Brides of Rome

by Debra May Macleod

  “I see.” Livia felt Octavia’s head grow heavy as the slow, rhythmic movement of the litter rocked her to sleep. Instead of pushing her off, however, she made a cooing sound and continued to stroke her hair. Caesar was always impressed when his wife showed sisterly love toward Octavia.

  Octavian busied himself with his scrolls until they arrived at the portico of his house. Still preoccupied by the business of Rome, he stepped out of the lectica and was giving orders to his secretary before Livia had even shaken Octavia awake.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Livia,” said a blinking Octavia. “I think the heat got to me too.”

  They followed Octavian inside and then went their separate ways: Octavia to bed, Livia to the slaves’ bathhouse, where Medousa was overseeing the preparation of Livia’s latest gift to her husband—nine virgin girls, one for each night of the Vestalia.

  Five of them sat submerged to their chins in a bath, doing their best to communicate with each other in various foreign tongues, while three others sat quietly as their long hair was cropped short. One stood in the center of the room, her arms and legs open, as the beauty slave removed her body hair.

  “How are these ones, Medousa?” asked Livia.

  “They are very good, Domina. Caesar will thank his wife.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Medousa hesitated and then risked it. “Did you see the Vestalis Maxima today?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did she look?”

  “She looked as she always looks,” Livia grumbled. “Very white.”

  “Yes, Domina.” Medousa cursed herself. It was pointless to ask her mistress anything.

  Nonetheless, she felt a bittersweet swell of nostalgia as she imagined Pomponia and the other Vestal priestesses tending to the sacred flame and navigating the crowds of faithful that descended upon the temple on this day, the first day of the Vestalia.

  The Vestalia was always a busy time at the temple. And although only a slave, Medousa had been entrusted with many important duties. She had found great joy in serving the goddess in her own way, and even Fabiana, who had disliked Medousa from the start, always commended her on her conduct during the festival.

  Things were different these days. She had spent the last few Vestalia festivals purchasing and preparing virgin girls to be deflowered by Caesar. It was an insult to the goddess. And every time a girl emerged from Caesar’s bedchamber, disheveled and weeping, Medousa begged forgiveness from Vesta.

  Livia put her hands on her hips and scrutinized the naked girl in the center of the room. Under her watchful eye, Medousa and another slave dressed the girl in a pure white stola and covered her short hair with a white veil. A tear rolled down the girl’s cheek.

  “Juno, give me strength!” groaned Livia. “I have had my fill of sobbing women today.” She let her arms drop to her sides and then looked contemplatively at the other eight girls in the bathhouse. “If my husband keeps going through virgins at his current rate,” she said, “we’ll be staffing the temple with whores by the kalends.”

  * * *

  My dearest Pomponia,

  The Egyptian sun continues to persecute me. There are only two types of weather here: oppressive heat and oppressive heat in a sandstorm. Today is the latter. My eyes sting from the whipping of sand they took this morning, so if my letters are written sideways, you will know the reason.

  In honor of the Vestalia last month, Queen Cleopatra permitted an altar fire dedicated to Vesta to burn at the Temple of Isis. Many Roman soldiers and officials came to pray, including myself. A few officials have their Roman wives here with them, and these women spent the day making offerings into the fire on behalf of the men. Some offered honey to the goddess, since that is what the Egyptians offer to their gods. They asked Vesta to bring home all the Roman men in Egypt. I found that I missed you very keenly when I heard these prayers.

  While at the temple, I spoke privately with several of Marc Antony’s soldiers. There is growing discord in the ranks, and many men are losing patience with their general. They say that Cleopatra is a fatale monstrum who has cast a spell on Antony and who will be his undoing. They despise her. I have even heard some of them say that she poisons his mind with an exotic compound that makes him her creature.

  It is a strange thing to see them together. Were I not cursed with a cynical nature, I might say it is a true love match. Cleopatra is shrewd beyond measure, and Antony regards her judgment as highly as his own. Then again, Antony has a history of choosing women who think they are as capable as men. It is no wonder he has forsaken the Lady Octavia. She is a virtuous Roman matron who knows her place, and his soldiers have not looked kindly on his abandonment of her.

  It is common knowledge among the people here that Antony and Caesar grow more openly hostile with each other every day. Antony sends little coin or support home, yet as far as I know, most of the grain does leave. For my part, I see Antony and Cleopatra sit on their golden thrones as though they are king and queen of the world. It baffles me, but Cleopatra has both the support and the love of her people. She tells them that Egypt is not merely Rome’s breadbasket but a great independent nation with its own gods and history. What gall that painted harlot has!

  I have found your news about my daughters’ mother to be useful and will permit Quintina to manage her younger sister’s guardianship.

  My gift for you this month is a silver amulet of a shen ring. I acquired this from a priest of Isis. The circle symbolizes eternity. When I was told that, I thought of the love that I have for you and the eternal fire in your keep.

  Quintus

  Once she had reread his letter and burned it in the candle’s flame, Pomponia picked up her stylus and chewed contemplatively on its end. There were still times she didn’t know what to make of Quintus. He could be bitter as iron in one sentence—grumbling about how a woman should “know her place”—and then sweet as honeycomb in the next: I thought of the love that I have for you.

  She looked at the silver amulet on her desk, warmed as she imagined him choosing it for her, and then put the point of her stylus on the papyrus.

  Quintus,

  The gift is beautiful, as always. But does Ankhu not weary from carrying so many letters between Rome and Alexandria, and so quickly? Either he is winged Mercury or he rides Pegasus over the sea. I do not complain. No woman in Rome is as happy as I to greet the messenger. You should know that Ankhu is reliable and pleasant, and your letters always arrive in perfect condition.

  I am glad to know that Quintina will assume the care of her younger sister. She anticipated your approval and has already been making arrangements for Tacita to live with your brother and his wife. I am told they are fine people who are above reproach and hold true affection for their niece.

  What a lovely image you have given me of Vesta’s sacred fire burning in the Temple of Isis. There is a shrine to Isis in the Campus Martius, and there was talk of building a temple there which our order would manage, but Caesar has forbidden that now because of Egypt’s hostility. I will nonetheless find a reason to visit the shrine, and when I do, I shall think of you baking unhappily in the Egyptian heat.

  How I wish the situation between Antony and Caesar would resolve itself, one way or the other. Perhaps a battle is better than this infernal uncertainty and tension. It keeps both Rome and Egypt on the edge of a knife, and it keeps us apart.

  I fear it has also put a strain on my relations with Caesar and his sister. It is almost unbelievable, but they asked me to give them Antony’s will from the temple. Caesar believes its contents will justify a war against him. I had no choice but to refuse him, although it brought me no happiness to do so.

  Of course, Caesar was as politic and gracious as ever in the face of my refusal. But only the goddess knows what he is thinking or what he will do. I fear he is the wolf in sheep’s clothing that the Greek storyteller Aesop speaks of i
n his fables. I fear I hold that wolf by the ears. If I show any sign of weakness as Vestalis Maxima, he will enter the temple and tear the heart out of its sanctity.

  Rome is also abuzz with talk about Cleopatra’s power over Antony. I saw for myself many years ago, when Julius Caesar loved her, what influence the Egyptian queen can have over Roman men. Perhaps if Roman women were permitted to rule themselves as Cleopatra rules herself, the pharaoh’s charm and resourcefulness would not hold such novel appeal to our men.

  But enough talk of politics and philosophy. Let us instead pray to Vulcan that the smoke of these days soon clears and that the skillful god can forge a bridge of iron to bring you home.

  Pomponia lifted the stylus off the papyrus and rolled the writing instrument between her fingers in thought. Her eyes again settled on the silver amulet on her desk. There was so much she wanted to say to Quintus, so many ways she wanted and yet still hesitated, still feared, to express her love for him.

  She put the stylus to the papyrus and finished the letter with such raw honesty that tears welled in her eyes.

  I miss you dearly, Quintus.

  Pomponia

  Chapter XIV

  De Fumo in Flammam

  Out of the smoke, into the fire.

  —Roman proverb

  rome, february, 31 bce

  One year later

  The newsreader stood on his platform in front of the Rostra, bellowing the latest developments from Egypt to those gathered around him in the Forum.

  The moment he finished one announcement, and before he could even start with the next, the news began to move through the city as people ran up and down the cobblestone streets, spreading the official reports as quickly as they normally spread rumors. News—good and bad—traveled quickly in Rome.

  “From the timeless sands of Egypt,” the newsreader called out, “Queen Cleopatra’s binding exotic spell on the once-great General Marc Antony holds fast. Caesar’s spies tell us that the pharaoh is as decadent as she is cunning, having performed sexual favors for one hundred of Antony’s soldiers!”

  “Tell Caesar’s spies to send grain,” shouted an angry woman, “not this smutty gossip!”

  A heated cheer of consensus.

  The newsreader ignored her. Hecklers were nothing new.

  “By order of the Senate and Caesar,” he continued, “no vandalism of public buildings, disruption of public ceremony, interruption of religious ritual, or public acts of sexual indecency are permitted during the Lupercalia. Any such acts will be considered treason, and those found responsible will be committed to the Carcer for public flogging or execution.” He ran a finger across his throat like a blade and opened his eyes wide for effect. “No exceptions!”

  A low grumble.

  “And lastly,” he pointed into the Forum to nowhere in particular, “citizens are advised to avoid the brothels in the Subura district at least until the Veneralia,” he dropped a hand to cup his genitals, “on account of severe venereal outbreak.” He cast a warning glare into the crowd, handed the scroll to his secretary, and stepped off the speaker’s platform.

  Valeria watched the newsreader cross the cobblestone to a wine vendor in the Basilica Aemilia. She wrapped her woolen palla around her shoulders. It was a cool, wet day. Perhaps not the most enjoyable weather for the Lupercalia, but rain was always auspicious during this time. It symbolized a cleansing, a sort of purification, which promoted the health and fertility of Rome.

  The Lupercalia—the festival of the wolf—honored the she-wolf, called the Lupa, who saved and then suckled Romulus and Remus, twin sons of the Vestal Rhea Silvia and the god Mars.

  Valeria used to love the spirit and unique celebration of the festival. It used to give her hope, for it was believed that a woman who conceived during the Lupercalia would be sure to give birth to a strong son. She swallowed a rise of sadness at the memory of her little gray baby boy lying in his death basket.

  She walked along the Via Sacra, paying little heed to the crush of people visiting the magnificent multicolored temples and basilicas, kneeling in prayer before the great statues of the gods, or stopping at some of the makeshift shrines and vendor carts that were permitted to line the streets of the Forum during the celebration.

  Eventually, she made her way closer and then up a staircase to the Palatine Hill, much of which had been opened to the public on this day. She stopped briefly at a fountain for a drink of clear water, but a rough heavy-set woman shouldered her aside and thrust a pile of cups into the basin of clean water.

  “Who do you think you are, missy,” the woman cackled, “Queen Salacia? Drink up and move your fancy ass out of the way. Some of us have work to do.”

  In days past, Valeria might have hit her with the water ladle. These days, she just didn’t care. She kept walking until she reached the sanctuary that was at the heart of the Lupercalia: the cave in which the she-wolf had suckled and nourished the twins, filling Romulus with the wolfish ferocity and fierce devotion it would take to found the great city of Rome.

  Although the entrance to the cave was sealed for fear the grotto would collapse, the new Caesar had vowed to employ the best engineers in the world to fortify the cave and bring it to the magnificence that it deserved. Of course, the man had a civil war to win first. Such was the sadder aspect of the twins’ legacy: brother versus brother. It had defined Rome since its earliest days.

  The Pontifex Maximus Lepidus and two other priests were already standing before an altar to the Lupa and presiding over the public sacrifice—which consisted of two male goats and one dog—as a gathering of men, women, and children watched.

  Valeria spotted a few of her fellow Bacchants leaning against a large column and talking a bit too loudly. She moved through the crowd to stand closer to them. The wine spilled over the rim of their cups and they laughed, seemingly oblivious to the ritual happening only steps away.

  As the sacrificial dog collapsed in a pool of its own blood, the Pontifex Maximus bowed his head to a white-veiled figure who stepped forward toward the fire that burned within a large bronze bowl atop the altar. The Vestalis Maxima Pomponia held up a patera and sprinkled a few drops of milk into the fire before pouring the rest over the altar.

  Valeria gave the Vestal the evil eye. She was so busy giving it, in fact, that she didn’t notice the soldiers who had surrounded her and her rowdy companions. The soldiers grabbed the troublemakers by the scruff of their necks. Only one had the poor judgment to put up a fight, for which he quickly received a helmet to the face and a nose that fractured into a particularly gruesome arrangement.

  Valeria made a run for it. She wound her way through and then out of the celebratory crowds on the Palatine and past the arcade of shops along the Circus Maximus until she found herself on an unknown but busy merchant street in the city. Panting, she risked a backward glance. The soldier was still in pursuit.

  She ran faster, darting behind columns, between storefronts and vendor stands, and hiding behind a snorting barrel-chested donkey until the street before her cleared unexpectedly. She lifted her dress and scampered over the cobblestone, ignoring the mud and waste that stuck to the bottom of her sandals.

  Finally, she saw a hiding spot of sorts—a public latrine. She slipped inside, lifted her dress above her waist, and quickly chose a toilet beside a seated mother and daughter who appeared to be having some kind of argument over the daughter’s boyfriend while they relieved themselves. She was safe. Only the most zealous of soldiers would follow a simple rabble-rouser into the unpleasantness of the public toilets.

  Unfortunately for Valeria, the soldier who had given chase suffered from just such a streak of zealousness. He barged into the latrine like the Cretan bull, indifferent to the profanity-laden shrieks of the mother and daughter, and hauled Valeria out over his shoulder as if she were a weightless Pasiphae.

  “Put me down,” she yelled. “I a
m a noblewoman!”

  “You’re a drunken woman, that’s what you are,” said the soldier, “and you’re disrupting a public ritual. I have my orders.”

  He carried her to a metal-barred prison cart that stunk of vomit and tossed her inside. She tried to stand up but forgot that the bottoms of her sandals were coated in muck. She slipped and hit her head hard.

  The soldier’s voice was strangely muffled, and a ringing sounded in her ears before the world went silent and black.

  Slowly her hearing returned. The clang of metal. A dry, hacking cough somewhere in the distance. The rattle of chains and the click of a steel lock. The sound of men’s voices echoing in a confined space.

  Her vision came next, blurry at first but then clear. The space around her was dim. Solid. The ceiling seemed too close, too heavy. Her head ached and her throat was raw.

  “Have some water, Lady Valeria.”

  She pushed herself up to a sitting position and met eyes with Priestess Pomponia.

  The Vestal handed her a cup of water. She accepted it and drank.

  “You are in the Carcer,” said Pomponia. “You have been arrested for public disorder. It isn’t your first arrest for this, and you will likely be sentenced to death this time. The priests of the Lupercalia will see the disruption of their ritual as a bad omen and recommend execution.”

  Valeria said nothing.

  “Your daughter Quintina is waiting outside in the litter. Would you like me to send her in?”

  “No.” Valeria shook her head. “I don’t want her to see me like this.” Her dress and hair were both covered in brown muck, and she could feel her bottom lip was swollen. “Does my husband love you?”

  Strangely enough, the blunt question did not surprise Pomponia. “Yes,” she said.

  “Have you coupled with him?”

  “No. I would never break my sacred vows to Vesta. He would never ask me to.”

  “But if he loves you . . .”