The newsreader muttered to his secretary, who feverishly transcribed his account of what was happening. Regardless of how this ended, he knew he would be shouting out the news for days in the Forum.
Pomponia remained beside Nona and Quintina in front of the temple. Her face wore an expression of cool certainty, but her heart hammered against her chest in doubt and fear.
Tuccia stopped at the bottom of the steps on top of a white marble platform that extended into the river and allowed the Vestals to collect flowing water from the Tiber. A gold plaque had been affixed to its center. It read: On this holy spot, the Vestals collect the sacred water of Father Tiber.
She gently immersed the sieve in the river, left it submerged for a moment, and then lifted it out. Though they could not believe their eyes, the Pontifex and the priests nodded in confirmation: it was indeed full of water. It did not drain through but remained in the sieve, splashing against its high wooden rim even as Tuccia walked back up the steps.
Still holding the sieve, she walked back to the temple to stand before the mesmerized crowd. Not a drop had drained.
The Pontifex Maximus stood beside her and looked into the sieve. Cupping his hands, he filled them with water and took a sip. The crowd drew in a collective gasp of amazement.
“Mother Vesta,” said Tuccia, “your priestess is as pure and faithful as always.” She passed the sieve to the Pontifex Maximus. Almost immediately, water began to drip through it. A moment later, the pool of water in the sieve gushed out the bottom to drench the chief priest’s sandals.
The Pontifex Maximus raised the sieve over his head, even as the last of the water dripped down onto him. “Jure divino! ” he shouted. “By divine law, our priestess is innocent!”
The crowd erupted into a chorus of cheers, applause, and prayers that all flowed into one jubilant song. Lepidus pointed to a centurion. “Go immediately to the Carcer and free Gallus Gratius Januarius.”
Pomponia felt pressure on her hand. Tuccia was clutching it. Her eyes were wet, and her chest was heaving with deep breaths. She had the face of one who had been too close to death, one who had already stepped into Charon’s boat but at the last moment had been pulled out by an unseen hand.
As she gripped Pomponia’s hand in relief, Tuccia’s eyes grew questioning. She had followed Pomponia’s hasty and cryptic instructions without thinking. There had been no other choice than to put her life and her trust in the hands of her friend, the Vestalis Maxima.
Gently fill the sieve with water from the river and then bring it back. Walk quickly. The goddess will not permit it to drain and you will be proved innocent. Don’t think about it, just do it.
But how? Had Vesta truly intervened? That was doubtful. Yet it was unthinkable that Pomponia would have practiced deception in the name of the goddess.
Pomponia saw the questions on Tuccia’s face and squeezed her hand. “E duobus malis minus eligendum est,” she whispered, as they stepped up into the carriage with Nona and Quintina.
Of two evils, you must always choose the lesser.
* * *
After the miraculum of Vesta’s show of divinity by the banks of the Tiber, the renewal of the eternal flame of Vesta on the kalends of March had been a more meaningful ritual than it had been in years.
Despite its hunger pangs and the ongoing hostilities between Caesar in Italy and Antony in Egypt, all of Rome had embraced the ceremony with particular zeal. As the sacred flame had been reignited, the people’s faith in the gods, the Vestal order, and the greatness of Rome had been renewed. Hope had been renewed.
Following the renewal ceremony, as was customary, two Vestals remained in the temple while others left to participate in dedications or celebrations elsewhere in Rome. This year, Lucretia and Caecilia remained, while Fabiana had surprised Pomponia by saying she wanted to go. The former Vestalis Maxima hadn’t seemed well enough to Pomponia, but it was pointless to argue.
Along with Fabiana, Pomponia made sure that Tuccia and Nona were the Vestals who accompanied her to these other events. As the three priestesses who had stood by the Tiber together only a week earlier, she wanted a show of solidarity. The more they could be seen in public, proud and confident, the sooner the incestum ordeal could be wiped from the public’s memory.
The chariot races in the Circus Maximus provided the perfect opportunity for such a display. Tuccia was determined to act like nothing had happened and to cheer on her beloved Blues as she had done since she was a young girl. In fact, she had gone a step further by inviting the wife of Gallus Gratius Januarius, who was currently in the lead chariot, to sit beside her on Caesar’s balcony.
As Tuccia and Gallus’s wife shouted and waved long blue ribbons, Pomponia chatted comfortably with Medousa. Despite Pomponia’s refusal to give him Antony’s will from the temple, Octavian had remained as friendly and accommodating as ever and continued to bring Medousa to events that he knew the Vestalis Maxima would be attending.
Yet the day had its tensions. The largest of these was named Claudia Drusilla.
She sat beside her sister Livia, struggling to reclaim her status by socializing with an assortment of senators, priests, noblemen and noblewomen, and of course, the Vestals themselves. Dressed in gowns of purple and blue, and dripping with gold and gemstones, the two sisters made a stark contrast to the white-veiled priestesses who sat a few rows ahead of them.
Following Tuccia’s astonishing show of innocence, Claudia had issued a public apology to her and to the Vestal order. She had retracted the accusation, claiming that it was only her profound love for the Roman people and her sorrow over so many empty stomachs that had compelled her to see guilt in the innocent interactions between the charioteer and the priestess and to worry that a breach in the Pax Deorum had caused Vesta to forsake Rome.
Along with the apology, she had donated a mountain of grain from her hoarded personal stores to some of Rome’s poorest districts, all in the name of Vesta. The quick gestures of contrition, along with her status as Caesar’s sister-in-law, seemed to have saved her skin.
Of course, none of the priestesses believed the remorse was genuine. Even if it had been, it would change nothing. The damage was done, and forgiveness from the Vestal order would never come.
Claudia was beginning to suspect as much. She leaned over to whisper to her sister but had to raise her voice to be heard over a swell of ear-
splitting screams from the frenzied spectators.
“How much grain must I part with before I am back in their good graces?” she asked.
“You could transform into holy Ceres and hand them Egypt on a silver platter, and they still wouldn’t forgive you,” said Livia. “They are not changeable.” Frustrated, she fidgeted with a gold-and-ruby bracelet on her wrist as she watched the chariots peal violently around the circular track. “Medea’s hot cunt, what a mess the whole thing is! The incestum charge was supposed to make Caesar see the Vestals as impure, but now he sees their purity as divine and sanctioned by the goddess. Worse, he now openly asks me to send virgins to his bedchamber and grows sullen if I don’t send one nightly. The gods know when he’ll get between my legs again.”
“And what of war with Antony? Will Caesar declare it?”
“He cannot. There are still senators who refuse to believe that Antony is stopping the grain.”
“But Agrippa destroyed Sextus Pompey years ago,” said Claudia. “So who else could be responsible but Marc Antony?”
Livia looked at her sister and shrugged. “Antony has men in Rome, and they spread the rumor that Caesar has been sinking shiploads of the stuff at sea and blaming it on Antony.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I wish Antony were dead. I would be first woman of Rome if he were dead. No more holding back, waiting to see what he does, and no more playing second woman to that sniveling prude Octavia.”
“Hmm.” Claudia drummed her fingers on the wo
oden arm of her chair. “You need Antony’s will from the temple.”
“Caesar will never forcibly take it,” said Livia. “Not after that divine spectacle by the Tiber. It would be political suicide to violate Vesta’s temple now.” Exhaling an irritated sigh, she straightened her back and craned her neck to look around. “Where is that ugly slave with the wine? I don’t know why we bother bringing slaves to the Circus. They pretend to be busy when really they’ve sneaked off to watch the races. We’ll see if they think it’s worth it when their backs are bleeding tonight. Never mind, I’ll find the wine myself—that is, providing the damn augurs haven’t already drunk it all.”
Livia stood up and left her seat. A moment later, someone else took it. The former Vestalis Maxima Fabiana.
Claudia smiled awkwardly. “Priestess, it is good to see you looking so well.” When Fabiana said nothing, Claudia cleared her throat and folded her hands on her lap. She would not let this frail old woman rattle her, former chief Vestal or not. “I hope you have accepted my apology.”
Fabiana reached out to pat the back of Claudia’s hand reassuringly. She leaned in to speak softly. “An honorable woman would take her own life.”
Claudia felt her mouth drop open.
But then Fabiana looked up with a pleasant smile. “Oh, here is your sister.” With the help of her slaves, the elderly Vestal stood up to give Livia back her seat. “Lady Livia, how alike you and your sister are. Like Helen and Clytemnestra. Now if you will excuse me, I think I will return home to rest.”
“Do take care, Priestess,” said Livia. When the Vestal had moved on, she sat beside Claudia and handed her a cup of wine. “It took me forever to find the wine slave,” she grumbled, “hiding behind a column and watching the races, just as I thought.”
“Hmm.” Claudia took a sip of her wine. And then another. But no matter how much wine she drank, her mouth still felt dry.
Chapter XVII
Aequitas Enim Lucet Ipsa per Se
Justice shines by her own light.
—Cicero
egypt and rome, april, 31 bce
Later the same year
Sunrise was still a few hours away, but Quintus didn’t care. He had spent over two years in this beast-worshiping desert wasteland where women ruled men and men wore makeup. It was time to go home. Home to her. To Pomponia. But first, there was one last Egyptian wonder to visit, one that he knew would hold special fascination for Pomponia as chief priestess of the sacred fire.
The monumental Lighthouse of Alexandria dominated the small island of Pharos in the Alexandrian harbor and stretched hundreds of feet into the sky. There was not a taller structure known anywhere in the world. It was anchored to the earth by a broad stone platform, on top of which the lighthouse stood and reached higher into the heavens than anything made by mortal hands should.
The massive white stone structure was adorned and capped with statues of ocean gods. Each time his Egyptian slave Ankhu had set sail from Alexandria to bring a message to Pomponia, Quintus had stood in the shipyard and looked out at the lighthouse in silent prayer to Neptune and Triton, but especially to Triton, messenger of the sea, in the hopes that he would blow his horn and calm the waters enough for the ship to travel with speed.
During the day, the lighthouse used mirrors to reflect sunlight and serve as a beacon for ships at sea. It was rumored that these mirrors could generate such intense beams of light that enemy ships could be set on fire long before they reached the shores. Egyptian delusions of grandeur, thought Quintus. How typical.
A fire also burned day and night at the top of the lighthouse. During the day, it created black smoke that was released through the lighthouse’s apex to form a thick column that could further help ships navigate safely to port. It reminded Quintus of the plume of smoke that billowed from the Temple of Vesta.
At night, and throughout the dark hours until dawn, this fire burned more fiercely, producing a vibrant orange flame that could be seen from great distances by ships trying to navigate the sea and enter the port. It was this fire that Quintus wanted to see up close. After all, was it not a type of eternal fire? And would that not be of interest to a Vestal priestess? He felt a smile spread across his face as he imagined Pomponia’s fascinated expression as he told her all about it—but then he forced himself to stop smiling. Stop being so damn womanish, he told himself.
It had been a moonless but starry night, and the stars were still bright in these quiet hours before dawn. Quintus and Ankhu had climbed the winding stairs of the lighthouse all the way to an observation deck hundreds of feet above the ground. There, they had stopped to wait for Marius, who had bribed some person or another to gain them access to the very top of the lighthouse.
Quintus leaned over the edge of the observation deck and gazed upon the sleeping city of Alexandria. The Royal Library was clearly visible, some of its windows flickering with light. No doubt those annoying Egyptian academics and philosophers were already busying themselves debating the mysteries of the gods and creating more scrolls to join the hundreds of thousands that were said to fill the bibliotheca.
He turned his head to look down at the shipyard in the Alexandrian port. It was mostly quiet and still at this hour, although there were a few early risers working by torchlight to load crates, freight, and trading goods into ships for whatever voyage awaited them.
In just a few hours, he would be on one of those boats on his way home to Pomponia. He allowed himself a smile as the raucous cries of sea birds, the splashing of black waves against the rocks, and the roaring of the great fire above him sounded in his ears.
Quintus faced Ankhu. They had climbed what seemed like a thousand stairs, and even though Quintus could feel the sweat soak through his tunica, the Egyptian looked as composed as ever with his clean-shaven head, black-lined eyes, and white linen skirt. “You remembered your supplies, correct?” he asked. “I want you to paint the fire and the view from the top when we get up there. I want the priestess to see it.”
“Yes, Domine.”
“Good.” Quintus reached into his goatskin sack and pulled out a scroll, handing it to Ankhu.
“What is this, Domine?” Ankhu uncurled the scroll and gasped.
“It’s your manumission,” said Quintus. “I’ve freed you.”
“Domine,” the slave stammered. “By all the gods of Rome and Egypt, I—I thank you. I cannot express my—”
“Oh, stop sputtering, you fool. I don’t have time to sell you for any profit, so I might as well set you free. Finish your paintings, and then you can do as you like. You can come to Rome and work for me or stay in this sandblown version of Hades, it’s no concern of mine.”
“Yes, Domine! Of course, Domine.”
Quintus spat on the ground at the sight of tears running down the former slave’s face and then waved as he spotted his friend Marius emerging from the lighthouse to join them on the observation deck.
“Salve, Quintus,” panted Marius. “I have a big heart because you are leaving Egypt this morning, but it is not big enough to forgive you for making me climb these stairs before I’ve had my breakfast. I’m winded.” He struggled to catch his breath. “You said you were departing early, but I didn’t think you meant before Ra rose in the sky.”
“You and your damned Egyptian gods,” said Quintus.
“The Egyptian gods rule this land,” Marius grinned back. “It is only prudent to honor them. Now, my friend, let’s keep moving. If I stop for too long, I won’t be able to get going again.”
The three men—two Romans and a freed Egyptian slave—labored up the last stairway to the top of the lighthouse. As they ascended into the uppermost chamber, they felt an unexpected swell of heat on their faces from the fire that burned in the middle of the circular space. The snapping and crackling of its flames were surprisingly loud and echoed in the round chamber.
Yet most dazzlin
g and unexpected to Quintus was the way the vibrant orange flames reflected off the multitude of mirrors that encircled the chamber. The effect was spectacular and like nothing he had ever seen before. He raised his eyebrows and nodded to Ankhu. Yes. It was worth climbing the thousand stairs. This would definitely impress Pomponia.
Quintus appreciated the fire for a few long moments, and then took several cautious steps over the mirrored floor to peer out one of the wide slotted openings through which the fiery orange beacon was made visible to ships at sea. With the heat of the fire on the back of his head and the cool ocean air on his face, he again felt a rise of excitement in his gut. He was going home.
He turned to say something to Ankhu, but furrowed his brow as he caught an expression of shock on the former slave’s face. A moment later, Quintus’s insides burned with a searing heat that he could not have imagined possible. He clutched the solid instrument that had impaled him—a red-hot iron stoker from the fire—and tried to pull it out of his body, but then the pain crippled him entirely, and he collapsed onto the mirrored floor.
His vision was blurred to the point of near blindness, but he felt movement. Someone was lifting his body. Was it Marius? Ankhu? An intense feeling of falling, fast, washed over him.
Or perhaps it wasn’t falling. He couldn’t be sure. He was suddenly very disoriented. No, he wasn’t falling. He was moving forward. He could feel watery movement below him. Oh good, I’m already on the boat, he thought, the Egyptian boat to Italy. But then he realized his mistake.
This was Charon’s boat. The silent black-cloaked figure stood at the prow, pushing his pole in the black river to move the boat forward. Someone else was in the boat too. A woman stood above him, locks of her chestnut hair visible under her white veil. She placed a gold coin in the ferryman’s hand and then looked down at Quintus. The boat moved forward. Fast. And the faster it went, the clearer he could see where they were going.
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