He could see the shores of Italy, the towering cypress trees that lined the road to Rome, the cobblestone of the Via Sacra, and the smoke billowing out the dome of the white circular temple in the Forum. He could see her white dress, her smile as she met him, her body as they made love, and her small hand in his as they walked through the green fields of their villa in Tivoli.
He could see the orange glow of the hearth fire that burned in their home, and he watched it until the light in his eyes went out.
* * *
Pomponia was working at her desk when a slave escorted the messenger Ankhu into her office. She dismissed the slave and rose to greet Ankhu as she always did, holding out her hand for Quintus’s letter.
“Please sit down, Priestess,” he said. His face was drawn. His normally impeccable dress was rumpled, and a few days’ growth of beard was evident.
She sat down, suddenly unable to take a deep breath. Ankhu’s voice sounded muffled and distant, like she was hearing him speak through a thick wall.
Quintus was dead, stabbed in the Lighthouse of Alexandria by one of Marc Antony’s men. His body had been thrown from the top of the tower to fall from the sky like a seabird struck by an arrow. Murdered on the very morning he was to return home. Ankhu had been marked for death as well and had only escaped by killing the assassin himself and then running for his life.
The Egyptian allowed her a moment to absorb the shock of his words. He had to make sure she understood what he was telling her. She said nothing, but gave a slight nod of her head.
He pressed on, gently. “My master gave me strict instructions to follow in the event of his death in Egypt,” he said. “I was able to retrieve his body, and I followed his instructions with all diligence. First, I was to cremate his body and return his remains to you.” He placed a round funerary urn on Pomponia’s desk.
The Vestal stared at the urn but still said nothing.
“Also,” continued Ankhu, “I am to present you with this ring, which you are instructed to wear as the wife of Quintus Vedius Tacitus.” He set Quintus’s silver intaglio ring, the one with the carnelian sealstone of Vesta, on her desk.
This the Vestal picked up. Her hands were trembling.
Ankhu folded his hands together. Of course, he had always suspected that the relationship between the Vestal and Quintus was an intimate one. He had learned enough of Roman law and religion to know that it was a forbidden one too—but his duty was to his master, not to the foreign gods of Rome.
“Finally, I am to paint images of the fire atop the Alexandrian lighthouse, as well as the view. I have not had occasion to complete this task, but I will do so.”
For several long moments, the Vestal said nothing. Finally, she reached for a purse on her desk, removed several coins, and placed them in Ankhu’s hand, her own hands still shaking. “Is there anything else I should know?” Her voice was breathless.
Ankhu lowered his head. “My master had freed me shortly before his death. The manumission paper was lost when I jumped into the water.”
She nodded. “You shall have your freedom, Ankhu. You have earned it. Come back in a few days.”
Ankhu bowed deeply and then slipped out of her office, leaving Pomponia to stare at the intaglio ring in her hand. I am to present you with this ring, which you are instructed to wear as the wife of Quintus Vedius Tacitus.
Typical Quintus. She slid the ring onto one of the gold chains he had sent her from Egypt and then fastened it around her neck. One way or another, she always ended up obeying him.
As the initial shock subsided, Pomponia felt grief swell inside her, and she knew the tears would soon come. They would be as insistent and unstoppable as the floodwaters of the Nile, that great deluge Quintus had described in his letters. Compelling her breaths to remain steady, she removed the lid from the urn.
On top of the mix of gray ash and bone sat a lock of Quintus’s dark hair. She suspected that was Ankhu’s idea. It seemed too sentimental a gesture for Quintus to think of.
She removed the lock of hair and placed it in her desk drawer and then poured the ashes from the silver bowl on her desk into the urn with Quintus’s remains. His body and his words together. She would take them to the temple and put them in the favissa, the sacred depository under the sanctum’s floor where ashes from the eternal fire were kept.
The goddess would not mind. After all, she had answered her priestess’s prayers by bringing Quintus back home. It just wasn’t in the way that Pomponia had expected. But then, the gods had their own way of doing things.
She had a sudden vision of Quintus in the Regia, the last time they had seen each other: his bloodied palm pressed against her cheek, his face close to hers and his deep voice slipping into her ears.
Mars protect you while I cannot.
Vesta bring you home.
Her grief flooded over the banks now. Her throat tightened and tears welled in her eyes, even as she heard the muted sound of voices in the corridor outside drawing closer to her office. How would she explain such uncontrolled sorrow to the other priestesses?
But then the goddess gave her a way. Quintina swung open her office door and ran inside, her cheeks wet with tears.
“You must come at once, Pomponia,” she said. “Fabiana is dead.”
Chapter XVIII
Multa Ceciderunt Ut Altius Surgerent
Many things have fallen only to rise higher.
—Seneca
rome, april 31 bce–july 30 bce
The next day
The former high priestess Fabiana lay in state in the courtyard of the House of the Vestals. Her body had been washed and prepared by the priestesses and then dressed in the formal white stola, headband, and veil of a Vestalis Maxima. A gold coin had been placed in her mouth, a sacred wafer in her right hand.
Countless friends, family, aristocrats, senators, magistrates, and religious colleagues had come to pay their respects. Every person present had known Fabiana, either personally or by reputation, for his or her entire life. Indeed, almost every person alive in Rome knew of her. She had served with the Vestal order for an unprecedented number of years.
Octavian had already announced plans to commission a new mausoleum for the Vestal order in Fabiana’s name and it was he, standing alongside the pontiffs Lepidus and Pomponia, who would be delivering the eulogy from the Rostra later that day. Another high-profile death, another opportunity for self-promotion.
After the service, Fabiana’s body would be placed on its funeral pyre and set alight. Wine would be used to douse the embers, and her ashes would be collected by her family and the pontiffs. Fabiana had requested that they be put in the temple’s favissa. Pomponia knew she would never deposit ash from the sacred fire there again without thinking of Quintus and Fabiana.
Word of Quintus’s death had not yet reached Octavian, although it would within a day or two. Octavian would be offended—How dare Antony order the killing of Caesar’s delegate!—but otherwise, he wouldn’t care. Quintus’s death was hardly important enough to start a war over. There would be no speech from the Rostra for Quintus.
Quintina and her sister were similarly unaware of Quintus’s death. For now, that was good. The delay gave Pomponia time to manage her own shock and sorrow, and it would help Quintina portion the grief of suffering two losses so close together.
The little dog Perseus scratched at Pomponia’s leg, and she bent down to pick him up. He smelled better than usual. One of the house slaves had bathed and perfumed him. Small mercies, thought Pomponia.
Despite the people and activity in the courtyard, the space seemed strangely empty to Pomponia. The two people she had made such important memories with here were now gone, and their absence was painfully palpable. All the things that were so familiar—the statues in the peristyle, the pools, the statue of Vesta in the water, the trees and white roses—all seemed so foreign, somehow changed
, in a world where Quintus and Fabiana no longer existed.
But then the familiar form of Medousa arrived, trailing respectfully behind the stately Caesar and his sparkling wife Livia, and Pomponia felt more grounded.
Livia spoke first, rushing ahead to wrap her arms around Pomponia as if they had been the best of friends for all their lives. “Oh, Priestess Pomponia,” she said, “I was heartbroken to learn that our great priestess has crossed the black river. What a loss this must be to you. Vesta and Juno give you strength.”
“Thank you, Lady Livia.”
Octavian took Pomponia’s hand. “Rome has lost a powerful guardian,” he said. “And you and I have lost a beloved friend. I mourn with you.”
“I know you do, Caesar. Thank you both.” She gestured to Fabiana’s body. “You may say goodbye if you wish,” she said.
“We shall.”
“If you do not mind,” said Pomponia, “I would like to borrow Medousa for a moment.”
Livia blinked to squeeze a strategic tear from her eye and then touched Pomponia’s arm with affected sincerity. “Of course,” she said. “I know she is a comfort to you. We will leave you to grieve in private.” She took Octavian’s hand and they made their way across the courtyard to Fabiana’s body and the somber gathering that surrounded it.
When they were out of earshot, Medousa let out an exasperated sigh. “That woman’s tears are pure poison. I’m surprised they don’t burn through her cheeks.” She glared at Livia across the courtyard. “And who wears pink to a funeral?”
“Come with me, Medousa.” Pomponia led her through the peristyle and into the house, taking tired steps up the marble-inlaid stairs and into the privacy of her office. She closed the door, sat on a couch against a blue frescoed wall, and began to cry.
“I am sorry about Fabiana,” said Medousa. She sat down beside Pomponia and gently brushed the hair off the Vestal’s drawn face.
“I do not weep only for Fabiana.”
“For who else then?”
“Quintus Vedius Tacitus.”
Medousa sat straight up. “Why would you weep for him, Priestess?”
“He is dead. Killed in Alexandria by one of Antony’s men.”
“I have heard nothing of this . . .”
“Caesar doesn’t know yet. No one knows—not even Quintina. The news will arrive in a day or two.”
“Then, Domina,” said Medousa, “how is that you know this information so soon?” She shook her head. “Although I think I already know the answer.”
Pomponia stood up quickly and faced Medousa. “I do not answer to a slave,” she said, a burst of anger suddenly mixing with the sadness.
Medousa stood up and embraced her. “Forgive me.” She forced the words out of her mouth. “If there was affection between you, I am sorry he is dead.”
“He is murdered, and it is Marc Antony who did it.” Pomponia wiped the tears from her eyes and walked to her desk, where she removed a cylindrical silver scroll box from a drawer. She allowed her eyes to rest on the lock of Quintus’s hair that lay within the open drawer before closing it with renewed purpose and holding the scroll box out to Medousa. “Give this to Caesar as soon as you can be alone with him.”
Medousa wrapped the scroll box in her palla. “What are you doing, Domina?”
“I’m letting go of a wolf, Medousa. One that I hope will tear open Antony’s throat.”
* * *
“How goes the war against Antony and Cleopatra, sister? Has your husband won yet?” Claudia reclined on the couch next to Livia in Caesar’s brightly frescoed triclinium.
“Oh, General Agrippa just won some big naval battle by Actium,” said Livia. “Octavian says it is the beginning of the end for Antony and Cleopatra. He doesn’t think they can hold out more than another couple of months at the most.” She looked into her wine cup. “Medousa! Bring more wine. And something to eat.”
The auburn-haired slave appeared with a tray of food and drink and set it down before Livia and Claudia. She had no sooner taken a step back than Livia’s sons, Tiberius and Drusus, snatched pieces of glazed baked bird and melons off the tray with grimy hands and raced into the courtyard, nearly knocking over the cups of wine she had just poured for the two sisters.
Medousa mopped up the spill. “Is that all, Domina?”
“Yes. You can go.” Livia let her head hang over the edge of the scarlet-colored couch and smiled widely at her sister. “Thanks be to Fortuna, it looks like I will soon be first woman of Rome and Egypt, Claudia.”
“Your husband was right all along,” said Claudia. “Antony’s will was his death warrant. It’s nailed to the doors of the Senate, you know. The newsreader reads it three times a day in front of the Rostra. It’s read at every gate into the city too. Everyone in Rome could recite it word-for-word from memory by now. But I don’t understand, Livia. How did Caesar get it? I thought the Vestal had refused to give it to him.”
“She didn’t give it to him,” Livia replied. “Not exactly. She gave him a copy of it. She transcribed the whole thing herself. The official line is that Caesar’s soldiers found the copy at Antony’s house in Capua, and because it was so seditious, the high priestess permitted Caesar to take the authentic will from the temple.” Livia shook her head. “Honestly, what was Antony thinking? I thought he was just playing at being mad, but no, the man has truly lost all sense. In his will, he renounces Rome and embraces Egypt, divorces Octavia and marries Cleopatra, and disowns his Roman children so that he can leave the eastern provinces to his Egyptian children by her. The document was a checklist of reasons for Rome to declare war on Egypt. The Senate and the people want Antony’s head on a spike.”
“No doubt your husband will give it to them, sister. It’s been a remarkable turn of events,” said Claudia, frowning at a wine stain on her costly purple dress. “I never imagined the people could have such hatred for the general they once loved so.”
“Hate comes easy when you’re hungry.” Livia bit into a baked baby pheasant. “Or so I hear.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “But the worst part of the will by far—at least as far as my husband is concerned—was Antony’s declaration that Caesarion is the true heir of Julius Caesar. The boy is doomed. Caesar will never let him live.”
“Your status and fortune rise as never before,” said Claudia. “Rome now loves your husband, Caesar, with as much passion as they hate Antony.” She slurped glaze off her fingers. “I hope you are mindful to share your fortune with those who have helped you acquire it.”
Livia stopped chewing. “Speak plainly, sister.”
“I want an estate in Capua.” Claudia’s thoughts turned to Fabiana, to the way the old Vestal had patted the back of her hand. She needed to get out of Rome. Soon.
“Claudia, Rome is at war,” said Livia. “Caesar is off wading through Greece and Egypt with his armies. The treasury is as empty as the grain bins. I cannot now be seen granting an extravagant estate in Capua to my sister. The people would rise up, and my husband would be livid with me. Have patience.”
“Patience is not one of my virtues, Livia.”
“Then you must learn to acquire it. As I have.”
“I’ll learn patience when you learn gratitude.” Claudia threw the meat in her hand onto a tray. “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t just be out of Caesar’s bed, you’d be out of his house too. You’d be begging for scraps at your blockheaded ex-husband’s door or whoring yourself out to that hairy Greek pig you love to hate.”
“Sister, calm down.”
Claudia sat up and thumped her chest. “You have me to thank for your good luck, sister, not Fortuna. I was the one who helped you convince Caesar that his wife Scribonia was unfaithful so that he would divorce her. I was the one who figured out a way for you to be useful to Caesar. I was the one who risked everything to accuse the Vestal.”
“It was worth a try,” said Livia. She took another bite of baked pheasant.
“You owe me,” said Claudia. “I was the one who advised you to bribe Antony’s man in Egypt and have him kill that Quintus Vedius Tacitus fellow. That is the only reason the high priestess revealed what was in Antony’s will.”
“I can see how you’d like to take credit for that, Claudia,” said Livia, “but she didn’t do it for a man. The woman is sexless. It was a quid pro quo between her and Caesar. She gave him Antony’s will, and he agreed that any future accusations of incestum against a Vestal would be dealt with under a fairer process by the Pontifex Maximus and the quaestio. She probably thinks it’s better than relying on miracles. Personally, I’d rather leave my fate to the gods than to men.”
“Sister,” said Claudia. “I have taken great risks for you, and it has made me enemies. Those Vestals are a vengeful nest of vipers. I want an estate outside of Rome. It is for my safety.”
Livia looked unmoved.
Claudia took a deep, calming breath. “It will make you look good in front of Caesar,” she said. “He will think you are sending me away from Rome out of respect for the Vestals. The people and the Senate will see it that way too.”
Livia raised her eyebrows in thought. “Ah yes, you have a point there. I will find you a fine villa in Capua. Do not misunderstand my words, sister, but it would be best if you left Rome as soon as possible. Perhaps you may return in two or three years, after the wounds of the incestum accusation have healed. I will miss you terribly, of course.”
Satisfied, Claudia settled back onto the couch as Medousa returned with fresh wine and delicacies. The two sisters met eyes but remained silent as the slave busied herself. It was only when Medousa had left the room that Claudia spoke again.
“Take one last word of advice from your older sister,” she said. “You are a fool to keep that slave around. I swear by the secret-keeper Jana, she keeps snakes under that white veil of hers. And each one slithers to the temple after dark to hiss into the ear of Priestess Pomponia.”
Brides of Rome Page 25
