Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  Paul continued scribbling.

  Luke sat cross-legged on the floor sewing a canvas panel. He gave his thread a final tug then set aside his work. “This damp,” he said, groaning as he stood, “I feel it in my knees.”

  “I feel it in my back.” Justinus rolled his shoulders.

  “Let’s sit by the fire,” Timothy said. “The warmth will do us good.” He unfolded goatskin stools and set them by the brazier. Coals glowed within the metal pan, and a pot of water simmered on the grate.

  Justinus soaked up the heat, felt it penetrate his wet clothes and warm his skin. “This is what we want, isn’t it Elissa?”

  Their eyes met. “Exactly.”

  The heat he felt wasn’t generated by the brazier.

  Paul stopped writing long enough to say, “Timothy, Luke, why don’t you get our guests something to eat? Just because I feast on ink doesn’t mean you have to starve.”

  “Hungry?” Luke went to the sideboard and rummaged through the shelves. With a grunt, he took down a loaf of barley bread and a lump of yellow cheese. “You’d think with all my years as a physician, I might devise a remedy for arthritis,” he said, carving the crusty loaf of bread. “Some say bee-stings help.”

  “I know a better antidote.” Pursing his cherubic lips, Timothy retrieved a flagon from the sideboard and held it up for all to see. “The elixir of youth.”

  He poured wine into earthen cups, added a spoonful of honey to each, then lifted the pot from the brazier and measured out hot water. He handed Luke a cup and brought another to Elissa. “This will warm you,” he said, his eyes shining with good humor. “Have I seen you at our gatherings?”

  “I—ah, yes...once.”

  Justinus leapt to her rescue. “She’s wary of being here,” he said. “Allow me to introduce Elissa Rubria Honoria.”

  “The vestal virgin?” Timothy nearly dropped his cup.

  Paul set down his pen. “Priestess Elissa.” He drew the ink-stained writing glove from his hand, and rose to greet her. “I’m honored. Forgive my rudeness, but thanks to hours of petitioning by Timothy and Luke I’ve been released from my imprisonment. I intend to leave for Hispania next week, and have much to do in preparation.”

  “Next week?” Justinus said. “So soon?”

  Paul nodded.

  “I’m told Hispania is beautiful,” Elissa said. “Fields of lavender and sun-flowers—”

  “A wilderness,” said Justinus. “The natives are uncivilized. They speak no Latin and no Greek, but a kind of gibberish.”

  Paul laughed. “God has called me on a mission to the world’s farthest reaches, and I have no doubt his language will be understood.”

  “Crossing the sea is treacherous,” Justinus said. “The waters are rife with pirates, not the businessmen of the Mediterranean, but rogue sailors and criminals. Perhaps I should journey with you as your bodyguard.”

  Paul laid his hand on Justinus’s shoulder. “You’re needed here in Rome, my son.”

  Justinus stood a good twelve inches above Paul, but he felt like a child. He felt no joy at the prospect of losing his teacher. The prophet had been his anchor in the unsettled seas of Rome.

  “I’m curious,” Paul said, turning to Elissa. “What brings a vestal virgin to my humble abode?”

  “I want—” Elissa glanced at Justinus then back at Paul. “Tell me about Jesus.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Did you know him?”

  “In the flesh?” Paul shook his head. “My Lord left this earth well before we met, but He is with me every hour of the day, guiding my every action, tempering my every word.”

  “That must be wonderful,” Elissa said. “Roman gods seem so indifferent. I pray, but no one listens.”

  “God hears your prayers,” Paul said.

  “Which god?”

  “All gods are aspects of the One.”

  “I don’t understand,” Elissa said.

  Neither did Justinus. The prophet often said confusing things.

  “God has many faces,” Paul explained, “and can be likened to the seasons. Though we perceive winter as separate from summer, and spring separate from fall, all seasons are but aspects of a single year. So it is with God.”

  “You have no separation from your God?” Elissa asked.

  “How can I, if God created everything?”

  “We are all children of God,” Timothy said. “And the flame of our creator burns within each one of us.”

  “That’s what Jesus tried to tell us,” Paul said. “That’s why he called Himself the Son of God.”

  “Jesus said, ‘The Way to God is through me.’” Timothy pointed to his chest. “By that he meant The Way to God is through each of us. We must find God within our hearts.”

  “But can God’s flame burn within an evil person?” Elissa asked.

  Luke stroked his beard before speaking. “God dwells in every soul. That’s why we must love even our enemies.”

  Elissa looked as doubtful as Justinus felt.

  “Even Nero?” she asked.

  Paul’s eyebrows formed a single line, making him appear stern, but his voice was gentle, “Anyone can love a friend, Priestess.”

  Justinus shifted uncomfortably. No matter what the prophet said, never again would he love Nero. His childhood friend had become a monster.

  Paul picked up his pen, examining the tip as if he might write something more. His eyes grew distant. “Only God can look into a heart,” he said. “It’s not for us to judge our fellow man.”

  Luke tugged on his beard, straining the salt and pepper strands. “Pass no judgment and you will not be judged.”

  “We must love each other,” Timothy said.

  “Love even our enemies,” Paul echoed him.

  Justinus did not agree. At one time he’d believed Nero might be saved, but Nero’s actions proved he was beyond redemption. It was easy for Paul to speak in platitudes. He was leaving Rome.

  Fog drifted through the window, smothering the oil lamp’s glow, and engulfing the room. Justinus glanced at Elissa. She hugged herself, her lips bluish.

  “The dead are watching us,” she whispered.

  “Enough dreary talk,” said Timothy. “Let’s eat.”

  He passed around the bread and cheese. Justinus chewed gratefully. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a meal.

  Paul turned back to Elissa. “Death is an illusion,” he said. “Jesus promises life after death, salvation. Would you spend your eternal life drifting in darkness?”

  “I find darkness comforting,” she said. “It’s the womb of the Divine Mother. You speak of God in terms of Him, but what of Her?”

  “Ah, the mystery. What holds the flame to the wick?” Paul passed his hand through the lamp’s flame. “You’re a wise woman, Elissa. Wise beyond your years. I wonder what really brings you here.”

  “I came in search of Justinus,” she said, blushing. “I have hopes that he will help me rally a campaign against Nero.”

  “Ah,” Paul said. “But there is no salvation in revenge. To find salvation you must forgive yourself. Only then can you forgive your enemies.”

  “Forgive myself for wanting to avenge my brother’s wrongful death?”

  “You blame yourself for his death, don’t you?”

  The color drained from her face. “I might have prevented it.”

  “Do you rival God?” Paul looked at her, his eyes no longer gentle, but piercing. “God called your brother home. Accept the love of Jesus and you will find salvation, peace.”

  “I don’t deserve God’s love,” she said.

  Unable to contain himself, Justinus shouted, “Of course you do, Elissa!” Rising to his feet, he turned to Paul, angry that the prophet had so little understanding, so little of the compassion he liked to preach about. “Elissa’s family lives in fear. Nero tortures them.”

  “And now he has my sister,” Elissa said.

  “Wh
at has he done to Flavia?” Justinus demanded.

  “He’s stolen her virginity.”

  “Stolen her—?” Justinus slammed his fist into the wall. “He makes Rome his Whore of Babylon!”

  Lucan was right. Nero would have to be destroyed. Not because he’d dipped into the sacred well of Flavia’s virginity—in all likelihood the girl had sacrificed herself all too willingly. Besides, Justinus had to admit, if Elissa were to offer the same sacrifice to him, he’d gladly accept the offering. Nero deserved to be destroyed, not for Flavia’s ruptured maidenhead, but because he took joy in Elissa’s suffering.

  The sound of knocking on the door interrupted his thoughts.

  “Are we expecting company?” Paul asked.

  Timothy peered through the peephole. “It’s a girl.”

  * * * * *

  Flavia burst into the room. Her palla hung limply over her shorn hair, and the hem of her stola had been steeped in muddy water. Elissa stared in disbelief.

  “I followed you,” her sister said. “I’ve been waiting outside—”

  “You’re soaking wet.” Elissa found her palla, warm and dry from hanging by the brazier, and wrapped the woolen shawl around her sister’s slender shoulders. “Come sit by the fire.”

  “I followed you!”

  Flavia’s anger felt like a slap. Elissa backed away.

  “You dare to lecture me,” Flavia said. “Meanwhile you’re meeting him.” She pointed at Justinus.

  Elissa felt weak in her knees as if she might faint. “I can guess what you’re implying, but I’ve done nothing wrong,” she said.

  “That’s not what Angerona claims.”

  “We’ll discuss this later. This is not the time or place.”

  “You’re a hypocrite Elissa.”

  Paul raised his hand for silence. “Young woman, I realize you’re upset, but—”

  “Please forgive my sister,” Elissa said. “I’m sure she will apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “For insulting Paul of Tarsus. For entering his home and treating him as if he ran a brothel rather than a House of the Lord.”

  “What lord?” Flavia glanced at Timothy and Luke. “I see only paupers here.”

  “Followers of Jesus,” Elissa said.

  Flavia’s mouth dropped open. “Better and better. I’m sure the Vestal Maxima will want to know how you spend your afternoons.”

  “Let’s go, Flavia.” Elissa grabbed her sister then turned to Paul. “Blessings on your journey.”

  With Flavia in tow, she headed for the door. Hand on the latch, she glanced at Justinus and saw the pained expression in his eyes. Her heart rushed toward his—two flames burning in the dark.

  Don’t go, his eyes pleaded.

  But fate had carved her path.

  She opened the door and led her sister out to the street. Fog settled in every crevice, thick and heavy, making it impossible to see beyond several feet. Dragging her sister along the alley, Elissa hoped she would find her way through the labyrinth.

  “Paul is a man of God,” she said, “respected throughout the empire. You should be ashamed of your behavior.”

  “I should be ashamed? You’re the one who sneaks out for assignations with your lover. You should be ashamed, not me.”

  Elissa slapped her sister with all the force of her frustration.

  Flavia’s green eyes glistened. “That was a mistake,” she said. “I plan to tell the Vestal Maxima what you’ve been up to, tell her you’ve been meeting Justinus, tell her that you’ve turned against the Roman gods and become a follower of Jesus. Angerona will be happy to corroborate.”

  “While you’re speaking to the Vestal Maxima, please mention you’ve been bedding Nero, so you and I can die together.”

  Flavia laughed, tears rolling down her face, her mouth a grimace. “You still don’t understand, do you Elissa? He plans to marry me.”

  “Marry you?”

  “He said I’m Cleopatra to his Antony.”

  Elissa stared at her sister, so young, so innocent. So stupid.

  “He called me Cleopatra too.”

  Flavia’s nostrils flared. “Liar!”

  “Flavia—”

  She couldn’t stop her. Flavia ran along the street disappearing in the fog. Despair enveloped Elissa. Ghosts flickered in the shadows.

  The restless dead.

  The displaced souls.

  And she was one of them.

  CHAPTER XXX

  Cloaked by fog, the House of Vestals had become invisible, and as Elissa walked along the Via Sacra she imagined the white-washed walls had vanished. Not just for the moment, but forever, leaving a void in which she could create a different destiny. She imagined running back to Justinus, leaving Rome, beginning a new life. Raising a family. Her daydream dissolved as the mist parted. Dragging her feet, she passed through the gates of the House of Vestals and, her heart weighted with sorrow, she approached the massive doors.

  They opened all too readily.

  Thais was at her post, eyes bleary from a recent nap. “Priestess Elissa,” she said, her sleepy face surprised. “In this weather you are walking?”

  “Family emergency.”

  “Today no letters,” Thais said, her voice conspiratorial. “I think maybe tomorrow.”

  Pressing a coin into her palm, Elissa slipped past the slave.

  Sparrows flitted through the atrium; no other sound disturbed the sanctuary. In preparation for the nightlong vigil of Lemuria, the vestals had retired to their cubicles to spend the evening in rest and contemplation. No lamps would be lit, no torches set aflame, until the midnight hour of Intempesta when pathways opened to the underworld. For three alternating nights, rituals would be held—on the ninth, eleventh, and thirteenth of May. Odd days were luckier than even, and luck was needed when consorting with the dead. But Elissa would need more than luck to deal with Nero—and more than luck to deal with her sister.

  She recited the prayer Justinus had taught her. “Divine creator of the stars in heaven, of mighty oceans and verdant earth—” She reached the stairway leading to the dormitory, heard the creak of lead pipes, a breeze whistling through the rafters, nothing else. She climbed the steps. “Your name is sacred on my tongue. Now and for eternity may your will be done.” She made it past the servants’ quarters and entered the dormitory. The shutters had been closed against the rain, and dim shapes melded into one another.

  “Give us this day our share of bread,” she whispered. “And forgive us our wrongful deeds—”

  She approached her sister’s cubicle, touched the doorway’s curtain and withdrew her hand. “Flavia,” she called softly. “Are you in there?”

  No answer. She heard movement inside the room, rustling.

  “May I enter?”

  “No.”

  She slid open the curtain. Flavia’s eyes were bloodshot from crying, her nose red. “You’re safely back,” Elissa said.

  “Good observation.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “You’re ruining my life.”

  “I’m trying to save your—”

  “Don’t.” Flavia wiped her nose.

  “Have you seen the Vestal Maxima?”

  “Not yet.” Her green eyes narrowed, calculating as a cat’s. “There’s only one way you’ll stop me from talking—”

  “What?”

  “Tonight, make certain the auspices are in my favor. I want to travel with Nero to Alexandria.”

  “I can’t do that—”

  “You’d better.”

  The curtain slapped Elissa’s face.

  Defeated, she returned to her cubicle. The cedar chest was open, clothes scattered everywhere. The wash basin lay on the floor where she had dropped it. She didn’t remember leaving her room in such a state of disarray, but she had been distracted by the thought of seeing Justinus. She had left the shutters open, and a storm wind must have swept through the room. The coverlet had slipped from her sleeping couch, exposing the
cushions she had placed there. She straightened the coverlet and rearranged the cushions.

  Sitting on the bed, she kicked off her damp slippers. She lay down, closed her eyes, and let her thoughts drift. Her sister understood so little of the world. She might think she held the upper hand with Nero, but there was no winning when it came to tyranny. Poor Flavia.

  Elissa turned onto her side and faced the wall. She traced her forefinger along a crack in the plaster. No matter what Paul said, she saw no good in Nero. She dreaded seeing him tonight.

  She thought of Justinus, the opposite of Nero—kind and compassionate. She felt his arms encircling her, felt his lips on hers and felt her resolve slipping.

  “Deliver me from evil,” she whispered and prayed Jesus was listening.

  * * * * *

  Clouds blotted out the moon, making the night blacker than Elissa’s mood. She followed Angerona up the seven steps leading to the temple, climbing slowly, as if condemned to meet her executioner. At the doors each vestal dipped her fingertips into an urn of water drawn from the sacred spring. Elissa sprinkled herself liberally.

  The solemn faces of her fellow priestesses flickered in the light of torches as they took their places. Mother Amelia stood beside the stone altar where a bleating lamb, newly separated from its mother, stood tethered. Marcia, having drunk copious amounts of wine at dinner, hiccupped loudly, and Cornelia giggled. Angerona’s sullen stare followed Elissa.

  Flavia refused to meet Elissa’s gaze.

  In silence, they waited for the Pontifex Maximus.

  Sap popped in the cedar branches as they burned.

  A rush of footsteps, made all heads turn toward the entryway. The temple’s double-doors opened and guards appeared, followed by the Pontifex Maximus. The doors swung shut behind him, leaving the guards outside. Nero had outdone himself and wore a toga of spun gold. His face had been gilded with gold leaf, and a gem-encrusted diadem crowned his curls.

  Apparently, he still hoped to impress his mother, Elissa thought. She glanced at Flavia. Her sister stood transfixed, eyes riveted to Nero.

  Mother Amelia nodded and the priestesses bowed in deference to the Pontifex Maximus.

  Nero raised his hands in supplication—just a show, Elissa mused. He was far too arrogant to revere any god. “Tonight I play the role of Pluto, Lord of the Underworld,” he said, annunciating every syllable. “Elissa Rubria Honoria has the honor of playing my consort Persephone.”