Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  “Your brother is a natural.” Nero pulled Elissa’s arm until she winced. “And I’ve saved a special role for you: Deianira—the wife of Hercules who kills her husband by mistake. I’m sure you’ll play her to perfection.”

  He nodded at Tigellinus and he retrieved a gilded box. The prefect lifted the lid.

  A garment lay inside, a shirt of linen.

  “Designed by Locusta,” Nero said.

  Elissa felt sick.

  Locusta was a sorceress, notorious for lethal recipes. Stews seasoned with Fool’s Parsley, rabbits that had feasted on Belladonna, sweet Physic nuts from Africa that left a deadly aftertaste.

  Elissa shook her head, trying to free herself from Nero. She couldn’t talk, could barely breathe.

  “As Deianira,” Nero said, “you will present this robe to your beloved Hercules.”

  Elissa bit Nero’s palm until she tasted salt.

  “Bitch! The she-wolf’s bitten me.”

  Elissa ran for door. Before she reached it, Tigellinus had drawn his dagger.

  “No need for violence,” Nero said, “just yet.” He sucked his wounded palm. “You will cooperate, Elissa Rubria Honoria, or I’ll eat your whole family for dinner starting with your little sister.”

  “Flavia is just a child.”

  “Your choice. Play the part or sacrifice your sister. Either way your brother dies.”

  CHAPTER V

  The lanista undid the fetters, and iron clattered to the ground.

  Legs numb from the bindings, Marcus stumbled from the cart.

  Through the slits of his mask he saw a behemoth, tusks sharpened to deadly points and serrated, so they might saw a man in half. Fear shot through his legs, making it difficult to stand.

  The lanista thrust a length of rope at him, handed him a dagger, and said, “Here you go, Hercules.”

  The rope was no longer than a forearm and, against an elephant’s hide, the dagger would do no more damage than a needle. Goaded by hot irons, the beast raised its trunk and trumpeted. The blast sent Marcus reeling back. The elephant raised its tree-stump of a foot, and Marcus imagined his skull splintering beneath the weight.

  He thanked the gods that his family wasn’t present to witness his desecration. The arrest and sentencing had happened so quickly, he wondered if they even knew.

  The elephant lowered its tusks, preparing to charge. The serrated ivory, glistening in the sunlight, made the snap of a shark’s jaws seem inviting.

  Marcus ripped off his mask, prepared to meet his executioner. In one hand he gripped the rope, in the other the dagger.

  The elephant raised its head, stopped pawing the sand and stood still, calmly regarding Marcus—its eyes surprisingly intelligent. Marcus could have sworn that he saw tears. He let the rope slip from his hand.

  “Coward,” the lanista called from a safe distance. “Hercules stood up to Nessus.”

  “I refuse to fight.”

  “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  Armed with a branding iron and a shield, the lanista charged.

  Marcus lunged at him, his dagger aimed for the lanista’s chest. But the shield deflected him. The dagger flew into the air and landed somewhere in the sand.

  The lanista jabbed the poker at the elephant, searing the beast’s underbelly.

  The elephant roared. Its trunk, swinging wildly, knocked the iron from the lanista’s hand. The trunk swung again, slamming the lanista to the ground. The trunk snaked around his body, picked him up as if he were a sack of barley, and raised him high into the air. A stain bloomed down the front of lanista’s tunic as he swung back and forth, screaming for help. The crowd cheered as he plummeted.

  “Kill the beast,” he called out in a rasping voice.

  The elephant lowered its tusks, eyes focused on its enemy.

  The lanista stumbled to his feet, sandals slipping in the sand as he staggered toward the moat, his face a mask of terror. Before he reached the water, a tusk ripped through his gut and his screams shot through the amphitheater.

  The crowd pushed and shoved, scrambling over benches, surging toward the moat, to gain a better view.

  With a fling of its massive head, the elephant tossed the lanista as if he were a broken doll. He somersaulted toward the moat, clawing at the air, shrieking as he crashed into the water. His shrieking stopped, but now the mob was screaming. The corpse floated to the surface, pink foam bubbling from the gash.

  Gladiators fell upon the elephant, stabbing it with javelins, hacking at its hide with swords.

  Marcus looked around the arena, saw his fellow countrymen, the cream of the empire, shouting, cheering, reveling in the bath of blood. His gaze fell on a boy who sat beside his father, eating honey cake. Their eyes met—the boy’s expression mildly curious as if viewing a puppet show. Popping the last bite of cake into his mouth, he licked his fingers.

  Through a haze of dusty sand, Marcus stumbled toward the exit. If he could make it to the archway, make it to the corridor that ran beneath the stalls, the dim light of the passageway might serve as protection.

  A hand clamped his shoulder.

  “Your performance isn’t over yet.”

  Tigellinus dragged him back to the arena.

  A girl ran toward him, her hair in disarray, her face distraught.

  “Elissa?”

  His sister always had more bravery than sense. This past year she’d become a woman, the type to turn men’s heads. Until that moment Marcus had managed to feign courage, but now his voice faltered, “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I had to come.” Her eyes darted toward Tigellinus. He grasped Marcus by the shoulder, in the other hand he held a gilded box.

  “And our parents?”

  “I don’t think they know.”

  Tigellinus forced the box into Elissa’s hands. “Give Hercules his gift.”

  She let the box fall to the sand, and Marcus stooped to pick it up.

  “Don’t touch it,” Elissa said.

  “What is it?”

  Tigellinus handed the box to Marcus. Crafted of bronze and painted with gold leaf, the box felt leaden.

  “A gift from the emperor,” Tigellinus said. “Open it, if your care for your family.”

  Marcus lifted the lid, expecting a nest of vipers. “It’s a robe.” The tunic was made of the finest linen, pale as moonlight. A robe fit for a hero.

  “The robe of Hercules,” Tigellinus said.

  Marcus knew the story well. His eyes met Elissa’s. “And you’re to play Deianira.”

  “Don’t put it on, I beg you.”

  “And risk our family?” Marcus saw despair in his sister’s eyes, and knew no way to comfort her. “It’s a gift from Nero, self-declared god of Rome. We mortals don’t possess the power to change the storyline, Elissa.”

  “It’s my fault. I could have stopped him. I could have given myself—”

  Marcus touched his sister’s lips. “Save that for the one you love.” Her face blanched. “Your heart shines in your eyes, little sister. There are few people I trust, but you are one, and Justinus another. Now let’s see how this story ends.”

  He lifted the tunic from the box, displaying the robe so even spectators on the highest benches could see its splendor. The people looked like colored dots set against the sky—so small, so insignificant, in the grand scheme of things. Blood rushed through his arms as he raised the robe over his head, turning slowly in a circle, taking in the whole arena. The sun warmed his back, and heat flooded his body, transforming him, just for this moment, into a hero.

  “Hercules,” the mob shouted. “Hercules! Hercules!”

  Ignoring his sister’s protests, Marcus drew the robe over his head. It fit to perfection. The fabric, smooth and silken, embraced his skin. He felt a prickling sensation, and then a sting. As poison seeped into his pores, the people in the bleachers blurred. A drilling noise shot through his ears and shards of light split his vision. Better to stare directly at the sun, even at the cost of bei
ng blinded, than remain shrouded in lies. “I’m paying for the privilege of speaking truth,” he tried to shout, even as his throat was closing.

  The crowd yelled and stamped their feet, standing on the benches, climbing on each others’ shoulders. The world spun crazily, a swirling collage of color, a cacophony of sound. Marcus stumbled.

  Elissa reached for him, but Tigellinus lowered his sword separating her from her brother. “For the gods’ sake,” she shouted, “for the sake of our parents, take off the robe.”

  Sweat poured down her brother’s face and his eyes shined unnaturally. She stood by helplessly as the heat from his body warmed the fabric, releasing Locusta’s venom. His face deepened to scarlet. Welts erupted on his arms and legs, pustules the size of grapes. With a moan, he fell to his knees. Scooping up sand, he rubbed the grit against his skin until the sores oozed blood.

  Risking the sword of Tigellinus, Elissa lunged at Marcus. She clawed the robe tearing fabric from her brother’s body, but the cloth adhered to his skin and came away with strips of flesh.

  “Hercules,” the crowd roared. “Hercules! Hercules!”

  “Call for a physician,” she yelled at Tigellinus. “There must be an antidote.”

  Marcus lifted his face toward the sun, his pupils dilated, bile gurgling from his lips. He clutched his throat, his body trembling, digging his fingernails into his skin—scratching, ripping.

  “Lean on me,” Elissa said, gathering him into her arms.

  “I’m cold,” he whispered as he fell against her warmth, curling into a fetal position.

  She wrapped him in her palla, rocked him like a child.

  The mob’s chant grew deafening.

  “Let him go,” Tigellinus said, his voice almost gentle. “Your brother dies a hero.”

  Guards entered the arena, carrying a bier.

  Elissa held onto Marcus as they lifted him, but finally she had to let him go. He no longer struggled. The guards set the bier on their shoulders and carried him toward the center of arena where the pyre waited. Carefully, they climbed the scaffolding. Ten feet above the ground, they placed Marcus on the pyre, upright so the crowd could watch him burn.

  “A torch,” Tigellinus ordered.

  The amphitheater grew quiet.

  Elissa raised her arms to speak, all eyes focused on her—a woman in a filthy robe, an unknown actor who played the part of Deianira so convincingly. She shouted, “I, Elissa Rubria Honoria, vestal virgin, priestess of the sacred flame—”

  A rumbling sound ran through the mob.

  “—declare my brother, Marcus, is not a traitor. He planned to restore the Republic, put an end to tyranny, injustice—” Her voice broke with a sob.

  “I know Marcus,” someone shouted from the crowd. “He’s a man of learning.”

  “A man of honor,” called another.

  “A hero.”

  “Hercules!”

  “Marcus Rubrius Honoratus! Marcus Rubrius Honoratus!” the crowd chanted—a conclamatio as at a proper funeral.

  Drums rolled and trumpets blasted, and all eyes turned to the imperial box.

  Nero stood on the balcony, resplendent in spangled robes. Crowned by a golden diadem, he looked like a god. He raised his hand, and the chanting ceased.

  “Marcus Rubrius Honoratus has been found guilty of treason,” Nero said, in the booming voice of a trained actor. “He plotted to assassinate me, Princeps of The Roman Empire. Those who would have him live are traitors to the state.”

  “My brother is innocent!” Elissa’s protests were drowned by booing. How easily the mob turned.

  “Shall the traitor live or die?” Nero gave the death sign, and the mob mimicked him. “The vote of the people stands.”

  With a torch, Tigellinus ignited the pyre.

  Wind raced across the arena, acting as a bellows. Elissa’s screams were swallowed by the roar of the crowd, the roar of flames, her brother’s howls. She couldn’t watch. She listened to the crack of fire, fed by her brother’s bones, fueled by Nero. The princeps stood above crowd, watching from his balcony.

  A gust of wind sent sparks swirling toward the indifferent heavens. If Marcus could be murdered, the gods were powerless. And if the gods were powerless, who would mete out justice?

  “Pay to the dead what to the dead is due,” Elissa said aloud.

  And vengeance was due Marcus.

  She moved toward the inferno, heat scalding her eyes, singeing her hair. Had not the gods appointed her a vestal virgin—keeper of the sacred flame, symbol of Rome’s purity? If the gods refused to act, she would.

  She smeared her face with sand and ash.

  Nero must receive retribution, and she would deliver it.

  CHAPTER VI

  Justinus charged through the imperial box, prepared to challenge anyone. Ignoring the harlot who batted bleary eyes at him, pushing past the emperor’s guests, he headed for the stairway leading down to Nero’s lair. Angerona hurried after him, tripping on her robes.

  Tigellinus blocked the stairs, arms folded across his chest, his expression begging for a fight. He disgusted Justinus. He was no true Equestrian, more thug than soldier. He’d spent little time in battle and had risen through the ranks by murder and deceit.

  “Stand aside,” Justinus said.

  Tigellinus reached beneath his arm, his scarred lip curling, and withdrew a sica, the curved blade favored by street gangs. Perfect for slitting throats.

  Justinus might have used force to turn the blade on Tigellinus, but he had no taste for violence. He shouted down the stairwell, “Nero Claudius Augustus Germanicus, come greet your visitors!”

  Somewhere below, a door creaked open. A moment later a slave peered at Justinus from the bottom of the steps. Nero followed, his voice booming up the stairwell, “Who in Hades has the audacity to interrupt my music practice?”

  “Me,” Justinus said.

  In one hand, Nero held a wine-cup, in the other a lyre—his favorite instrument of torture. “Justinus, old friend,” he said. “And Priestess Angerona. To what do I owe this honor?”

  “Call off your hound.”

  At a nod from Nero, Tigellinus re-sheathed his sica. Taking his time, he searched Justinus and found a pugio. He slipped the knife into his toga. Weapons might be illegal in Rome, but anyone with common sense carried a dagger.

  “I’m delighted that you came,” Nero said as he ushered Justinus and Angerona through the hall toward a chamber. “I’ve been rehearsing, and you can be my audience.” He cleared his throat. “I think you’ll find my singing much improved. I’ve been taking lessons.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Justinus said.

  At the door, he told Tigellinus. “Stay out here and keep watch.”

  “But, Caesar—”

  “This wine is disgusting. Finish it.” He handed the prefect his cup.

  They entered a twilight world. Slaves stood at attention along the walls, but they had lit no oil lamps. A lone window, near the ceiling, allowed light into the chamber, and the sun had moved past it. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Justinus noticed a woman seated in a high-backed chair. Her head bowed as if in prayer, her hair disheveled, white ribbons trailing down her back.

  “Elissa?”

  Her eyes met his—her face appeared not only drawn, but haunted.

  “What’s happened?” Justinus asked

  She opened her mouth as if to speak, but made no sound.

  Nero steered Justinus away from her. “Come,” he said, “let’s drink a toast to old times.” He snapped his fingers at a slave. “Bring more wine, and not that piss.”

  Justinus glanced at Elissa. Barely visible within the dim light, she might have been an apparition.

  “We have so much to talk about,” Nero said. “You’ve been a recluse since your return to Rome.”

  “Where is Marcus Rubrius?”

  Nero frowned. “Gone. He committed suicide.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Liar!” The word exploded fro
m Elissa’s mouth, her eyes riveted on Nero. Though slight of frame her fury filled the chamber. When she stood, Justinus saw her robe was stained with blood.

  Nero strummed his lyre. “Perhaps you’d like another song, Elissa,” he said. “Something enlivening to lift your mood.”

  “You murdered my brother.”

  “I find it puzzling that you blame me for his death. Marcus chose to die, when he plotted my assassination.” Nero struck a chord for emphasis.

  Angerona swooped across the room, steering Elissa back to the chair. “Sit,” she said. “You’ve had a shock.”

  The slave brought a tray of wine.

  Nero helped himself and offered Justinus a cup. “A toast to friendship.”

  Justinus refused the drink. “You killed the man I called my brother.”

  “It’s his sister’s fault he’s dead. If she’d been more amenable, I might have pardoned him.”

  Nero’s words wrapped around Elissa’s throat making speech impossible. She sat rigid in the chair. Hands locked together, she stared straight ahead. Perhaps what Nero claimed was true. Perhaps she could have saved her brother. The noose she felt around her neck grew tighter. Edges faded into darkness. Nothing seemed real. Except the pain she felt. At the corners of her eyes, she noticed movement, figures forming in the shadows. Lemures.

  “Where’s the body?” Justinus asked.

  Nero motioned toward the door. “In an urn. Not the most expensive, but acceptable.”

  “Cremated?”

  “Burned,” Elissa’s voice sounded strangled. “Burned alive.”

  “I should have thrown that traitor’s ashes in the sewer,” Nero said, “let the filth of his remains wash into the Tiber. But I’m known for my clemency, so I’ve had the traitor’s urn delivered to The House of Rubrius.”

  Elissa dug her fingernails into the chair, attempting to control her rage. She couldn’t bear to think about her parents, could not begin to imagine their anguish.

  “And to think I once called you my friend,” Justinus said, his voice rising. “Angerona, Elissa—let’s go now.”