Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  She backed away. “I only know that since that day Elissa has been different.”

  “How dare you speak of her?”

  “Anyone can see I’m prettier.”

  “You’re revolting. Worse than a whore. Get out,” he said quietly.

  Her eyes flared with anger. “Perhaps there’s something else between you and Elissa. Maybe the two of you are plotting treason,” she said.

  “Would you have me burned like Marcus?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I know what you did.” He pressed her against the wall, allowing her no escape.

  “I had no choice.”

  “No choice but to destroy your friends?”

  “Nero threatened to make my sister his courtesan.”

  “And you preferred to sacrifice the man who refused to destroy your reputation?”

  “I’m only trying to survive—”

  “And now you plan to sacrifice Elissa.”

  “No.”

  He peered into her frightened eyes. “What have you told Tigellinus?”

  Angerona shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Justinus touched her neck, felt her pulse beneath his fingertips. “Strangulation is an unpleasant death, slower than you might imagine. First the eyes bulge from their sockets, then the lips turn blue—”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  He pressed his thumb against her throat. “Tell me, Angerona, what does Tigellinus want?”

  “He says Elissa holds Nero in a spell. He told me to find evidence against her, fabricate it if I have to, something damning to be used in court—” Her voice broke with a sob.

  Justinus released her.

  “What of me, Justinus?” she asked in a small voice. “I’m so afraid.” Her beauty crumbled—a fine statue, disfigured and destroyed.

  Justinus jerked open the curtain, nearly ripped it from the rod.

  “Goodbye, Angerona.”

  CHAPTER XXII

  Elissa, Marcia, and Cornelia stood before the Vestal Maxima. Elissa’s gaze followed the carpet’s familiar pattern. Since Junia’s death, the colors seemed less vibrant, and she noticed a threadbare spot. Cubbyholes still lined the library’s walls, stuffed with books and documents, but somehow they seemed emptier. Death, Justinus had said in his last letter, transforms the soul, preparing us for God.

  “We all miss Priestess Junia, but the time of mourning is over.” Mother Amelia straightened the wax tablets covering her desk, and settled in her curule chair. “I’ve called you here to discuss—” She glanced around the room. “Where is Priestess Angerona?”

  Elissa glanced at the doorway.

  For the past month she and Angerona had barely spoken. When they did, they quarreled over minor irritations—how the fire should be laid, the correct format of a document, whether or not it would rain. They never spoke of Justinus. Never mentioned Marcus.

  “She was present at the midday meal,” Marcia said.

  “I hate pea-soup.” Cornelia wrinkled her nose. “I wish the cook would go back to barley—”

  “Angerona took no soup,” Marcia said. “Only bread and cheese. A little watered wine, I think. No honey. And no almond cake.”

  “You had a third helping,” Cornelia said.

  “Little girls should be seen and not—”

  “Thank you, Marcia,” said Mother Amelia, ending the discussion. “We shall begin our meeting without Priestess Angerona. I’m pleased to announce the Pontifex Maximus and the Collegiate of Pontiffs proclaims our sanctuary purified. It’s time for us to continue business as usual.”

  She dipped her hand into her bowl of sweets, popped a nut into her mouth. “As you know, another priestess must be selected to join our ranks. As is our tradition, the new priestess will be determined by lottery. The Pontifex Maximus has nominated twenty candidates.”

  “Who?” Marcia demanded. “I know every family of consequence and—”

  The curtain opened, and the vestals turned to see who entered. Angerona, her veil askew, her stola rumpled, swept into the library. She bobbed in deference to the Vestal Maxima then took her place, not beside Elissa, as once she would have done, but next to Marcia.

  “Where have you been?” Mother Amelia asked.

  “Fighting dragons, killing snakes.”

  Angerona looked at Elissa, and Elissa’s stomach tightened.

  “Speak in plain Latin,” Mother Amelia said.

  “I was on a mission.”

  “To what end?”

  “As I’ve mentioned in the past, but you’ve chosen to ignore, I suspect corruption within the House of Vestals.”

  Mother Amelia leaned over her desk. “False allegations will not be tolerated.”

  “The allegation isn’t false. A month ago I followed Elissa Rubria and Gallus Justinus into the Subura—”

  “And I haven’t seen him since,” Elissa said.

  “But you’ve been exchanging letters, haven’t you? You and Justinus are lovers.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Silence!” Mother Amelia slammed her bowl of sweets on the desktop, and candied nuts went flying. “This meeting is over. Don’t stray from the house, Priestess Angerona. After I speak to Elissa, I will speak with you.”

  “I’m sure our conversation will be stimulating.”

  “Go.” Mother Amelia pointed toward the doorway.

  Angerona stalked out of the library, followed by Marcia—redder in the face than usual. Cornelia skipped after them, asking questions.

  Mother Amelia nodded at a stool and Elissa sat. “Look at me.”

  Elissa raised her eyes, expecting to see Mother Amelia’s anger, but she saw only weariness. With a sigh, Mother Amelia asked, “Have you seen Gallus Justinus?”

  Elissa shook her head.

  “But you’ve been writing letters.”

  “Yes, Mother Amelia.”

  “Love letters are—”

  “Not love letters, Mother Amelia, scholarly discussions. He writes to me about Paul of Tarsus.”

  The high vestal looked taken aback. Taking a deep breath, she leaned back in her chair. “His letters pertain to a foreign religious sect? Love letters might have been preferable,” she said, more to herself than to Elissa.

  “Poppaea favors Jews.”

  “You are not Poppaea. Followers of The Way are rabble-rousers, and you will have no part of them. Am I understood, Elissa?”

  “Yes, Mother Amelia.”

  “Meanwhile, if Priestess Angerona pursues these allegations, you may face an inquiry, even a trial.”

  “She has no proof.”

  “Are you certain? Even if she lacks proof, Angerona holds something far more dangerous, the ear of Tigellinus.”

  Elissa laughed bitterly. “Now there’s a judge of character, a man of high ideals.”

  “Nevertheless, your fate is in his hands.”

  Elissa had no argument. Tigellinus, it seemed, determined the fate of everyone.

  “Open the shutters, Elissa. We need fresh air.”

  The window looked out on the courtyard’s garden—neat rows of winter vegetables, patches of herbs, stalks of dying flowers. Summer’s abundance had given way to roots and kale—hearty fare that could endure November’s dropping temperatures. Fingers of blue-black clouds stretched across the sky, promising more rain—the heavy hand of Jupiter.

  “Come here, Elissa.” Mother Amelia reached out her hand, knotted by arthritis and spotted with age. “All my life I’ve done my best to take care of my girls.”

  “You’ve been a mother to me.”

  “Have I?”

  “More than Constantina,” Elissa said wistfully. “I hardly know my mother, hardly know my family. Sometimes I think of them as strangers.”

  Mother Amelia’s eyes sparkled with tears.

  “Is something wrong?” Elissa asked.

  “There’s something you should know, something I should have told you long ago—”

  A
clap of thunder made them jump.

  “Shall I close the shutters?” Elissa asked.

  “Leave them open. I like the smell of rain.”

  “What were you about to say?”

  Mother Amelia shook her head. “Sit down, my dear.”

  Elissa sank onto the stool. She listened to the beat of rain, steady, persistent, like a memory trying to break through to consciousness.

  “There are things that you don’t understand, things I hesitate to speak of—” Mother Amelia picked up a stylus, examined the sharp tip, then set the stylus down again. “But I will tell you this: your family is in danger. Nero employs spies...” Mother Amelia’s voice trailed off.

  “Angerona?”

  “One of many.” Mother Amelia picked up the pen and twiddled the stylus between her fingers. “Sometimes, to protect the ones we love, we must make a sacrifice.”

  “What sacrifice?”

  Mother Amelia tapped the stylus on her desk.

  “What sacrifice?” Elissa demanded.

  “Your sister has been named one of the candidates.”

  “Flavia? But she’s fourteen, older than Cornelia, too old to be selected as a vestal virgin.”

  Mother Amelia tapped the stylus in time with the rain. Click, click, click. An unsettling sound. “The Pontifex Maximus has persuaded the Collegiate of Pontiffs to make an exception.”

  “Why?” Elissa guessed the answer. She had refused Nero’s advances, foiled his plan to seduce Flavia and keep her for himself, and now he’d hatched another plan, a new form of extortion. She saw into his mind as if peering through an open window. “My sister can’t be named a candidate,” she said. “She’s betrothed.”

  “The Pontifex Maximus has offered to pay the groom twice the amount of the dowry as compensation.”

  “And Egnatius agrees?”

  “Apparently.” Mother Amelia continued tapping, though the rhythm grew erratic.

  Elissa wanted to scream. She wanted to kick the Vestal Maxima’s desk, stop the infernal click, click, click.

  She went to the window, allowing raindrops to bombard her face. Leaning over the sill, she gulped moist air. Her gaze fell on the rows of kale, parsnips, and beet greens.

  She looked up at the Domus Transitoria, searching for some sign of Nero. He had no respect for the sacred office of Pontifex Maximus, no respect for the sacred order of the vestal virgins. If Flavia were selected, with no husband or father to object, Nero would use her as he wanted.

  Rome burns and from union unholy, the sister will bring forth a son.

  What if the prophecy had nothing to do with Agrippina? What if the unholy union referred to the seduction of a vestal virgin? Virgins were often referred to as sisters. What if the prophecy referred to Flavia?

  “My sister is unfit to be a vestal virgin.”

  “The Pontifex Maximus disagrees.”

  “My parents will never consent.”

  “They already have.”

  Elissa turned from the window. How could Mother Amelia sit there, so calmly, tapping her pen? She stalked over to the Vestal Maxima, grabbed the offending stylus from her hand, snapped the reed in half and threw it on the floor. “Don’t you see, it’s just a ploy? Nero plans to make my sister his whore!”

  “That much is obvious, Elissa.”

  She stared at the Vestal Maxima, saw her with new eyes. “You’ve been well paid, haven’t you? You’ve orchestrated this arrangement.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Elissa. There’s nothing I can do. Nothing anyone can do. Truth be told, Nero can have your sister any time he wants—”

  “But if she’s a vestal virgin, her corruption will be that much juicier.”

  “If she’s a vestal, perhaps we can protect her.”

  “How?”

  “We can watch over her.”

  “If you permit this travesty, you’re as corrupt as Nero.”

  “Sometimes we must make a sacrifice—”

  “I’ve already sacrificed my brother. I won’t offer up my sister.” Attempting to control her rage, Elissa picked up the broken stylus and set the pieces on the desk. “I trusted you.”

  “Elissa, listen to reason—”

  “And if my father refused the nomination, what then?”

  “Your family’s ruin. Your disgrace.” Mother Amelia pressed her hands into the marble desk and leaned toward Elissa. “Spies mark your every move. If you stand in Nero’s way, he will turn your friends against you, as proved by Angerona. Stand in Nero’s way, and he’ll destroy you. Even if you’re innocent, he will find you guilty.”

  Lightening followed by a clap of thunder, portended Jupiter’s approval.

  “I guess it’s settled.”

  “Yes.”

  A metallic taste washed over Elissa’s tongue, a taste as poisonous as hemlock. She felt the prick of her incisors, imagined plunging sharpened fangs into Nero’s jugular. So much for prayers to an Almighty God. So much for miracles and Jesus. No god was powerful enough to wrestle Nero.

  Mother Amelia found a stray piece of candy and slipped it into her mouth.

  “When will the lottery be held?” Elissa asked.

  “At winter solstice. Nero plans to announce our new addition at his Saturnalia banquet.”

  “Perfect.” How suitable for an upside-down decision to be made during that topsy-turvy festival when masters waited on their slaves, senators dressed up as clowns, and fools dressed up as senators.

  Elissa stared out the window as rain pelted the withered garden. She shivered. How would she survive the encroaching winter? Perhaps she’d burrow deep into the ground and hide like a root vegetable. Like mandragora root.

  Mandragora.

  She bit her tongue to stop herself from saying it aloud. Mandragora. Love Apple. Most mysterious of herbs. Old wives claimed carrying the root close to the heart would lure a lover, the berries were an aphrodisiac, and a sprinkling of powder would inspire conception even in a barren womb. Named Devil’s Apple by the Persians, mandragora was prescribed to cast out demons, foretell the future, stupefy an enemy. The taproot fattened quickly and could lengthen to four feet. Jews claimed the plant shrieked when uprooted. And everybody knew that boiling mandragora root resulted in a lethal poison.

  “If that’s all,” Elissa said, “I’d like to do some work out in the garden.”

  CHAPTER XXIII

  A leaf swirled through the open ceiling, fluttered through the atrium and settled in the pool. A tiny boat, Flavia thought, drifting out to sea.

  “Pay attention,” Constantina said, “or your spinning won’t improve.”

  Steadying her left hand, Flavia attempted to keep the distaff, top-heavy with flax, from tipping. In her right hand she held the weighted spindle, a slender rod designed to whorl the flax into thread. Copying her mother, she allowed the spindle’s weight to draw out the flax and tried to make an even thread. It snapped.

  “Again,” her mother said.

  “Vestals don’t have to spin flax.”

  “You haven’t been selected yet.”

  “I will be.”

  Soon, Flavia told herself, she’d be rescued from marrying Egnatius. Just that morning Nero had sent her a handsome gift, a strand of lustrous pearls. She touched the necklace.

  “Stop day-dreaming, Flavia.”

  She took up the spindle again and attempted to whorl another strand of thread.

  “Remember yesterday, Mater, when we went to get the flax?”

  “Concentrate on what you’re doing.”

  The morning had been chilly. She and her mother had huddled together in the coach, their cloaks wrapped tight and sheepskins snug over their knees. Flavia had pretended they were on a journey to somewhere exciting—Macedonia, where King Titus had turned everything he touched to gold, or Arabia, the land of genies, wishes and magic. She imagined traveling in her private coach, wrapped in silk and fur. But her daydream had been broken when they reached the city gates.

  Beyond the wall a crowd had ga
thered and, as the coach left the city, it seemed a riot might erupt. The coachman urged the horses on, toward open fields and orchards, but a horde of people blocked the road.

  “Crucify him,” a man shouted.

  “Drive stakes into his wrists!”

  “The cross is too good for him.”

  “Look away,” Constantina said.

  But Flavia could not help staring.

  Her mother pointed to the sky. “See that flock of birds flying in formation? That’s a good omen for our purchase.”

  “Ravens flying westward are a sign of death, Mater.” Flavia tugged her mother’s arm. “What are they doing to that man?”

  “Pay attention,” Constantina said, bringing Flavia back to the present.

  “Ouch.” She sucked blood from her finger.

  “That’s what you get for day-dreaming. Be careful. The spindle’s sharp.” Constantina drew out a perfect thread, even and strong.

  Flavia rolled her eyes. Her mother always made such useful comments. “Why did they crucify that man, Mater?”

  “Stop thinking about that man or you’ll have nightmares.”

  “But, what did he do?”

  “He was a criminal. A slave. Many slaves are crucified.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “He bore the stigma of a fugitive. He must have run away.” Constantina shook her finger at Flavia. “When we don’t obey the law, when we are disobedient, we can expect punishment.”

  “I’m sick of spinning.” Flavia dropped her distaff and spindle. A breeze blew through the atrium, damp and chilly. Though steam-heat ran through the floor, the room felt cold. “I’m going out.”

  “It’s nearly time for bed, and it’s raining.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You’re not to leave.”

  “I’m sick of doing women’s work, sick of this house.” Flavia ran her hand through her silvery tresses, twisted a strand around her finger.

  “Stop pulling on your hair.”

  “Perhaps I’ll pay a visit to the Domus Transitoria tomorrow.” She rearranged the necklace Nero had given her, playing with the double strand.

  “I want you to return those pearls.”

  “That would be rude, Mater.”