“Why not?”
He stared at her, his gray eyes dull as slate.
“Agrippina! Agrippina! Agrippina!”
“Shut up!” Covering his ears, he sank onto the bed, his body trembling.
“So the rumors are true,” she said.
“She made me do it.”
“You’re a coward.”
“I’m not.” He hugged himself, but he still shook. Perspiration glistened on his brow, and he gasped as if he were drowning.
“You sent your guards to do your dirty work,” Flavia said.
“Shut up! Shut up!”
“Coward,” she said softly. “I see the truth.”
Nero staggered to his feet, undid his robe and shook it off his shoulders. The fabric slipped onto the floor. He didn’t wear a loincloth.
Flavia could not help staring. She had never seen a naked man, except for statues, Egnatius had kept himself covered. Nero moved toward her, and her courage fled. Heart racing so fast it hurt, she struggled to free herself, arching her body, tugging at the bindings. But that only made them tighter. The leather cut into her wrists and ankles. She tried to scream, but her voice came out in panting breaths.
Nero yanked the wolf pelt out from under her and set the snarling head on top of his. Bending over her, he bared his teeth and growled. Then he curled his fingers into claws, jabbed one hand between her thighs, and pressed his other hand against her belly. A trickle of hot liquid leaked down her leg.
“Piss on me,” he said.
“What?”
“Pissss,” he sounded like a serpent.
“I can’t.”
Her body tensed.
“You can.”
His tongue slithered between her thighs, and she thought she would explode.
His tongue flicked relentlessly, inflicting torment—or was it pleasure? He jabbed his fist into Flavia’s belly. Unable to contain herself, she let go. He raised his head, liquid dribbling down his chin. “Nectar of the gods,” he said.
Throwing the full weight of his body onto Flavia, he sank his teeth into her stola, ripping the emerald silk away from her breasts, and latched onto a nipple.
She cried out, but he sucked until she bled.
She became aware of pounding—someone banging on the door, followed by shouting, “Let me in: it’s Poppaea!”
Nero stopped sucking and glanced at the door.
It shuddered on its hinges. “I have witnesses! Gallus Justinus and Egnatius Rubrius.”
He looked back at Flavia. “I’m sorry,” he said in a childlike voice.
She stared at him, saw tears forming in his eyes.
“Undo my bonds,” she said.
“I never meant to hurt you, Mater.”
Mother? To humor, she said, “You’ve been a bad boy,”
He nodded. “Very bad.”
She raised her voice, “And bad boys must be punished.”
“Yes.”
“Undo my bonds.”
The pounding on the door shook the room. The bed trembled, and so did Flavia.
Nero stood, wriggling off the wolf pelt.
Free of his weight, Flavia inhaled a deep breath, but she had not stopped shaking. Nero untied the leather bindings, and a thousand needles pricked her fingers. Placing her numb feet on the floor, she prayed they’d carry her across the room.
Nero stood in her way, blocking the door.
He removed a horsewhip from the wall. Raising it above his head, he cracked the leather thong. Wielding the whip, he walked toward her.
Flavia backed away from him.
“Punish me,” he said. He handed her the whip. “Go on,” he said and knelt.
“I can’t.”
“I order you!”
Tentatively, she raised the whip.
“Do it!”
She brought it down, slashing the thong across his buttocks.
“I’m sorry!” he sobbed. “Sorry, Mater.”
She wielded the lash again. It left an ugly welt. Startled at the damage she had done, she dropped the whip.
“Don’t stop,” Nero pleaded.
“I’m leaving.”
Pulling her torn stola over her breasts, she headed for the door.
“Don’t leave me.” He collapsed onto the floor, weeping, clinging to her ankles.
She shook him off, undid the bolt.
The door flew open. Poppaea, Justinus, and Egnatius stumbled in, flooding the chamber with lantern light.
“Animal,” Poppaea shrieked. “Selfish boar, I’ll castrate you!” Charging past Flavia, she pounced on Nero. He tried to crawl away from her, but she raked her fingernails across his face.
“Are you all right?” Justinus asked Flavia.
“I’ll live.”
“Did he—ah—do anything?” Egnatius stammered.
“Of course he did. You’re a child, Egnatius. A novice.”
Even his pimples blushed.
“I blame myself for what’s happened,” Justinus said. “I should have—”
“Don’t worry, I’m still intact.” Flavia glanced at Nero, still trying to escape his wife. “Let’s go to the banquet hall,” she said. “I want dessert.”
CHAPTER XVIII
The moon peeked through the latticework, spinning webs across the temple. Elissa huddled on a stone bench by the fire as night crept toward dawn. She had missed the evening meal, and now her stomach growled. But the emptiness felt more insistent than mere hunger.
Her eyes closed and her head drooped. She shook herself awake, focused on the fire, tried not to think of Justinus, and drifted back into a dream.
Waking with a start, uncertain of how much time had passed, she glanced at the cauldron. The fire had burned down.
A dull ache settled in her back. She stretched, went to the coal bin. Using a wooden shovel, she scooped black lumps into a leather bucket, carried the bucket to the fire, and poured coal onto the embers. A haze of smoke and ash flew into her face. Coughing, she rubbed her eyes with sooty fists, stopped when she heard someone call her name.
“Who’s there?”
She turned, searching the shadows. Of course, she was alone. She opened one of the double doors, peered out at the forum, and then closed it.
She stirred the coals with an iron poker. A gust rushed through the room, reviving the fire. Moving closer to the cauldron, closer to the heat and light, she ran her fingers through the flames. She loved the fire’s constant change, its power to transform and purify. She gazed into the cauldron, losing track of time, and within the shifting, flickering light, a shape began to form. A torso. Limbs. And then a face.
Elissa, a voice whispered.
Or was it the fire’s hiss?
Her brother’s face, eyes receding into sunken sockets, appeared within the flames. She closed her eyes, then opened them, and still she saw his face. His body, bruised and battered, rose slowly from the cauldron. He stared blankly at her.
“Are you a lemur?” she asked.
Rome burns.
She rubbed her forehead and wondered if she were still dreaming.
Rome burns and from union unholy the sister will bring forth a son. Her brother’s voice sounded hollow. Save yourself Elissa.
“Save myself from what?”
From fate. Unravel the prophecy.
“Tell me what it means.”
Her brother made a screeching sound. Blood spewed from the cavern of his mouth, sizzling in the flames.
“Marcus!” She reached into the fire wanting to touch him, wanting to draw him back to life, but succeeded only in singeing her fingers. His face melted like a wax death-mask, his eyes becoming wide and empty, before vanishing.
Rome burns, the fire hissed.
Choking on black smoke, Elissa ran to the doors and flung them open. No orange blaze lit up the city, no flames licked the horizon. She heard no frantic screams, no tortured wails, only the incessant clattering of wooden wheels on cobblestones.
Wind whistled through the
temple, sent cinders swirling from the cauldron, a thousand souls escaping the womb of the Great Mother. A thousand souls doomed to live and die.
Rome burns....
Covering her ears, Elissa refused to listen to the prophecy.
She sank onto her knees. “Help,” she cried, though she had no idea to whom she pleaded.
Paul’s words mocked her.
What are we without love?
“Nothing.”
She felt small, insignificant. Unloved and unloving. She told herself she must have faith, if not in ancient deities, in Paul’s Almighty God and in his son, Jesus.
“My Lord,” Elissa whispered, “if you exist, show yourself. If you exist, save Rome from destruction.” She pressed her forehead to the floor, waited for an answer, prayed for some sign she’d been heard.
The fire crackled.
She listened to the sound of her own breathing.
Listened for words of wisdom.
The prophecy ran through her mind.
Rome burns and from union unholy, the sister will bring forth a son.
“Help me, please!”
The floor felt cold against her forehead, hard beneath her knees. Her body ached. What if the gods were not just powerless, what if they did not exist? What if her prayers fell, not on deaf ears, but on no ears at all? What if all that mattered in this world was power and brute strength?
She found no comfort in the temple.
None in her beliefs. None in her family. None in her religion.
No comfort anywhere.
CHAPTER XIX
Flavia clung to the chariot as Justinus cracked his whip, urging the stallions to go faster. Bare breasted, hair flying, she imagined herself a goddess—a creature of her dreams. She felt wildly triumphant, no longer a child.
The stallions charged through empty streets. In night’s twelfth hour, before dawn, traffic was minimal and so the chariot made good speed. Jaw clenched, Justinus stood as far away from her as possible. Despite her protests, he’d dragged her through the banquet hall, just as a cake, dripping with honey, stuffed with pine-nuts and sultanas, was being served.
“You could have let me have my cake,” she said.
“Your parents will be frantic when they discover you’re missing.”
“My parents are asleep.” She used her most sophisticated tone of voice, a voice she had practiced, attempting to sound condescending. “When they wake they should rejoice that someone in our family has made amends for my brother’s bad behavior and has won Nero’s favor.”
Justinus grabbed her wrist and squeezed until she thought the bones might snap.
“Stupid girl! Your brother was a hero.”
“Drunk!” She tried to break away from him, but his grip tightened. “I’m not a child,” she said.
“Only a child would be naive enough to think she held sway over Nero.” With a look of disgust, Justinus released her.
“Only a drunk would guzzle enough wine to fall into a stupor at a banquet. You’ve hurt me.” She rubbed her wrist. Granted the bruises weren’t from Justinus, but from Nero’s bindings.
“Poppaea laced my wine with some kind of potion,” Justinus said.
“Why would she do that?”
“Perhaps for her amusement. Who knows why those in power do anything.” Justinus focused on the road ahead. “What happened in that room?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing I care to discuss.”
“Nero can’t be trusted. The game you play is dangerous.”
“Perhaps I like danger.” She shot Justinus a smile, and he returned it with a frown. He was gloomy, and far too serious. He reminded her of Elissa.
“Cover yourself,” he said.
She folded her arms over her torn stola, determined to say nothing more. No matter what Justinus thought, Nero desired her. Justinus might think he was wise, but he knew nothing. Had he witnessed Nero’s sobs? Seen Nero crawl? Heard him beg for punishment?
Flavia had to admit Nero’s behavior was far from what she had expected. All her life she’d heard stories about love. Some of the stories seemed fantastic—princes held under a spell, swans transforming into men, slave-girls rescued by a king—but she had also heard the whisperings of servants and the gossip of her mother’s friends. They spoke of men tricking women into bed, wooing them with wine and jewels. They spoke of men who forced women to do their bidding, like Egnatius had done to her. But none of those clandestine conversations mentioned that a man might beg for punishment. She rubbed her breasts, still sore from Nero’s suckling, and knew she should find his behavior frightening. But, in truth, the prospect of another encounter excited her.
From her perch in the chariot, she watched the city pass. One day, she vowed, she’d be celebrated. One day, slaves would carry her through Rome in her own palanquin, as they did Poppaea, and crowds would gawk at her passing. But now there were no crowds, only vigiles patrolling the streets in search of fire and a few stragglers from the Meditrinalia festival. Shops were closed, no workmen manned their posts, not even the street sweepers. Most citizens had gone home long ago. Drunken shouting echoed through an alleyway and a gang of toughs appeared. Flavia allowed her stola to fall to her waist, and the young men caterwauled.
“Cover yourself,” Justinus ordered her.
“You’re no fun,” she said.
Thrilled at being out while others slept, she gazed at the stars, yellowish and fading. She wished morning would never come. When her parents learned that she’d attended Nero’s feast, they would be furious. No doubt they would keep her under lock and key. But having experienced one night of freedom, she was determined to spread her wings.
And my legs.
She chuckled at her joke.
“Is something funny?” Justinus asked.
“Everything.”
Cracking his whip, he urged the stallions up the Esquiline. The chariot approached The House of Rubrius, and Flavia felt her old life closing in. Justinus jumped down from the chariot, secured the horses to a post, and offered her his hand.
She refused his assistance.
In day’s first light the world looked colorless and dead.
They walked along the garden path and, before they reached the entryway, barking broke the quiet of the dawn. The door opened and Spurius stood on the threshold, keys jangling at his waist. He held Cerberus on a short leash.
Behind the steward, to Flavia’s dismay, she saw her mother.
Constantina pushed past Spurius. “Thank Jupiter you’re home,” she cried, taking Flavia into her arms.
“I’m fine, Mater.”
“Where have you been?” Constantina brushed a lock of hair out of Flavia’s face then looked her over. “Your stola is torn. And is that blood?”
“I’m tired, Mater. I want to go to bed.”
Constantina grabbed Flavia’s hands, examining her wrists. “How did you get these bruises?” She spun toward Justinus, her usually mild manner gone. “I demand an explanation.”
“I escaped from my room,” Flavia said before Justinus could answer. “I climbed a tree, scaled the roof and got the bruises when I fell.”
“You fell? Is anything broken.”
“I’m fine, Mater. I went to the palace.”
“Gallus Justinus took you to Nero’s feast?”
“I-I didn’t take her,” Justinus said. “I merely—”
“You’re no longer welcome in this house.” Constantina pointed a slender finger at Gallus Justinus, forcing him backward. “Leave, before I wake my husband!” She dragged Flavia up the stairs and shoved her through the doorway.
“Mater, stop!”
“You don’t understand—” Justinus tried to explain.
Spurius slammed the door on him.
“Thank you, Spurius.” Constantina said. “I’m sure I can count on you to be discreet.”
“Yes, Domina.” Keys clinking and Cerberus in tow, the steward shuffled away—back to his
morning chores.
Constantina grabbed Flavia’s bruised wrist and steered her through the foyer. It hurt, but Flavia said nothing. Never had she seen her mother so angry. Wordlessly, they passed through the vestibule of ancestors, and by the time they reached the atrium, Constantina had regained her composure.
“You will say nothing more about climbing trees or running away,” she said. “Gallus Justinus must shoulder the blame.”
“Justinus has nothing to do with this.”
“Of course he does—”
“Don’t be stupid Mater. I saw the missive Nero sent to Pater. If you could read, you’d know I was invited to the feast.”
“What are you saying?”
“Nero invited me to the Domus Transitoria, and I went. No harm came of it.”
“No harm? What of your reputation? A young girl running around Rome. What man will have you now? When your father learns of this, Gallus Justinus will be charged with abduction.”
“He didn’t abduct me. This is my fault.”
“Of course it’s not your fault. You’re just a child.”
“I’m not a child!” Flavia stamped her foot.
“Quiet, you’ll wake your father.” Constantina lowered her voice, “There is one way to save your reputation. You must marry Egnatius. And soon.”
“No!” Flavia’s voice echoed through the atrium. “I won’t marry that imbecile, and you can’t make me. Are you blind, Mater? I don’t intend to marry anyone. I’m Nero’s new favorite.”
Constantina’s slap came as a shock. Flavia rubbed her stinging cheek, her eyes filling with tears. Unsure of why she was crying, she only knew that she felt powerless.
“I’m not a child,” she said again.
But Constantina turned her back. She wasn’t listening.
CHAPTER XX
Ringing pounded in Elissa’s ears.
Bells?
She opened her eyes. The rising sun peeked through the temple’s latticework, a cool light in a pallid sky. She rubbed her brow, trying to recall what she’d been dreaming. Paul’s words came back to her.
Prepare yourself for God.
She wanted to believe in a loving God, a God who saw what happened here on earth and cared about the plight of people. All night she’d prayed, hoping for a sign from Jesus—assurance that he noticed her. But in the dawn’s chill light she felt invisible.
Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome Page 14