it, he reached for a bit of eel, chewed, and wondered if the eel had come alive inside his stomach.

  He felt like he was swimming underwater.

  What had he been saying?

  He rubbed his brow. He’d been talking about Jesus, talking about Paul. He glanced at Poppaea, and she smiled at him, her teeth longer and more pointed.

  Nero sat before the pipe organ, cracked his knuckles and pumped the bellows.

  Justinus stood, unsteadily. He knew, from experience, once Nero began to play the audience would be held hostage, unable to escape even to relieve themselves.

  He had to speak to Nero now.

  His knees felt like jelly as he walked. That fool, Egnatius, had abandoned his whores and stood beside Nero, admiring the pipe organ, stroking the keyboard. They laughed as Justinus approached.

  “Caesar,” Justinus said, attempting to show respect. His mouth formed the words carefully, but they came out slurred, “I mu-must speak to y-you about Fla-fla—”

  Nero and Egnatius burst into another fit of laughter.

  “I must—”

  “Sit down before you fall.” Nero turned back to Egnatius. “He stutters like my Uncle Claudius.”

  “Sh-she w-won’t be coming.”

  “Who?” Nero asked, impatiently.

  “Fla-flavia Rubria. Sh-she’s betrothed.”

  “Betrothed to whom?” Egnatius said.

  Justinus stared at him. That was a good question; it rolled around his head. For lack of an answer, he blurted, “Betrothed to me.”

  “That’s a lie, you drunk.” Egnatius grabbed Justinus by his toga, shook him. “Flavia is mine!”

  Justinus batted at him, wildly, and the banquet hall grew quiet.

  A voice rang out from the entryway, “I’m not yours, Egnatius! I’m not betrothed to anyone.”

  Flavia’s stola was disheveled, and a tangle of silvery hair fell about her face. But the flush of her cheeks only heightened her beauty, Justinus noticed despite his stupor.

  Tigellinus blocked her from entering.

  “Let her in,” Nero said.

  She glided toward Nero, her head high and defiant, her green eyes shining.

  Justinus started toward her, intending to drag her away from the banquet hall, away from Nero. But he stumbled and banged into a couch. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, but the room would not stop spinning.

  CHAPTER XVII

  The banquet hall was more splendid than Flavia had imagined it—guests in dazzling attire, rose-petals strewn across the floor, banquet boards draped in fine linens and laden with foods she couldn’t even name. The princeps walked toward her, arms outstretched in welcome.

  “Not betrothed. Splendid news!”

  She offered him the smile she’d been practicing.

  Justinus walked behind Nero, his gait off kilter. The princeps glanced at him and said. “I thought you were an honest man. This girl isn’t betrothed to you.”

  “You shouldn’t have come,” Justinus said. “I’ll take you home.”

  “I just arrived, and I intend to stay.”

  Nero clapped his hands like a delighted child. “Finally, the night shows promise! Welcome to my feast, Flavia Rubria.”

  As if in a dream, she floated toward him. Everything she saw, everything she touched, exceeded her imaginings. The princeps appeared godlike in his spangled toga, his head crowned by a golden wreath. Anticipation bubbled in Flavia’s stomach as all eyes in the banquet hall were riveted on her.

  “Caesar,” she said, lowering her gaze and noticing his feet—hennaed toes wrapped in golden sandals. “This must be Olympus, for certainly you are Apollo.”

  “And you are Venus.” Nero kissed her hand.

  Excitement coursed through her body, and she tingled with a newborn heat. What would it be like to gain the admiration of the most powerful ruler in the world? To have slaves and senators grovel at your feet? To be revered as a goddess?

  Nero led her across the room.

  “I want to introduce you to Flavia Rubria,” he said to a woman who reclined on a couch, her head cushioned by silk pillows, her ample breasts slipping from her stola. She looked like a satiated cow. Flavia had seen Poppaea Sabina in processions, but at close range she appeared older. And fatter.

  “So this is your new pet,” Poppaea said, eyes sparking with jealousy.

  Nero reclined on the pink couch next to Poppaea and drew Flavia beside him.

  “Something to drink?” he asked.

  “I’ll have what you’re drinking.”

  Poppaea snorted, the rude noise of a pig.

  Nero offered Flavia his chalice. She peered into the cup at something greenish.

  “It’s my special elixir,” he said. “It won’t hurt you.”

  The slime looked bad and tasted worse. It slipped down her throat, and she stuck out her tongue.

  Nero laughed. “Can you touch your nose with that?”

  She demonstrated.

  “What talent!”

  Poppaea groaned.

  Nero snapped his fingers and a slave scurried over. Kneeling before Flavia, the slave removed her sandals, then dosed her feet with aromatic oil. Expertly, he massaged her toes, and she giggled.

  “Have some wine,” Nero said.

  Flavia drank it too fast and coughed.

  The slave stroked the soles of her feet, his thumbs digging into her arches.

  She moaned.

  “Good girl,” Nero said. “Pleasure is an art, and like any art, it requires skill and practice.”

  He plucked a grape from a glass bowl, holding the fruit between his forefinger and thumb. “Open your mouth.”

  She did as she was told.

  He pressed the jewel between her lips. “Don’t bite, just suck.”

  She rolled the grape over her tongue, and the fruit oozed sweet juice. Catching the grape between her teeth, she bit.

  “I said, don’t bite.” Nero jabbed an elbow into Poppaea’s ribs. “Demonstrate.”

  Throwing back her head, Poppaea lowered a cluster of grapes toward her mouth. Her tongue flicked at the fruit, circling a purple orb before drawing it between her lips.

  “So gifted,” Nero said.

  “So bored.” Poppaea cocked her chin at Flavia. “What shall we do with her?”

  “Not we. This one is all mine.”

  “I see,” Poppaea sounded petulant.

  “Gallus Justinus seems to be available,” Nero said.

  Flavia looked to where Nero pointed. Justinus sat slumped on a nearby couch, his head bent over his arms.

  At the mention of his name, he looked up. “What game are you playing?” he asked.

  “Poppaea wants to show you my glass collection,” Nero said. “And I’m sure you’ll humor her.”

  “I’m your wife.” Poppaea’s voice rose above the din of conversation. “Don’t try to shove me off while you indulge your latest whore.”

  The guests stopped talking.

  Flavia’s face flushed hot. Did Poppaea refer to her?

  “Flavia,” Justinus said, rising to his feet. “It’s time I got you home.”

  “For once, I agree with Justinus.” Egnatius, who had been sulking, grabbed Flavia’s wrist. The pustules on his chin looked ready to explode. “I order you to leave at once.”

  “You have no right to order me.”

  “As your future husband—”

  “I’d rather die than marry you.”

  Nero laughed. “The girl has spunk.” He motioned to the musicians. “Play something jubilant.” Taking Flavia’s hands in his, he led her from the couch into the center of the banquet hall. They began to dance.

  “Feel the rhythm, Flavia? Let the music rise within you like a snake.”

  She rotated her hips slowly, uncertain if she did
it right.

  Nero drew her close. “You’re a natural.”

  The flute and cithara were joined by drums. Dancing girls, dressed only in gilded girdles, shook their hips and swung their hair while they banged on timpani. Bacchus and a host of nymphs played panpipes, while guests stamped their feet and clapped their hands, cheering as the music grew wilder. Nero sent Flavia spinning across the floor, causing guests to scatter to the walls. He whirled her through one archway then another, zigzagging between couches and tables, knocking over food and wine.

  She spun past Justinus, he and the banquet hall a blur of color. She felt dizzy.

  “Please stop,” she pleaded, trying to free herself from Nero.

  “We’re just beginning.”

  He crushed her against his chest and lifted her off the ground. They spun and spun and spun, his breath wet against her neck.

  “Put me down.”

  “As you wish.”

  Scooping her into his arms, he carried her out of the banquet hall. The music faded along with Poppaea’s accusations. They entered a vestibule. She tried to scream, but he locked his lips on her mouth. He kicked open a door, and they entered a chamber. The bolt fell into place with a thud.

  “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he said.

  She thought it would be different.

  A gibbous moon shone through a window, casting his face in eerie light. The whites of his eyes appeared greenish.

  “Don’t worry, Flavia. I’ll be your teacher.”

  He placed her on the largest bed she’d ever seen, the room’s sole piece of furniture. A wolf pelt overlay the coverlet. It smelled musty. She tried to stand, but Nero pushed her down. Leather straps had been attached to the headboard and before she realized what he what he was doing, he’d slipped the straps over her wrists.

  She screamed, piercing shrieks that set the palace dogs barking.

  She kicked him, and tried to squirm out of his grasp, but he was strong. He secured her ankle with another strap, anchoring her to the base of the bed. Then he grabbed her other foot, forcing her legs apart. Just like Egnatius. What made her think Nero would be different?

  “You’re not a god,” she shouted. “You’re not even human. No animal would kill its mother. You murdered Agrippina!”

  Nero released the leather strap he’d been tightening. “Don’t speak my mother’s name.”