Brides of Rome

by Debra May Macleod

Pomponia struck him on the face again. “And then?”

  “Caesar grabbed Casca’s arm, but Casca rallied the other senators and they all attacked him. They all stabbed him, even Senators Cassius and Brutus. Caesar stumbled out of the chamber and then fell down the steps outside.”

  “Are you sure he is dead?” asked Pomponia. “Where was General Antony?”

  “Caesar is dead, Priestess. It is certain. I saw Antony run toward Caesar’s body, but he fled when he saw the assassins.”

  Pomponia waved the messenger away and then slipped out the doors of the House of the Vestals. Her two guards, Caeso and Publius, instantly appeared at her side to escort her to the temple. Their eyes darted here and there as the cries went up in the Forum: “Caesar is dead! Caesar is dead!”

  And then silence fell like a stone. The streets emptied as people fled home to their families and locked their doors.

  Who was in control of Rome?

  Pomponia joined four other Vestals within the sanctum of the circular Temple of Vesta. They stood around the sacred fire that burned in its hearth, palms up in prayer to the goddess. “Mother Vesta, your faithful priestesses ask you to protect Rome.”

  The crackle of the fire answered their low prayers and echoed off the pristine white marble walls. Pomponia closed her eyes and felt the heat of the eternal flame lick the back of her hands.

  High Priestess Fabiana burst into the temple. “Get Caesar’s will,” she said breathlessly. “Bury it in the courtyard near the statue of High Priestess Tullia. Put some flowers on top of it.” She shoved a scroll into Pomponia’s hands. “Put this in the vault in its place.”

  Her chest pounding, Pomponia rushed to the penus, the secret chamber hidden in a section of the temple’s interior wall.

  With trembling hands, she opened a thick marble door seamlessly disguised in the architecture of the wall and pulled out Julius Caesar’s last will and testament, encased in a cylindrical scroll box. She replaced it with the decoy copy, an empty but official-looking scroll that had Caesar’s seal on it.

  There’s no way the assassins will break into the temple, she thought. It would be an outrageous sacrilege. They would lose the support of the people.

  It was customary for Rome’s most important men—generals, dictators, certain senators and consuls—to keep their wills secure in either the vault within the House of the Vestals or, for the most important men, within the temple itself. Treaties and other vital political documents were also kept there, as were Rome’s most sacred objects, including an ancient statue of Pallas Athena that Aeneas had saved during the fall of Troy. There was no safer or more sacred space in the Roman world. In the many centuries that the Aedes Vestae had stood in the Forum, there had not been a single violation of the tradition or of the temple’s sanctity.

  And considering Rome’s violent past, that was saying something.

  Pomponia wrapped Caesar’s official will in her palla. She moved hurriedly through the temple, hearing Fabiana whispering hushed instructions to the other Vestals around the sacred fire. She looked back. Fabiana nodded curtly to her. Do it. Hurry.

  She pushed open one of the bronze doors of the temple and raced down the marble steps—directly into the solid chest of the priest Quintus.

  “Do not touch me,” she scowled. Of all people. The last thing she needed right now was to deal with his predictable disapproval. Every public ritual, every ceremony or festival, it was the same thing: Quintus, priest of Mars, finding a reason to scold Pomponia, priestess of Vesta. She was in no mood for his finger-wagging. “Move,” she said. “I am tasked by the Vestalis Maxima.”

  “Priestess Pomponia,” said Quintus. His face was pale and tense, but his demeanor was as high-handed as ever. “For your own safety, I shall accompany you.”

  “I have my own guards,” she chided. “I don’t need you.”

  “I have the permission of your guards,” he countered. “There is no time to argue. Do what I say.”

  Pomponia looked up. In addition to its usual watch of well-armed Roman soldiers plus the personal bodyguards of each Vestal—two soldiers per priestess—the temple was being guarded by some twenty or more priests of differing ranks from a number of religious collegia.

  Quintus’s superior, the Flamen Martialis, High Priest of Mars, was present. So too was the Flamen Dialis, High Priest of Jupiter, as well as the Rex Sacrorum, King of the Sacred Rites. All held daggers.

  A number of additional Roman legionary soldiers also stood guard—these were Caesar’s men. For the moment, they had no master. Caesar was dead. Yet their duty had led them to the Temple of Vesta to watch over their general’s will. His estate had to be protected. His true heir had to be named. His final wishes had to be honored. If his assassins got their hands on it, none of those things would happen.

  Clutching the scroll box in her palla, Pomponia scurried toward the adjacent House of the Vestals as Quintus stayed at her shoulder, matching her pace with long strides.

  She noticed for the first time that he wasn’t in his priestly attire or a toga, but rather wore a simple knee-length belted tunica. He had come in a hurry.

  His hand rested on the dagger at his left hip as he strode alongside her, his eyes making quick assessment of the Forum. A dirty child ran by, with a barking dog in pursuit. Fruit rolled out of a basket that had been dropped on the ground. A few shifty-looking men slunk behind columns, either waiting for news or waiting for an opportunity to profit from the anarchy.

  Rome was a beast with its head cut off, a beast that would destructively convulse until, like the Hydra, a head grew back.

  Pomponia and Quintus darted through the House of the Vestals and burst into the courtyard where—shockingly—an unkempt slave had somehow managed to enter. He was drinking from one of the pools, his cupped hands draining water into his mouth and splashing water on his face.

  Quintus drew his dagger. He rushed toward the man and raised the blade, about to strike, when the slave turned around. It was Marc Antony.

  Quintus quickly lowered his blade. “General Antony,” he breathed. “What is happening?”

  Antony sat down heavily on a marble bench beside the pool. He wore the face of someone who was thinking a thousand thoughts at once.

  “Futuo,” he swore. “He’s still lying there like a sacrificed goat,” he muttered and then sneered in disgust. “It’s a sacrilege.” He looked up at Pomponia with bloodshot eyes. “Send some temple slaves to get his body. It’s on the steps of Pompey’s Curia.” Again, that image—Caesar’s body, his friend’s body, Rome’s great general lying in a bloody heap on the bottom step—inflamed him and his face reddened. “Tell the slaves to take him to his house. Calpurnia will be waiting.”

  “I will send Medousa,” said Pomponia. At the whisper of her name, Medousa emerged from behind a column in the peristyle. She nodded at her mistress before darting off to find help. Pomponia watched her leave. Was that a smile on her face? No, just fear.

  Antony squinted and shook his head in disbelief. “I laughed at Calpurnia this morning,” he said. “I laughed at her. She’s a superstitious old bird, I’ll give you that, but she was so damn sure of herself. She warned him not to go today . . . said she had a dream that he would die.” He looked squarely at Quintus. “A dream! Gods, it’s absurd, is it not?”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” said Quintus. “His body will be taken to her. She will care for it. You must hide.”

  Antony stood up so fast that Quintus jumped, his hand instinctively touching his dagger. The Roman general held his hand out to Pomponia. His eyes were on the cylindrical object wrapped in her palla. “Priestess Pomponia, give me Caesar’s will.”

  She hesitated, but then Quintus nodded at her, his eyes commanding her to do it. She suppressed a scowl. Even now the young priest of Mars didn’t seem to know his place and was giving her orders. And although she hated to do it, s
he obeyed.

  * * *

  Charmion, Cleopatra’s adviser and servant, swept into the queen’s luxurious bedchamber in Julius Caesar’s country house, dispensing with protocol and gracelessly dragging the three-year-old Caesarion behind her. He was in the middle of a royal temper tantrum, but she paid him no heed.

  She tossed a pile of dirty clothes onto the queen’s bed. “Majesty will put these on at once,” she said. “The prince must also wear them.”

  “What is wrong?” the queen asked, holding her breath.

  “Caesar is dead,” said Charmion. “Assassinated.”

  Cleopatra dropped the glass perfume bottle in her hand. It shattered into pieces on top of a golden Roman Eagle mosaic that stretched across the floor. She pulled her silk dress over her head and stepped naked toward the pile of clothes on the bed as Charmion outfitted the squirming prince. Two rough woolen tunicas, stained and stinking like manure.

  “Majesty will leave on horseback,” said Charmion. “A horse-drawn litter is waiting a few miles away. We must all make our way back to Egypt without delay.” Charmion wrapped a frayed rope around the prince’s waist to fasten the tunica.

  Cleopatra gripped a bedpost. “When did it happen?” she asked. “How long do we have?”

  “It happened this morning, perhaps two hours ago. We have minutes. The assassins will be coming for you.”

  The door to the bedchamber opened. Both women tensed, but it was only Apollonius, another of the queen’s trusted advisers.

  “You and the prince will go with Apollonius on horseback,” said Charmion. “I will go with your decoy in the royal litter.”

  Finally, a trace of emotion. Fear. “No,” said the queen, “you will come with us.”

  But for the first time in her twenty-five years of service to the pharaoh of Egypt, the slave known as Charmion did not obey her queen.

  * * *

  The throngs of people in the Roman Forum parted to make way for the Vestal lectica. A portable enclosed couch that was carried on the shoulders of four, eight, or even more slaves—depending on its size and number of occupants—a lectica was a privileged way for the Vestals and other important people to move through the streets of the Forum in comfort and privacy.

  Moving aside for a Vestal wasn’t just respectful; it was the law. Anyone who refused to make way for a priestess’s litter, whether she was being carried in her lectica or pulled in a horse-drawn carriage, could be publicly whipped and executed. The same punishment applied if a person laid hands on a Vestal without her permission.

  The Vestal lectica traveled along the Via Sacra, the sacred central street that wound through the Forum, to set down beside the great marble Rostra, the high speaker’s platform near the Senate house. It was from this large and decorated platform that Rome’s most historic speeches and announcements had been delivered.

  Medousa pulled back the curtain of Pomponia’s lectica to allow the Vestal to gracefully step out first. “We could have walked for all the trouble,” the slave said under her breath. “It would have been faster.”

  Flanked by her two guards, Pomponia stood on the cobblestone and brushed a stray strand of her warm brown hair off her softly rounded face, tucking it behind her white veil. “The Vestalis Maxima wants a show of ceremony today,” she said to Medousa, and then added with a bite, “but if you think it wise, I can ask her to consult with my slave next time.”

  “As you wish, Domina.” Despite using the deferential Domina, the name a slave always called a female owner, Medousa braved a slightly insolent expression.

  Pomponia studied her. “Medousa, we’re here for Caesar’s funeral rites. It is a dark time, nay? Yet all day, you’ve been grinning as if Apollo himself just secretly granted you your freedom and asked for your hand in marriage.”

  “I am stricken with grief, Domina. Forgive my behavior.”

  An official-looking slave bowed to Pomponia and led her to a raised platform alongside the Rostra, upon which High Priestess Fabiana and two other Vestals, Nona and Tuccia, sat upon red-cushioned chairs.

  The elder Nona sat rigidly but Tuccia, Pomponia’s closest friend in the order, reached out to clasp her hand in warm greeting. Pomponia once again gave silent thanks to Vesta that she was chosen to attend the ceremony while two other Vestals remained in the temple to tend the sacred fire.

  The Vestal order comprised a minimum of six full priestesses, as well as a number of novices. It was the long-standing rule that at least two full Vestals had to be in the temple at all times, day and night, to maintain the fire, perform rites to Vesta over the flames, and teach the novices how to do the same. That left four Vestals free to perform their many other religious and official duties.

  Pomponia settled in beside Fabiana and was about to say something to her, when she noticed the high priestess’s red eyes. To Fabiana, this wasn’t just a state funeral for a dictator. To Fabiana, it was the funeral of a family member—her great-nephew. Caesar had always been something of a pet to her, and everyone knew the affection the general had for the Vestalis Maxima. Pomponia squeezed Fabiana’s hand and felt the older priestess squeeze hers in return.

  Pomponia looked around. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen such a crowd packed into the square in the Forum. Men and women—dressed in the finest of togas and stolas to the most threadbare of tunicas—stood shoulder to shoulder, peering over each other’s heads to stare up at the Rostra. A few of the more ambitious, if misguided, in the crowd had even tried to scale the high monuments around the Senate house in the hopes of getting a bird’s-eye view, only to be yanked down by the ankles by testy soldiers tasked with keeping order.

  Above the expansive marble Rostra, red banners hung down, those great letters—SPQR—emblazoned in gold in their center: Senatus Populusque Romanus. The Senate and People of Rome. It was the phrase that expressed Rome’s philosophy: a great city, a great power, ruled by the people and for the people.

  On top of the Rostra, the body of Julius Caesar lay on a carved ivory couch, covered by a deep-purple cloak that moved noiselessly in the slight breeze. Near the head of Caesar, a larger-than-life wax effigy of the dictator stood on a wide pedestal. No less than twenty stab wounds had been carved into the wax statue. Blood oozed out of every one.

  Antony commissioned that in a hurry, thought Pomponia.

  Yet despite the dramatic imagery and the occasion, the multitude in the Forum was strangely silent. Uncertainty and expectation hung in the cool March air. Rome was less in a state of violent turmoil and more in a state of noncommittal wait-and-see.

  But then a horn blared and Caesar’s second in command, the fearless General Marc Antony, appeared. He strode across the platform of the Rostra as if it were the world’s stage and he its star actor, wrapped in a dark toga with wide gold cuffs encircling his wrists.

  To Pomponia, he was a different man than he had been only the day before in the Vestal courtyard, disguised in a foul slave’s tunica and slurping water from the pool like a stray dog.

  On the Rostra, the black-robed priests of Pluto, god of the underworld and divine brother of Vesta, solemnly moved aside for Antony. Fragrant smoke from their incense burners rose up to the gods, creating the sense that the marble platform was a large sacrificial altar. Antony’s political message was clear: Caesar was an innocent. A victim.

  As he approached Caesar’s body with slow, severe strides, Antony suddenly extended his arms and dropped to his knees, wringing the purple death cloak in his hands and looking up to the sky with moist eyes. “Gods on high,” he cried out, “Mighty Father Mars, forgive us for the death of your blessed soldier, Rome’s great avenger! We could not protect him as he protected us!”

  Like waves on water, gasps of emotion moved through the mass of people. They had never seen the great general like this, and his burst of grief seemed to rouse their own. Eyes moistened and heads nodded. Shouts of
Caesar! Caesar! began to ring out.

  “Mea Dea,” Fabiana whispered under her breath. “The song has only begun and already he plays the people like a lyre.”

  Pomponia checked herself. Antony’s performance was making tears form in her own eyes. She had so much to learn from the high priestess. She sighed and glanced around, noticing for the first time that Quintus stood on the far end of the Rostra, holding the Aquila on a high staff.

  Normally, an enlisted legionary soldier of high rank would hold the Eagle as a military standard; Quintus, however, had a somewhat unique standing. Not only was he a priest of Mars, but he had also served in Caesar’s army in Gaul and discharged only after being seriously wounded in battle. He was conscious of every step now, careful to conceal a slight residual limp at all times. No doubt he saw it as a sign of weakness. Pomponia had noticed it, though.

  Antony collected himself and stood tall on the Rostra. “It is not proper, my fellow Romans, that only a single voice sing of Caesar’s life.” He held his hands out to the people. “I will speak for all of us. When you hear my voice, you hear your own.”

  As Antony began to list out Caesar’s military victories, Pomponia took a rare opportunity to study Quintus unnoticed as he held his position.

  He wore the red cloak and fitted iron armor of the soldier, but no helmet. His short black hair was neatly combed, and his face was clean-shaven, although even from her seat some distance away Pomponia could see the scar that extended from his right ear back into his hair and the slight roughness of his complexion. Even as a child, when they were first brought together to learn how to perform their joint religious duties, his complexion had seemed harder than would have been expected for his years.

  Below the Rostra, at Quintus’s feet, a pretty girl who was quite obviously pregnant looked up at him and braved a discreet but flirtatious grin. Pomponia had seen her before: Quintus’s young wife, a girl by the name of Valeria. She carried on her hip a small child, their first daughter, who waved shyly up at her father.

  They’re proud of him, thought Pomponia. But then Quintus shot his family the same chastising glare that she had received so many times during their religious or social functions. In response to the glare, Valeria quickly grabbed the child’s hand and moved away from the Rostra. Quintus seemed happier with that. Why could the man not be more pleasant? Pomponia wondered. Why did he feel compelled to control and correct everyone?