“Thinking about Marcus?” Angerona asked.
Elissa felt a pang of guilt. “When I close my eyes, I hear his screams.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Wasn’t it? If she had given in to Nero, his lustful desires, her brother might still be alive. Or she might have murdered Nero when she had the chance—
She forced herself to stop that violent train of thought. After all, she was a vestal virgin, upholder of morality, not a criminal or, as Nero accused, a practitioner of dark arts.
“Marcus made his choices,” Angerona said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, we all make choices.” Angerona stared out of the window. “And I choose to live.”
Elissa glanced at Angerona, couldn’t read her face. “What do you know about the Sibylline Oracles?” she asked.
“Not much. A set of crumbling scrolls the priests keep under lock and key in their library.”
“Have you seen them?”
“I have no use for ancient prophecies. I’m interested in the here and now. Besides, most of the books were demolished in a fire over a century ago.” Angerona leaned out the window, pointing. “Look! My father’s domus.”
“His former house?”
“Former, of course. Nero confiscated all our property, supposedly for unpaid taxes.”
The sprawling complex of the imperial palace, Nero’s Domus Transitoria, his never-ending building project, had gobbled up Palatine Hill, former residence of Rome’s aristocrats. For centuries, Angerona’s domus had been one of them. These days most senators lived in houses clustered along the forum. Elissa’s father preferred trees and a garden, and so he chose to live outside the center of the city. But even at that distance, no estate was safe from Nero’s appetite. Determined to connect the Domus Transitoria to his parkland on the Esquiline, Nero devoured intervening property, engaging in a battle with the aristocracy. He even hoped to raze the forum.
The coach clattered east toward Esquiline Hill and the House of Rubrius.
Angerona sat back from the window, her full attention on Elissa. “What makes you ask about those musty prophesies?”
“Just curious.”
“You’re a pathetic liar. Come on, tell me.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Not with me, you mean.” Angerona stared at Elissa, her eyes penetrating. “All right, keep your thoughts to yourself.”
“It’s nothing, really.”
“You’ve become secretive.”
For as long as Elissa could remember she’d confided in Angerona, all her thoughts, all her dreams. But lately Angerona had been asking questions about Marcus, about his friends, Justinus in particular. Mother Amelia’s warning loomed in Elissa’s mind.
“I thought we were close,” Angerona said. “Close as sisters.”
“Of course we are.”
Angerona’s face settled into a mask, cold and indecipherable.
They rode in silence, allowing Elissa time to think.
Rome burns and from union unholy the sister will bring forth a son.
The phrase kept running through her head, but the words meant nothing. Rome burns. Fire presented a constant hazard and buildings burned on a regular basis. What made Nero think she could decipher that line of gibberish? He’d probably written it himself. She thought about her meeting with Mother Amelia. It had been difficult, but at least no one had found her letter to Justinus.
The coach came to a lurching halt. Perspiration crept down Elissa’s neck, and the linen of her stola clung to her back. The narrow street was crowded with pedestrians at this hour as workers returned home for their evening meal. The smell of rotting hay and fresh manure filled the air. A sheep bleated. A rooster crowed. People pushed and shoved, trying to get closer to the coach.
“Grant me health,” a stooped man called out in a wheezing voice.
A woman, two ragged children clutching at her robe, hung onto the coach’s window frame. “Will my husband return to me?”
“I’ll pray for you,” Elissa said, although she doubted prayers would have much effect. What had prayers done for Marcus?
The white geldings snorted and the iron wheels began to roll, creaking as the coach climbed the Esquiline. Here—above cramped tenements and alleyways—stood estates of the wealthy, as removed from the city’s squalor as the gods were from mortality. The coach wound slowly up, passing landscaped gardens and shade trees imported from as far away as Kashmir. The coach rattled to a stop in front of the House of Rubrius.
Without waiting for assistance, Elissa stepped out, glad to feel solid ground. Her family’s land. The setting sun drenched the seven hills in gold, setting ablaze late blooming roses and yellow calendula. Palms rustled overhead and boughs of cedar swept the garden path. She kicked at leaves and inhaled the rich scent of earth.
Angerona reached for Elissa’s hand. Preceded by the lictors, they walked hand-in-hand toward the house.
“Promise me,” Elissa said, “no matter what the future brings, we will remain the best of friends.”
“Closer than blood sisters.”
Their footsteps lightened, and they scampered up the path, giggling like children.
Barking greeted them.
“Cerberus!”
A mastiff bounded toward Elissa. His hair was turning white around the chin and his eyes were rheumy, but she had raised him as a puppy. He growled at the lictors, sniffed at Angerona. Standing on powerful hind legs, the dog placed his massive paws on Elissa’s shoulders, and they exchanged a sloppy kiss.
“Come on, Cerberus.”
The mastiff trotted happily beside her as they approached the stucco domus. The house was large by Roman standards, two stories, almost a villa. Unlike most city dwellings, windows looked out to the street, out to the garden and the trees. The shutters had been drawn, a black mourning wreath secured upon the door. A branch of cypress hung above the lintel as warning that death tainted the family.
Elissa raised the lion-headed knocker, and the brass fell with a thud.
The peephole slid open. The iron bar scraping as it released. The door groaned, and Spurius peered out. A trusted slave since before Elissa’s birth, Spurius served as steward, the highest position of any servant. The fact that he answered the door, a task considered menial, offered testimony to the household’s state of disarray. Upon seeing Elissa his lined face brightened then quickly fell into a frown.
“Thank the gods you’ve come,” he said, ushering her and Angerona into the foyer. The lictors and Cerberus remained outside. With a grunt, Spurius slid the iron bar back into place. “Can’t be too careful these days.”
Their footsteps echoed through the quiet, and the house felt damp.
Angerona squeezed Elissa’s hand. “You look pale. Are you all right?”
“I sense Marcus watching us.”
They followed Spurius, keys jangling at his waist like temple bells. Pausing at the household altar out of habit, Elissa said a prayer for her brother, for his safe passage to the underworld. A stick of cedar smoldered beside a bowl of grain—gifts for gods who had ignored her. Gods who favored Nero.
Spurius drew aside a scarlet curtain, and they walked along a vestibule.
In deference to the dead the oil lamps remained unlit. Busts of ancestors set in niches along the walls peered into the dark. Avoiding their accusing eyes, their whispered denunciations, Elissa followed Angerona, her gaze focused on the floor.
Angerona stopped abruptly. “Gallus Justinus,” she said. Her voice dropped in register, “Good to see you.”
Elissa’s eyes met his, and her heart jumped. Beneath his soldier’s fringe of curls his face reflected sorrow. In him she saw a kindred soul.
“I—I wasn’t expecting you,” she said.
“I’ve come to pay my respects to your parents. After all, they’ve been like family to me.”
He started toward Elissa as if to embrace her, then stopped himself.
&nbs
p; “How kind you are,” she said, her face becoming hot for no good reason.
“First you’re pale and now you’re almost purple,” Angerona said.
“I feel a little feverish.” Elissa’s eyes did not leave Justinus. Seeking a safe haven on which to perch her gaze, she settled on his nose. Broken on the battlefield and slightly crooked. “Have you seen my parents?” she asked him.
“Not yet. I’ve just arrived.” He handed her a package wrapped in silk.
“What is it?”
“Your belated birthday gift. A collection of poetry.”
“Ovid? I’ve read all his work.”
“Catullus.”
Justinus smiled, and she smiled back. Remembering her deformity, she covered her mouth.
“Love poems.” Angerona raised an eyebrow. “No wonder you feel feverish.”
Spurius led them to the atrium, a spacious room in the center of the house. A fountain splashed cheerfully and birds hopped along the pool. But darkness steeped the room in shadows. Usually at this hour the atrium would be aglow with lamps, a fire would be burning in the brazier. This afternoon the frescoed walls were lit only by the dying sun which spilled in from the open ceiling. A ray of light fell across a painting of Venus reclining on a scalloped seashell. Her sad eyes followed Elissa.
A glass urn, surrounded by cut evergreen, sat upon a marble slab. Constantina, Elissa’s mother, stood weeping beside the bier. Elissa’s father stood beside her, his hand resting on her back. Elissa swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump that formed within her throat, trying to dispel a fresh onslaught of tears. Her parents appeared stooped and gray, older than the last time she had seen them—only several weeks ago.
“Daughter,” her father’s voice quavered, though his face betrayed no emotion. Honoratus practiced the stoic philosophy, refusing to succumb to feelings. “Your brother is—”
“I was there, Pater.”
“Of course.” The furrows in his forehead deepened. “And you did nothing to prevent his death?”
“I tried.” The lump in Elissa’s throat grew hard. “I’m sorry, Pater.” She approached the bier, ran her fingers over the urn. The glass felt smooth and cold.
Her mother looked at her with swollen eyes. “It’s not your fault Marcus committed suicide.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“That’s what we were told.”
Her father’s shoulders sagged. “Suicide is the decree.”
“Lies.” Elissa led her mother to a chair and sat her down, but Constantina would not stop trembling. “Spurius,” Elissa called, “bring torches and light the brazier.”
“No fire.” Constantina shook her head. “This house is in mourning.”
“Rules are made for com—” Elissa stopped herself, mortified that her words mimicked Nero’s.
“For the gods’ sake, Wife, let the servants light a fire,” Honoratus said. “You’re shivering.”
Slaves rushed through the atrium, placing bronze lamps on sconces set into the walls, igniting stanchions at the entryways. Spurius lifted the brazier’s iron grate, added coal, and rekindled the flame. Light flooded the atrium. But beyond the central pool the dining room and library remained dark.
A girl stood in the shadows.
“Flavia,” Elissa said, moving toward her. “Dear sister.”
She appeared older than her fourteen years, taller than Elissa, and over the past months she’d developed curves. Unlike Elissa, she’d inherited Constantina’s beauty: a fair complexion, malachite-green eyes, flaxen curls. Her regal nose was red from crying, and the drab stola she wore in honor of her brother’s death colored her complexion sallow.
Elissa took her sister in her arms, felt her body shaking.
“To bed, Flavia,” Honoratus said. “You are unwell.”
Ignoring her father’s order, Flavia held onto Elissa. “Will you stay the night?” she asked, her voice a child’s.
“I must return to the House of Vestals with Angerona.”
“Priestess Angerona is here?” Honoratus glanced toward the entryway where Angerona stood, far too close to Justinus. “And Gallus Justinus! Come in! Come in! Forgive me for neglecting you.” He turned to Spurius and said, “Bring wine for our guests. Not the Flavian. I’m saving that—”
“For a wedding or a funeral?” Elissa said, more sharply than intended.
“You’re right, Daughter,” Honoratus said, his surge of joy deflating. “By all means, serve the Flavian.”
Justinus stepped forward, placed his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss, Honoratus. For our loss. Marcus would have followed in your footsteps and made a fine senator.”
“These are troubled times,” Honoratus said.
“Troubled times,” Constantina echoed. She sat before the brazier warming her hands, delicate as frozen birds.
“May I offer my heartfelt condolences?” Angerona said.
Honoratus turned to her. “My dear Avita Angerona, how fares your mother? I haven’t seen her in some months.”
“She’s retired to our family villa. Since my father’s demise, she finds the countryside—” Angerona hesitated, “—beneficial to her health.”
“Pater,” Elissa weighed her words, “have you considered leaving Rome?”
“Why?”
“You may not be safe here, considering…” Her father’s expression told her to tread lightly. “Perhaps you and Mater should retire to the countryside.”
“And do what?” Despite his stoic stance, her father’s face was turning red and his words came out jumbled, “Plant sheep? Grow rocks? Herd cabbages?”
“Nero has declared a vendetta against our family. He intends to destroy the House of Rubrius.”
“Nonsense. The princeps has shown generosity,” Honoratus said. “His family and ours have always been aligned.”
“You were on good terms with his mother, weren’t you, Dear?” Constantina held her hands over the brazier and Elissa saw they trembled.
“I knew the Empress Agrippina, yes—that was a long time ago. My dear, be careful not to burn yourself. That brazier is hot.”
Constantina paid no attention to her husband’s warning. “To console us in our grief,” she said, “the princeps has bequeathed our family twenty talents of gold.”
“Blood-money to buy your silence,” Elissa said.
“In many ways you’re still a child,” Honoratus said, “but one day you’ll understand—”
“I’m an adult, Pater.”
“And there are things you don’t know about, things—”
“Husband,” Constantina said. “This is not the time or place.”
Elissa glanced from her mother to her father. They were hiding something. “Not the time or place for what?”
“For argument,” Honoratus muttered, twisting his citizen’s ring around his finger. “I will not flee Rome. Duty demands that I remain.”
“But, Pater, your estate may be the next Nero claims.”
Constantina dabbed her eyes with a linen handkerchief. “Perhaps we should consider moving to the countryside.”
“Nonsense, Constantina!”
“I agree with Elissa,” Justinus said. “Your family would be safer in the countryside.”
“Enough! I won’t leave Rome for any reason.”
The gens of Rubrius had sprung from plebian roots, and Elissa’s father was proud of their hard won nobility, proud of his afinity with the descendants of Julius Caesar. But pride clouded his reason.
“Pater, hear me out,” Elissa pleaded. “Nero will stop at nothing.” She glanced toward Flavia who leaned against a pillar, listening.
Her father’s gaze followed. “What are you suggesting?”
“Not suggesting, stating.”
Honoratus turned to his youngest daughter. “To bed, Flavia, and take your mother with you.”
A pall of silence descended on the atrium. Despite the oil lamps, shadows scored the chamber. Elissa sensed the pre
sence of her brother, felt his lemur hovering beside her, urging her to speak.
“We must stand up for truth, Pater.”
“She’s right,” Justinus said. “Nero will stop at nothing.”
“If only it were possible to stop him,” Angerona said.
Honoratus gazed through the open ceiling at the deepening sky as if hoping for divine intervention. “By Jupiter,” he finally said, “I will tolerate no talk of treason in this house. Rome is a great empire, the greatest of all time. We’ve built roads and aqueducts, erected monuments to honor the gods, civilized the world. We must stand unified.”
Elissa pointed to the urn. “He killed Marcus.”
“My son committed suicide.”
“Lie to me, if you want, but don’t lie to yourself, Pater.”
Her father’s sturdy frame seemed to shrink, and he sounded weary, “If Marcus was a traitor, his death was merited.”
“You condone your own son’s murder?” Elissa felt sick, not only to her stomach, but deep within her soul.
“What can I do?” her father said. “If we go against the state, chaos will rule.”
“Chaos does rule! His name is Nero.”
“Nero can’t be trusted,” Justinus said. “Rome’s citizens must find a way to overcome his tyranny.”
“What way?” Honoratus sputtered. “The way of treachery?”
“Perhaps the way of Jesus.”
Angerona stared at Justinus with disbelief. “The Jewish zealot?”
Elissa said nothing. She’d heard Justinus speak of this prophet, Jesus of Nazareth, before. Heard him speak of, “The Way.” Rome was tolerant of all religions, even Jews and devotees of Jesus, but what Justinus proposed was blasphemous. The family of Rubrius, a respected gens, could not follow an upstart sect that refused to sacrifice to Roman gods.
Her father’s face flushed red as beetroot. “Do I understand,” he said to Justinus, “you suggest we follow superstitious wanderers? Paupers, slaves, and wayward Jews who bow down to a criminal?”
Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome Page 6