Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  When the ordeal finally ended, Elissa clapped half-heartedly.

  Nero’s face lit up. “So you agree that We have talent.”

  She nodded. It took every bit of her resolve not to rip the lyre from his hands and smash it over his diadem. She imagined the satisfying sound of splintering wood, the pop of catgut strings.

  He continued strumming, and when he spoke he sounded cheerful, “Now We will perform a ballad—I composed the lyrics.”

  “Then maybe you’ll remember them,” Elissa muttered.

  “What?”

  “I said your voice rivals Apollo.”

  Elissa warned herself she must tread carefully. Nero’s moods were changeable as mercury.

  He chuckled. “You’re a goddess among women, Elissa. Enchanting. Have I mentioned you remind me of my mother?”

  He struck a melancholy chord. His ballad was heartfelt, if not masterful, a tribute to an unnamed queen who seduced her son then murdered his stepfather to secure the throne. Overcome by guilt, the queen had taken her own life.

  “Lovely,” Elissa said, afraid his mood might change again. “I should go.”

  “One more.” He dove into a bawdy tune.

  Elissa swallowed, her mouth parched. She glanced at the closed door, regretting her decision to forgo the pomegranate juice. Studying the walls of armaments, she tried to imagine which weapon would produce the gravest injury.

  The music, although Elissa wouldn’t call it that, came to a halt.

  “You’re not listening,” Nero said.

  Her eyes snapped to him. “When will this interview end?”

  “I want you to summon that whore I call my mother from the dead.”

  “What?”

  “Bring the she-wolf here right now.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Can, can, can, you cunt!” Nero stood up from his throne. “Do these words mean anything to you: Rome burns and from union unholy the sister will bring forth a son?”

  Elissa’s throat felt raw, and when she spoke her voice sounded strangled, “The Sibylline Prophecy.”

  “I found the hexameter tucked inside my mother’s diary.”

  “It means nothing to me.”

  “It meant something to the whore.” Nero leaned close to Elissa. “I think she spawned a bastard whose bloodline rivals mine. I believe I have a long-lost sibling.”

  “If Agrippina bore another child, surely all of Rome would know.”

  “She spent ten years in exile far away from Rome. Ten years in obscurity. But that chimera wouldn’t last a week without a snake to plug her hole. The prophecy speaks of unholy union, ‘the sister will bring forth a son.’ What if my mother, sister of Gaius Caligula, conceived a child with him? Gaius banished her for ten years—why?” Nero’s eyes glittered as if he’d eaten opium. “I’ll tell you why. To keep her and his bastard safe from enemies! What if she bore his son, but before the child could be named heir to the throne, Caligula was murdered?”

  “I suppose it’s possible.”

  Everybody knew Caligula had bedded each of his three sisters—Agrippina, Livilla, and his beloved Drusilla.

  “Not just possible, but probable. Like me, my uncle longed for an heir. If you remember, he was a most expectant father, so anxious for Drusilla’s bastard to be born he plucked the infant from her womb.”

  “By disemboweling her.”

  “Unfortunate.”

  “For the mother and the child.”

  “But not for my long lost brother. I’m his only rival.”

  Elissa measured her words, “If this long-lost brother does exist, surely he would have laid claim to the throne by now.”

  “Did I ask for your opinion?” Spittle flew from Nero’s mouth. “My queen is barren. Since the death of our daughter, Poppaea’s womb has been a desert. She’s dry as dirt, at least with me. Why should my bastard brother risk his life by declaring his existence, claiming he’s the rightful heir, when he need only bide his time until my death? What if it’s he who masterminds my assassination?”

  Elissa eyed him warily.

  “Help me.” Hands open like a supplicant, he approached her. “Conjure up the stinking whore. She knows the truth.”

  “I—” Elissa’s voice caught in her throat.

  “Do it!”

  He moved toward her, pushing her against the wall, the heat of his body causing her to sweat, his breathing, rapid and uneven, rasping in her ear. Reaching above her head, he removed a knife from his collection. A pearl handled secespita, the narrow blade designed for sacrifice.

  Elissa opened her mouth to scream.

  “Don’t.” Nero pointed the secespita at her throat. “Your brother plotted with my long-lost brother, didn’t he?”

  Elissa shook her head, her eyes focused on the knife.

  “I could kill you now,” Nero said. “But I have other plans for you.” He drew the blade over his palm then took her hand in his, gently as a lover, and drew the blade again.

  Blood beaded in her hand.

  Pressing his palm against hers, he said, “My great-grandfather worshiped an Egyptian queen, dark and powerful like you. Be Cleopatra to my Antony.”

  He’s madder than Caligula, Elissa thought.

  “I’ll make you immortal. Declare you a goddess, and together we’ll conceive the heir to Rome.”

  She tore out of his grasp, ran to the door and flung it open. Blood dripping from her hand, she bolted down the corridor.

  End of Part One

  PART TWO

  A Holy Bond

  My darling, my life, you say our love is eternal,

  Ours will be a love of never-ending joy.

  Gods, I pray you, lend my love the power to speak truly,

  and if she speaks the truth, let this vow come from her heart.

  So, for all time, we shall remain true to each other,

  Bound by faith and joy, in love forever.

  —Catullus

  CHAPTER XI

  The Ides of October

  Year IX, reign of Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus

  Dear Priestess Elissa Rubria Honoria,

  I hope this missive finds you and your family well.

  I saw you at the chariot race as dawn broke this morning, but I found no opportunity to speak with you. Please advise me, if your family is in need, of any help I may provide. And please give my regards to your father. I fear I’ve angered him.

  Your friend,

  Gallus Justinus

  Elissa touched the book of poetry Justinus had given her—leaves of vellum bound in leather, a new technique imported from the Orient. The binding felt smooth, soft as skin. She folded his letter and tucked it into her stola.

  She must write to him.

  Clenching her fist, she felt the cut Nero had rendered. The wound made writing difficult. Cleopatra to his Antony, the idea sickened her. Tightening the bandage on her hand, she told herself that she had work to finish.

  She sat at the high vestal’s desk, pages of papyrus stacked in front of her, demanding to be completed. It was the job of the six vestals to scribe legal documents. Over a million scrolls from throughout the empire were stored within their archives. Along the library’s walls, sheets of papyrus hung on racks allowing ink to dry. The last will and testament of Aulus Severus, a wealthy patron of the temple, was due today. She would receive hefty payment for the work, in addition to the vestals’ generous stipend, but three copies were required, and the documents had to match exactly.

  Laughter drifted through the window. Out in the forum, flutes and drums began to play. Elissa tapped her foot in time to the music. Ignoring the last will and testament, she dipped her stylus into ink.

  Dear Gallus Justinus,

  Thank you for the book of poetry. Thus far I’ve had little time to read it. We have been busy preparing for the harvest celebration.

  I’m sorry I missed you at the chariot race this morning. I thought of you, for I know you love horses. The victor’s steed was
stunning, don’t you think? A sleek black gelding. Seeing that beauty sacrificed, the creature’s entrails smeared upon the altar of the Regia, upset me—as it has not before. It was my job to collect blood from the severed genitals in order to ensure protection of the flocks. In the past, I’ve felt honored to perform that ritual, but today I felt disgust. When I saw that butchered horse, I thought of Marcus—

  She stared out the window. What was the point of writing? No words would bring her brother back. Yet, expressing her thoughts, confiding in a kindred soul, somehow eased her pain.

  She blotted the papyrus.

  Stretching her arms, she attempted to loosen the cramp that settled in her shoulders. She glanced at the window. Lively music invited her to join the celebration. Usually she looked forward to the festival of Meditrinalia, but this year she had no cause to celebrate.

  Her gaze drifted from the stack of papyrus to the book of poetry. She picked it up, intending to place the book in a cubbyhole somewhere between the writings of Aeschylus and Zarathustra. Would it hurt to peek inside? She cracked open the binding and sheepskin pages fluttered beneath her fingers, releasing musk.

  When all hope has fled, and the empty heart meets its desire,

  Fulfillment of the heart—that—that is the greatest joy.

  Angerona strolled into the library, the veils of her suffibulum wafting on the breeze. “Burying your nose in work?” she asked.

  Elissa closed the book of poetry. “Copying legal documents.”

  “What are you reading?” Angerona plucked the book from Elissa’s hands. “Poems of Catullus. Love poems from Gallus Justinus. What would Mother Amelia say?” She plunked herself into the curule chair reserved for the Vestal Maxima.

  Elissa reached for the last will and testament and set it squarely on the desk, taking care to cover the letter she’d written to Justinus.

  “That’s Mother Amelia’s chair,” she said to Angerona.

  “So?”

  “Do you hold nothing in reverence?”

  Angerona wrapped a strand of hair around her forefinger. “I hold you in reverence,” she said. “I revere your ability to shut yourself away on such a day as this. Come out and celebrate.”

  “I have work to finish. I hope to save enough to buy a farm.” Elissa reached for her stylus.

  “A farm, how exciting.”

  “We’re no longer children. Someday I hope to retire.”

  “Someday, twenty years from now, when we’re old women. I’ve been a prisoner here since the age of seven. Remember when you arrived?” Angerona kicked Elissa’s shin.

  Elissa kicked her back. “We were nine-years-old.”

  “I was nine-and-a-half,” Angerona corrected her. “Your elder by six months. You were so scared you wet yourself.”

  “I didn’t.” Elissa dipped her stylus into ink. “In any case, that was ten years ago. We’re women now.”

  “And I’m ready for a man. Aren’t you?”

  “Angerona!”

  “What?”

  Elissa shook her head. “You forget our place.”

  “You think I can forget this prison of perpetual virginity?”

  Elissa attacked the papyrus, her stylus scratching out neat letters. “I have to complete this document.”

  “Finish it this evening.”

  “Tonight’s my night to tend the fire.”

  “The fire in the temple? Or the flame between your thighs?”

  Elissa’s fingers tightened, and the letters she scribed grew constricted.

  Angerona threw a stylus at her. “Where’s your sense of humor?”

  “Don’t you have something else to do?”

  “On this grand stage of life?” Angerona stood. Throwing out her arms, she said, “Act One: the forum and the pantomimes. Act Two: a dazzling stroll along the Via Sacra. Act Three—” She pressed her hands into the desk and leaned toward Elissa. “Come nightfall, a hundred barges lit with lanterns will float down the Tiber, carrying lovers, and I intend to be one of them.”

  Elissa concentrated on an A, the beginning of a paragraph.

  “Where does Mother Amelia keep her sweets?” Angerona chuckled. “She likes those honeyed nuts, and so do I.” With no regard for Elissa, Angerona rummaged through the desk’s cubbyholes. She found the bowl, scooped a handful of candy, and dropped several nuts into her mouth.

  Elissa straightened the papyrus, drew the ink pot closer.

  Angerona grabbed Elissa’s wrist with sticky fingers. “And then, the Grande Finale: Nero’s feast.”

  Elissa pulled away from Angerona. “I have no use for Nero.”

  “But he has use for you.”

  “What, exactly, do you mean?”

  “I mean, exactly—” Angerona licked the honey from her fingers. “How did your meeting go with him?”

  Elissa stared at Angerona, wondering how much she knew. In a house of women, few secrets remained hidden. “He wants me to call forth his dead mother.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Perfect?”

  “Allow his mother’s lemur to speak through you, and you’ll have him in your power. He’ll give you anything.”

  “Can he bring back Marcus?”

  “Life goes on, and we must make the most of it.” Angerona helped herself to another handful of nuts. “Really, Elissa, you must learn to be more politic.”

  “Like you?”

  “Why not, like me? I take care of myself, and—more importantly—I take care of my family. Someone has to protect them.”

  Elissa stabbed her pen into the inkpot, spattering the papyrus. Using a rag, she attempted to blot the sooty mess. “Now I’ll have to start again.”

  “Come out with us. We may run into Gallus Justinus.”

  Elissa felt her face turn red.

  “You’d like to see him, wouldn’t you?” Angerona goaded. “In any case, you owe him an apology.”

  “An apology for what?”

  “For your father’s rude behavior. He nearly threw Justinus out when he mentioned that Jew.”

  “You take uncommon interest in my affairs.”

  “I’m merely looking out for you. Justinus keeps strange company these days. Jews and renegades like Lucan. He’s getting money from somewhere. That book he gave you must have cost him—”

  “A birthday gift.”

  “What, exactly, is Justinus to you?”

  “He’s a—a family friend, a sort of brother.”

  “They say incest has its merits.” Angerona laughed, but it rang false. “Be careful,” she said. “You know how people love to talk.”

  Elissa snatched away the bowl of nuts. “You should go.”

  “Admit it. You’re in love with him.”

  “We’re vestals, Angerona. Married to the sacred flame.”

  “As if I might forget. You’re so chaste. So good. So pure. So utterly boring.” Angerona set the book of poetry in front of Elissa. “I’ll leave you to your…copying.” She headed to the doorway, then turned back. “By the way, I hear your sister has whet Nero’s appetite.”

  “Flavia?”

  “She’s been invited to attend his Meditrinalia feast tonight.”

  Angerona swept out of the library, the curtain swaying in her wake.

  * * * * *

  Elissa rooted through her cedar chest, tossing aside silk veils, digging through finely woven pallas, in search of the rough garments she’d worn at her brother’s death. She hadn’t had the heart to burn them. Hiding the blood-drenched robes from servants, she’d stolen into the baths and scrubbed the wool until the stains had faded. Now the clothes would serve a purpose, allowing her to brave the crowds and make her way, unnoticed, to her father’s domus.

  Under no circumstance could Flavia attend Nero’s feast.

  No doubt Angerona had latched onto a scrap of gossip and cooked it up into a meal, but Elissa refused to see her sister on the menu.

  She drew the drab stola over her tunica and belted it loosely at her waist. Instead
of wearing her white suffibulum, she threw a shabby palla over her head, wrapped it around her shoulders and draped the end over her arm.

  She glanced toward the doorway. All the other priestesses were out, even the servants had gone off to the festival. Lifting the pallet of her bed, she placed the letter from Justinus with the others, wrapped in silk and tied with a blue ribbon.

  Parting the doorway’s curtain, she peered into the dormitory. Empty. No one stirred in the other cubicles. A floorboard creaked under her weight, and she heard water hissing as it passed through lead pipes, otherwise the house was quiet.

  She paused before the door of Mother Amelia’s chambers. Nothing disturbed the Vestal Maxima’s routine, not even Meditrinalia, and she had opted for a nap. Elissa told herself, if Mother Amelia were awake, of course she would seek permission to leave the house. But the high vestal hated having her naps disturbed. Besides, asking for permission might lead to being denied. Remembering Mother Amelia’s warning. You must practice obedience to the Pontifex Maximus, only served to drive Elissa faster down the stairway.

  The atrium’s black floor glistened like a lake. Soundlessly, Elissa glided over the polished tiles. Passing the well-appointed tablinum, where the priestesses met visitors, she entered the foyer. Thais, an elderly Greek slave, slumped on a bench beside the double doors, nodding in her sleep.

  Elissa gently touched the slave’s shoulder and she woke with a start.

  “Who is going there?” Thais asked in stilted Latin.

  “Deliver this,” Elissa said, handing Thais the letter she’d written to Justinus.

  Thais secured the letter within her robe.

  “I’m going out,” Elissa said.

  “Alone?” Thais sounded grumpy. She rubbed her eyes. “There is no lictor and no coach. The others have all gone. Only me they leave, poor, poor, Thais.”

  Elissa dug into her money pouch and found a denarius. Pressing the silver coin into the slave’s palm, she said, “For your trouble.”