Yet Quintus, more than anyone, knew it was impossible. The priestess was bound to the Vestal order and a life of chastity for thirty years. They could never have a life together. And still, every time he saw her the fantasy of that life flickered before his eyes.
How could Valeria compete with that? How could the reality of his all-too-familiar wife, whose body was his to take or leave as he pleased, compete with the fantasy of a woman he could never know in that way? It was not fair.
It was not fair that his first thought in times of danger or public discord was of the priestess. It was not fair that he rushed off to protect her, leaving his wife and children at the mercy of whatever mob might surround them or break through their doors.
Spite tightened her chest. How she longed to see Priestess Pomponia climb down the ladder into the black pit in the Evil Field. How she longed to see her husband whipped in the Forum, not just for his sacrilege, but for the years of cruelty and indifference he had inflicted upon her.
Her chest ached with growing anger. She could not accuse the priestess of breaking her vows to the goddess. There was no proof the Vestal and Quintus had coupled—in fact, Valeria doubted they had—and the priestess had powerful friends. Caesar himself doted on her. Plus, most of Rome already thought Valeria was mad on account of her outburst at the Lady Octavia’s wedding reception.
And although she hated to admit it, she did not want Quintus dead. She just wanted him to love her as his wife and to regard his children as blessings rather than burdens.
There was only one path left open to her.
“Bring me a lead sheet and a stylus,” she said to no one in particular.
A boy, perhaps ten or eleven years old, quickly collected a tray and set it on the table before the distressed woman. Her request was nothing unusual. Those who found themselves drawn to the Shrine of Pluto often had reason to use a curse tablet.
Valeria flattened and smoothed the thin sheet of lead and clutched the stylus in her hand. She pressed the tip into the soft metal and drew a circle with vertical lines on top of it—a rough representation of the round Temple of Vesta with its encircling columns—and then wrote her curse below it.
“I call upon black and shaded Pluto,” she whispered. “I call upon dark and hidden Proserpina. Plutoni hoc nomen offero: the Virgo Vestalis Pomponia, white-veiled harpy. I curse her food, her drink, her thoughts, her virginity.” She drew a swirl of fire in the center of the circle and dragged the stylus over the lead sheet, creating deeper swirls that expanded outward, like flames engulfing the entire temple. “I curse her watch over the sacred fire and her service to the goddess. I divorce her as a bride of Rome and marry her to Pluto.”
Quietly, the thin woman reappeared and placed a terracotta urn on the table beside the curse tablet. Valeria removed the lid and dipped her fingers inside, scooping out a wet pile of gray ashes. Her son’s ashes. She smeared them over the lead tablet and then rolled it up as though it were a scroll.
She sat back in her chair as the young boy leaned over the table. He held a thin nail over the curse scroll and then tapped it with a small hammer, nailing it closed to seal the curse.
Valeria stood. She held the urn in one hand and clutched the lead scroll in the other.
“You can do what you like with the curse tablet,” said the thin woman, “but I recommend throwing it in the Lacus Curtius if you can, or burying it in the grove of Pluto or by the Temple of Ceres. The dark gods will read it faster.”
“Gratias tibi ago,” said Valeria, “but I know precisely which temple to bury it by.”
Chapter XI
Vestalis Maxima
rome, 38–37 bce
One year later
“Salvete, Caesar and Lady Octavia,” Pomponia welcomed Octavian and his sister into the courtyard of the House of the Vestals. “I had not been informed you were coming. I will have some lemon water brought out.”
“It’s already on the way,” said Fabiana, emerging from the peristyle. “Thank you both for coming.” She gestured to the cushioned benches beside one of the pools. “Please sit.”
As they did, Fabiana sat beside Pomponia. She put her hand on the younger Vestal’s knee. “Pomponia Occia,” she said, using the Vestal’s full name to emphasize the significance of what she was about to say. “In the presence of Caesar, you will let me speak and not interrupt.”
Pomponia was taken aback. “Of course, Fabiana.”
“I am eighty-three years old,” said the high priestess, “and I have served Vesta for seventy-seven of those years.”
“No,” Pomponia stood up. “It is not proper.” She caught herself—Fabiana knew her too well—and sat back down.
Yet instead of chiding the Vestal, Fabiana’s voice took a forgiving tone. “It is time, Pomponia. The goddess wants me to rest.”
“It is not proper for the Vestalis Maxima to—”
“There is precedent in the archives for the chief Vestal to step down,” said Fabiana. “You know that. I shall remain active within the order, but you shall lead it.” She took Pomponia’s hands. “That is no small duty. The Vestal order cannot be guided by a weak and frail priestess. It needs—it deserves—a strong and vibrant Vestalis Maxima. As the sacred fire is rekindled, so must our order be rekindled.”
Pomponia furrowed her brow. “I am too young. Priestess Nona is next in—”
“Priestess Nona would rather boil her hands in a pot of oil than be Vestalis Maxima. She has never enjoyed public worship or spectacle. If she could do it, I suspect she would close the temple and return to the days when Vesta was only honored in the home. Nona supports my decision and will be an invaluable resource to you. Priestess Arruntia would have been next, but alas, Charon’s boat came for her too soon. I have spoken privately with Caesar and the Pontifex Maximus. Tuccia, Caecilia, and Lucretia as well. We are all agreed. You have served as the de facto chief Vestal for years and always with grace and diligence. Your sisters here and the priests of the other collegia respect you. The people love you and the Senate trusts you. It shall be you. That is the end of it.”
Pomponia opened her mouth to protest again, but Octavian cleared his throat and faced the older Vestal.
“We are all indebted to your lifetime of service to the temple and to Rome,” he said to Fabiana. “You’ve sustained the sacred flame for many years and helped to maintain the Pax Deorum, but you’ve always had a certain wit that has sustained the people’s spirit too. I can see why my divine father cared for you so. In fact,” Octavian cocked his head, “had you not offered Julius Caesar sanctuary all those years ago, he might have died an insignificant soldier instead of being made a god. And I might still be begging for the quaestorship instead of being Caesar.”
“Nonsense,” said Fabiana. “A determined man always finds his path. But I thank you for your kind words. It has been a good life, and I am privileged to have served Rome. Now if you will excuse me, I am going to go sit in the shade.” She squeezed Pomponia’s knee. “Do you see? I have learned to shirk my duties already. I must read some letters that arrived for me this morning. My great-niece has married again—fourth time, Mea Dea!—and she is either asking for advice or money. I suspect I know which one.”
As Fabiana rose to leave, a slave appeared with a tray of lemon water. “It’s about time,” Fabiana rebuked as she took a glass and walked off.
Octavia raised her eyebrows. “High Priestess Pomponia,” she said, “you look like you’ve seen a basilisk under your bed.”
“I feel that way,” replied Pomponia. “She is not so old, is she?”
“Priestess Fabiana will be with us for many years,” assured Octavia.
Octavian drained a cup of the cool water and set the empty glass back on the tray. “The woman would strike Charon with his own oar if he came for her. Everything is as it should be, Priestess. I knew you would be my Vestalis Maxima the day I met
you.”
His Vestalis Maxima, thought Pomponia. Not Rome’s.
It was a revealing slip of the tongue, but Octavian did not correct it. He held out his hand, and a slave placed a scroll into it. “I have your first official task as head of the order. A list of twenty girls who I think have potential.”
“Ah,” said Pomponia, brightening as she focused on the task at hand. “We are of one mind. I have been thinking that we need at least one more novice.”
“I have taken the names from the best families in Rome,” Octavian continued, “and I have seen the girls myself. They are all of high intellect and free of defect.” He handed Pomponia the scroll.
“I will start interviewing each girl and her family,” said Pomponia. “You can expect my recommendation to the Pontifex and Senate by the kalends.”
“Very good,” Octavian replied.
“Brother,” said Octavia, “if temple business is finished, I think I should like to visit a while longer. I will have a Vestal litter take me home.”
“As you wish, sister.” He looked back at Pomponia. “You and the other pontiffs will accompany me to the Senate tomorrow morning for the official announcement of your promotion. Following that, the news will be nailed to the Senate door, and the public herald will call it out from the Rostra.” He made to go, then added in a slightly more personal tone, “It is well earned, Priestess.”
“Thank you, Caesar.”
Pomponia regarded Octavia. Her brother had no sooner exited the courtyard than she burst into tears.
“Oh, Lady Pomponia,” she wept, “your appointment isn’t the only thing the newsreader will be shouting from the Rostra.”
“What else? What is the matter?”
Octavia sighed and wiped her eyes. “You know that Antony has been in Egypt. My brother sent him back to administer the province.”
“Yes, I know.”
Octavia’s eyes watered again. “He promised me he would not take up with Cleopatra again. But he has. He has even claimed his children by her. Twins!” A sob caught in her throat. “A boy and a girl. Cleopatra Selene and Alexander Helios. Their names mean moon and sun.” Her fingers tightened around the glass of water in her hands. “Isn’t that sweet?”
“Sweet as poison, Octavia. What will Caesar do?”
“He will do nothing. There’s nothing he can do right now.” Octavia regained her composure. “Antony has proven a faithless husband to me, but for now he is honoring his agreement with Caesar. The taxes and the grain arrive. They aren’t always on time, but at least they come. That is Caesar’s main concern. Antony’s infidelity is of little significance, even if it is humiliating to me.”
“The Roman people will think no less of you because of Antony’s carousing,” said Pomponia. “They love you. It is only Antony who stands to lose their respect.”
“That is what my brother said. If I am honest with you, I think the news pleases him. The worse Antony looks to the people and the Senate, the better he looks to them.”
“He is a politician and a Caesar. That is to be expected.” The Vestal rubbed her friend’s shoulder affectionately. “Never doubt his love for you, though.”
Octavia passed her glass to the slave and folded her hands on her lap. Pomponia noticed something—in the last several months, she had rarely seen Octavia wear anything other than a modest white stola with minimal jewelry. It seemed a curiously subdued choice for a woman with more gold than Midas. Perhaps Caesar’s sister couldn’t choose her own clothing any more than she could choose her own husband.
“I refuse to rain any more tears on your big day,” said Octavia. She nudged Pomponia’s shoulder with her own. “Let’s see the names on that list. Who will be Rome’s newest Vestal novice?”
Pomponia opened the scroll and tried not to react at the first name she saw: Quintina Vedia. Quintus’s eldest daughter. Now eight years old and from a noble family—Pomponia should not have been surprised.
Octavia peered over the Vestal’s shoulder to read the scroll. “Ah, little Quintina,” she mused. “I have seen her. A good candidate, to be sure. Her father has a good political and religious background, and her family has a history of serving the goddess.”
“Yes,” Pomponia’s mouth felt dry, and she took a sip of her water. “Her distant aunt was the Vestal Tacita.” She smirked. “She beat a Gaul to death with an iron stoker when he broke into the temple and tried to extinguish the sacred fire.”
“I have heard the story many times,” smiled Octavia. “A true Vestal and a true Roman. There is good blood in that girl.”
“I know it,” Pomponia said more throatily than she had intended. “I suppose that I shall have to meet with her.”
* * *
A temple slave escorted Quintus and his wide-eyed daughter Quintina through the House of the Vestals, toward the office of the Vestalis Maxima.
The girl gripped her father’s hand tightly as she absorbed the beauty of the home: colorful nature frescoes on the walls, intricate mosaics on the floors, colonnades with Ionic and Corinthian columns and strings of flowers wrapped around them, gold furnishings and painted statuary, and heavy curtains of red, green, and yellow. The smell of incense and fresh greenery. The sound of water from indoor fountains reverberating off the marble.
The new Vestalis Maxima sat at her large desk surrounded by blue frescoed walls upon which were painted all the gods and goddesses of the Roman pantheon. Her head was down as one hand busily scribbled something on a scroll and the other hand absently tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear.
“Domina,” said the slave, “Quintus Vedius Tacitus and his daughter Quintina are here.”
Pomponia rose. She saw Quintus’s eyes move over her, and it occurred to her that he rarely saw her dressed in anything other than a stola or formal attire. Their interactions were almost always at religious or semiformal social events. Today, however, no real formality was required, and she was dressed casually in a sleeveless long white tunica gathered under her breasts by a gold rope belt. Her brown hair was pinned up in a bun. She wore no veil.
“Salve, Quintus,” she said as plainly as possible before smiling down at his daughter. “I am happy to meet you, Quintina. My name is Pomponia.”
The girl bowed deeply. “High Priestess Pomponia,” she said, “I wish to join the Vestal order. I love this house.”
Quintus gave her arm a tug. “What did I tell you? Answer the questions put to you.”
Pomponia moved from behind her desk to take Quintina’s hand from her father. She could see the resemblance: the black hair and dark eyes, the strong features that seemed almost too adult for such a pretty child, as if she were older than her years. “Speak as freely as you like,” she said to the girl, whose eyes widened even more. She had never seen anyone challenge her father’s authority, never mind a woman. Even more shocking, her father conceded.
“I will show you one of my favorite things in this house,” Pomponia said to Quintina. “Come.” She looked at Quintus. “You may stay here or accompany us. It is your choice.”
“I will come.”
Pomponia led them through the house and along the peristyle to enter the courtyard, continuing toward one of the pools. It was surrounded by white rosebushes, and in its center stood a marble statue of Vesta tipping a bowl of flames into the water. Several blue birds cleaned their feathers with the water on the pool’s edge.
It was the same scene depicted in the fresco on Caesar’s wall, the one Pomponia had been admiring in the quiet alcove when Quintus had grasped her arm and kissed her. When he had spoken of love. That was almost two years ago.
“That is a pretty statue of Vesta,” said Quintina.
“If such things please you,” Quintus replied.
“They do, Father.” The slightest hint of impertinence.
Pomponia suppressed a smile. The girl had a spark o
f her legendary aunt in her. No doubt she had a streak of her father’s strong will as well, although with the right training that could be a good thing. But what of her mother?
For a moment, Pomponia wondered how Valeria would be coping with the possibility of her daughter joining the Vestal order. Then again, it didn’t really matter.
The patria potestas gave Roman fathers ultimate control over their children. When a girl or woman married, control transferred to her husband.
There were exceptions, of course, where Roman women enjoyed legal and financial independence. Vestal priestesses were one such exception.
If Quintina was chosen to serve the goddess and the temple, Quintus would lose his power over her. If she chose to marry after her years of service, she would retain her legal independence and her wealth. The idea of her life being controlled by a husband would be as remote and distasteful to Quintina as it was to Pomponia.
“There is something here that may interest you even more,” Pomponia said to Quintina. “Come.”
The Vestal led Quintina and her father to the far end of the courtyard. There, in the shade of the peristyle, a life-size statue of a priestess was being cut from a massive marble block by dust-covered sculptors. Chisels, hammers, drills, and various scrapers and grinders lay scattered as the sculptors argued and shook their heads at what they perceived to be imperfections in their work.
The chief sculptor noticed the Vestal’s approach. “Priestess,” he said, “We are working diligently. You will be pleased with our finished work.” He wiped dust out of his eyes.
“I know that, Agesander,” Pomponia replied lightly. “Priestess Fabiana makes me sneak into the courtyard at night with her and inspect your progress by torchlight. Carry on.”
The sculptor laughed and returned to the marble. Caesar may have commissioned these new statues, but it was Priestess Fabiana who had insisted that work be carried out in the courtyard rather than in the sculptor’s shop. Pomponia knew why. Fabiana wanted to be there when the faces of priestesses she had known, the faces of her sisters, came to life again.
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