VESTA’S VIRGIN
From Deity To Fallen Angel
A Toga-Teasers Romance
Novella
By
SUZANNE RAVELLE
Copyright © 2013 Suzanne Ravelle
Other Books In This Series:
Gladiatrix Romula
This publication is protected by copyright and all other applicable intellectual property laws. You may not copy or adapt this story in whole or in part in any way whatsoever, whether including digital/electronic or print, for sale, display or distribution in any way, without the express permission of the author.
Vesta’s Virgin is purely a work of fiction imagined for the purposes of entertainment. Any similarities to real people would be remarkable and purely coincidental.
CHAPTER I
Rome, AD 61
‘If there’s one thing I love about serving Vesta, it’s having my own box in the front row of the Colosseum!’
Despite the din and roar of the crowd around her, a number of surprised faces turned to look her way. Adorabella Achillea inwardly cringed at her own exclamation. What a stupid thing to say! She sweetly smiled back at everyone and acknowledged them all with a few nods and a wave. She ostensibly returned her attention to the chariot race between the greens and blues in the arena. The ruse obviously worked.
Everyone went back to shouting encouragements for their favoured team, her outburst seemingly forgotten.
The statement was wrong on so many levels. It was undoubtedly an insult to Vesta, the goddess of hearth and home, implying she only served her to enjoy the benefits that could thereby be gained. Moreover, it was an insult to her own ears to be the owner of such an empty-headed remark!
‘Arggh,’ Archillea groaned to herself for the fifth time that day. What was it about Helios that made her behave in such appalling ways?
Whenever she was in his company, which was often, she either suffered from inane babble, profuse bouts of blushing or was rendered incapable of stopping herself from uttering ridiculous statements like the one she’d just made.
She looked over at her bodyguard. Despite everyone else’s apparent lack of interest now, he still had a somewhat assessing look on his face. Achillea felt herself blush. He obviously thought she was moronic or a heretic, or both.
Not that his opinion should overly matter. After all, he was barely more than a slave. Still, slave or no, Helios’s opinion did matter to her for some reason. She averted her gaze again, embarrassed.
‘I would have thought, as an honoured Vestal, you’d be far more concerned with preserving the soul of Rome by tending to the sacred flame of Vesta,’ he said, looking down the length of his bronzed, slightly crooked, nose. ‘But no, you seem to think it more fitting to be shouting about your good fortune to be afforded a front row seat at the arena, to whoever will listen.’
He gave a derisive laugh and then resumed scanning the howling mob for any sign of unrest or danger.
By Vesta, she hated this man! He always had an annoying habit of stating the obvious and hence made her blunders look even more glaringly inappropriate.
Her eyes swept up and down the Greek’s solid, surly frame.
She hated that smirk now curling his full lips. She hated the barely concealed arrogance in his aquamarine eyes. She hated the subtle cinnamon and musk scent that pervaded her nose whenever he stood too close. And, above all, she hated the way he strutted around half naked!
Maybe it was time to see if she could get rid of him. She would talk to the Vestal Maxima at the first opportunity about his impertinence. Perhaps that would be a start…
Achillea tore her eyes off his broad, chiselled chest and the way the sinking sun cast the length of his pectoral cleft in shadow. She narrowed her gaze and stared him directly in the face. ‘I will be tending the fire tonight –’
‘Habet, hoc habet! Lugula!’
Her reply was cut short by an explosion of cursing and catcalling from the masses. Everyone was on their feet.
Half the stadium was crying, ‘He’s down. He’s had it now. Kill him!’ and flailing their arms around or hugging their neighbour and jumping up and down for joy.
The rest were beating their chests or pulling at their hair, wailing in disappointment and grief, shouting out pleas for mercy and to let him go.
Achillea saw amidst the dust being kicked up by the racing chariots that a hand to hand fight had broken out between two opposing drivers. Their chariots now lay mangled and battered in the sands.
Their horses were tangled in the leathers, thrashing around on the ground neighing and whinnying. She watched as they struggled, desperate to try and find a way of release and avoid the hooves of the still racing horses which were tearing up the ground and anything in their path as they circled round and round, lap after lap of the arena.
The blue charioteer lay sprawled in the sand his little finger raised in supplication and the sign of mercy. Both he and the green charioteer, with his sword tip pressed to the base of his opponent’s neck, were looking up towards Nero.
Achillea, like everyone else in the theatre, looked at once to Nero too.
The Imperial box was just opposite hers on the curve of the arena so it was easy to see and hear what he was going to do.
‘Citizens of Rome…What say you? Is it mercy or death that you seek?’ The Emperor’s questions were met with a crescendo of noise. ‘Speak up my people. I can’t hear you!’ bellowed Nero, laughing, as he cupped one flabby hand to his ear.
Then, he raised his right arm in a fisted salute, his thumb sticking out sideways, waiting to give a ‘thumbs’ up or down to signify the grant of life or death for the poor charioteer in question.
‘Ah it’s no good. I don’t know what you’re saying!’ The thunder of the mob became inaudible and deafening. ‘Yet again, it seems the will of the people is left to me to decipher.’
Achillea continued to watch the show unfold as Nero gave a theatrical gesture of angst. Then she saw the Emperor’s thumb flicker as if he intended to turn it down.
‘Wait, my Emperor, my Lord Pontifex Maximus. Let me assist,’ she shouted over the din.
She held her right hand and arm aloft in a sign of abeyance.
The auditorium fell almost silent. The racing chariots came to a stop in their tracks. ‘Sshh, Achillea our Vestal Virgin is speaking,’ were the only audible whispers that broke the silence.
Even the cloying, humid, air seemed to hold its breath waiting for her next words.
Achillea shot Helios a withering glance before addressing the multitude. ‘All our brave charioteers have entertained and enthralled us with their skill and daring this day.’
She stretched her arms out as she spoke as if this would carry her words forth to the ears of those at the furthermost corners and highest tiers of the stadium. ‘We have been honoured to witness such valour. We have cried tears of joy and tears of sorrow at such display.’
She turned and gave a sweeping bow to Nero before continuing. ‘Our most esteemed Emperor, I beg for your mercy and wisdom. Let no blood be shed in waste I say, lest we deprive ourselves of such spectacle on future days less thrilling then today’s.’
The walls and floor of the auditorium reverberated with applause.
Achillea turned her attention back to Helios. ‘It seems my presence is also needed here.’ She met his answering scowl with a smirk. ‘Just as well I have prominent seating so that all may benefit from my visage and decree.’ Again, Achillea inwardly grimaced at her conceited remark.
‘Your vanity never ceases to astound me,’ Helios scoffed.
Achillea couldn’t help herself.
‘I’m a Vestal Virgin,’ she spat. ‘The earthly embodiment of Vesta herself and virtually a deity in my own right! My
counsel is sought by the senate, kings and even the Emperor. I can free condemned criminals merely by happening across their paths. I am astounding!’ she shouted, her hands clenched in fists at her side.
Arghh, damn him, I’m doing it again!
‘Never a truer word spoken,’ exclaimed Nero gleefully clapping his hands. ‘What a magnificent creature!’
Achillea snapped her head round in horror.
The auditorium was once again almost silent, save for the whispers of spectators, no doubt relaying her words to the rest of the masses!
It felt like 50,000 faces with various looks of shock and surprise were one by one staring up at her.
Well perhaps only 49,998. Helios looked infuriatingly amused she noted and Nero looked positively elated.
As one of the six serving vestal’s, she was expected to be the embodiment of modesty. Moreover, she, like the rest of them, was supposed to represent and exemplify the morality of Rome - in fact, the entire Empire. With the exceptions of being found to be unchaste, or somehow extinguishing the sacred flame, she could not have committed a more grave or serious sin!
Helios leant over and whispered in her ear, ‘I think we ought to go.’ For once she found herself agreeing with him.
She gave everyone a tight smile and a wave for good measure and made to leave.
But, Nero’s next words had the effect of freezing her to the spot.
‘Isn’t she lovely?’ he said to no one in particular.
An uncomfortable looking senator took it upon himself to answer, ‘Uh, well, she is a Vestal Virgin my Eminence. They are all meant to be exceptionally lovely are they not?’ The poor man was clutching at his white and purple-trimmed robe in obvious agitation as his worried face scanned the crowd for signs of any untoward reaction.
Although it was illegal to shed the blood of a virgin, Achillea, nonetheless, wondered in horror whether she was about to be stoned on the spot.
‘Yes but she is undoubtedly the prettiest. Aren’t you my dear?’ said Nero giving her a conspiratorial look.
It sounded like the crowd gasped in unison. Achillea stared at him, mortified.
But Nero hadn’t finished…
‘Off you run then. I’ll be seeing you tonight, my naughty little virgin.’
And then, just when she thought things couldn’t get any worse, he, plain as day, gave her a wink!
CHAPTER II
Achillea was grateful to be alone in the Temple of Vesta again. It was her one haven away from the crowds, the accusing eyes - and Helios. It seemed like her heart had only just stopped pounding. No one could come here except her fellow sisters…and Nero, who unfortunately as the Pontifex Maximus, their High Priest, was the only man allowed alone in their presence. He could come and go as he pleased.
The realisation was unpleasant.
She sent a silent plea to Vesta to keep him away. She had no idea what kind of game he had been playing with her but he had certainly not helped matters today.
She looked around the bowl of the interior and the domed, vented ceiling held aloft by an outer and inner circle of Corinthian columns. She felt as if she were enveloped in the safety and warmth of Vesta’s womb. Perhaps she would be safe from any rabble here.
She put some more sticks and coal around the base of the sacred flame and sat back down in the large ornate chair at the foot of its raised central hearth.
Surely Vesta will forgive me, she thought, as she watched the light and shadows, cast from the fire, dance around the marble floors and walls of the room. The goddess knew her heart was pure, her body unsoiled and her intentions to serve, true.
And then it came to her. Perhaps her prayers were already answered! No one had come and she’d already been attending to her duties for the last few hours.
Beginning to believe that this was indeed the truth, Achillea felt the stiffness and tension begin to subside from her shoulders. A tentative feeling of relief started to ease its way through her mind and body and gently untie the knots in her stomach.
Possibly things were not as bad as they’d seemed.
She relaxed back in the chair, lost in thought. She stared into the depths of the blazing flames. A sun-kissed image of Helios came unbidden to her mind. And then, his piercing eyes seemed to fill her gaze and block out the rest of the room.
It may have been her proximity to the sacred flame but Achillea felt an inexplicable rush of sensual heat course through her body. The unexpected sensation made her feel uneasy and she found herself wondering guiltily what Vesta might do to her if the goddess found her to have a less than virginal soul.
Of course, Achillea knew this to be untrue. Still, the spectral wisps, of a ghost of a worry, flittered across her mind. Would Vesta just judge her only on her actions? Or, would she be judged on her thoughts too…?
‘Ah there you are. I thought I’d find you here…waiting for me.’
Achillea jumped at the sound of Nero’s voice, his odd tone barely registered. She’d never even heard him come in.
Quickly regaining her composure she got to her feet. ‘Your Eminence,’ she said, bowing low. But she hid her hands in the folds of her white flowing stola so that he would not see that she was shaking.
Nero smiled. ‘Come now child, there’s no need for such formality with me. We’re alone now. And, I know that you want me,’ he stated, as he provocatively wet his fingers with the tip of his tongue and then smoothed his wayward eyebrows.
Achillea’s hand flew to her throat in alarm at his vulgarity, her startled eyes riveted to his pouting face. ‘Excuse me?’ was all she managed to say.
Her mind simply couldn’t comprehend why he would make such a remark. And, he certainly had no audience, this time, to scandalise or entertain.
She looked around as if some invisible presence would speak up for her. Other than a few crackles from the blazing fire, she found herself to be alone with Nero – her spiritual leader and master!
She watched, paralysed, as he slowly approached her, his head cocked to one side and his arms outstretched as if to catch her in his embrace. Did he really mean to defile her?
‘No need to worry my dear. We are absolutely alone. I’ve sent everyone else out on errands.’ Nero winked at her for the second time that day. ‘Let’s make our nuptial bed by the fire shall we?’
Achillea blanched in horror as Nero licked his lips and stared, as if fascinated, at her heaving bosom. There was definitely no mistaking his intentions. The man, as she’d so often heard, was truly demented!
Achillea had no idea what to do.
She glanced quickly at the tools by the fire. If it had been anyone else she would not have hesitated to defend her honour.
But, could she really bash the Emperor of Rome over the head with a red hot poker?
If she allowed herself to be sullied she would literally be buried alive. If she assaulted Nero, their Sovereign and the head of Vesta’s priesthood, she would surely die too.
The heat from the room was becoming stifling. Mixed with Nero’s sweaty, cloying scent the combination was nauseating.
Achillea swallowed back a bout of bile as Nero reached out to caress her arm. The idea of so much as one pudgy finger touching her was repulsive! She jumped up on the chair to get away from his reach.
It was all she could think of to do.
‘No need to be coy my naughty little virgin,’ chuckled Nero, his flabby arms and belly jiggling in delight. ‘Or do you simply want to play?’
Achillea snatched her robe up in disgust and yelped in fright as he reached for the hem.
If any man so much as touched her naked flesh, or anything on her person, that would be that.
The end.
She would be deemed unchaste and entombed alive with a day’s worth of food, drink and light and left to asphyxiate (if she were lucky) or eventually starve and die.
It was her worst nightmare.
She never wanted to ever have the misfortune to suffer such a slow, painful, dark, lonely d
eath.
Nero playfully went as if to grab one exposed leg and then the other. Achillea was forced to madly hop from foot to foot, twisting her body from side to side to see what she needed to avoid next.
‘Adorabella Achillea! What do you think you’re doing? Get down from there immediately!’
The shrieking came from Sastica Virginia their principal Vestal. She was standing in the doorway looking like she’d just seen a gigantic rat. Her arms were held up in fright, partially obscuring her face, and her head was slightly turned to the side as if she daren’t look directly at such an horrific sight.
‘Vestal Maxima! Hel - ’ Achillea began.
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