“There’s no reasoning with you!” Lucan’s voice brought Justinus back to the present. “You spew fantastic tales of miracles and divine intervention, but I have faith only in men’s greed.”
“My faith is in the Lord,” Paul said.
“Jesus was a man, like you and me. The ‘Lord’ you tout does not exist.”
Paul set down the panel he’d been sewing. “Sit.”
Lucan opened his mouth as if to continue arguing then closed it. Unable to ignore Paul’s command, he sat. Justinus sank onto a cushion next to Timothy and Luke.
“I see myself in you, young man,” Paul said, rising stiffly. “I’ve grown old, but I remember being just like you.” He winked at Lucan. “Self-righteous and arrogant.”
Lucan began to speak, but Paul raised a hand to stop him.
“Hear me out,” he said. “Humor an old man.” His smile made it impossible for Lucan to disagree. “I was the Pharisee of Pharisees, following Mosaic Law to the last letter. My great joy was to punish followers of Jesus. Who were they to heal the sick on the Sabbath? To feast on unsanctioned meat, and preach to gentiles? Infidels! I would see them dead.”
The floorboards creaked as Paul paced the room. He tugged at his gray beard. “Under the highest temple authority, in order to quell corruption, I was appointed to journey to Damascus. The road was tedious and unforgiving. My men were soon exhausted, but I drove them on. Outside the city gates I met my nemesis. An orb burned in the heavens, brighter than sun, blinding me with scalding light. I fell onto my knees as did my men. We prostrated ourselves, as no Jew should, except to the Divine Creator. And a voice said to me, ‘Saul,’—my Hebrew name is Saul—‘why do you persecute me?’
“You may imagine my amazement. ‘Who are you?’ I asked.
“The voice answered, ‘Jesus Christos, your savior.’ ”
Paul’s face grew radiant, and Justinus stared at him in wonder.
“Three days later I was baptized and my sight returned.” The prophet looked around the room with eyes sharp as a falcon’s. “I tell you this, so you may learn from my example.”
Even Lucan remained speechless.
Justinus wiped his nose, blinked his watery eyes. Within the confines of this room he felt the presence of the Lord. God’s love shimmered in the oil lamp’s glow, tempering encroaching shadows. Was it possible the light of Christos might dispel a world of darkness?
“In Christos we are one,” Paul said. “Roman, Jew, Greek, Egyptian.”
“I’ll never count myself as one with Nero,” Lucan said.
“Hate breeds hate,” Paul said. “I don’t believe in violence.”
“And I—” Lucan got up, walked toward the door. “—I don’t believe in miracles.”
CHAPTER XXVI
XIV before the Kalends of January
Year IX, reign of Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus
Dear Justinus,
I find my mood blacker than these winter nights. The dark of the year is dedicated to Vesta, goddess of the hearth, but tonight her fire offers me no light. I see no way out of this obscurity—
But one.
Elissa touched the vial of mandragora she hid within her stola.
Tonight, as you know, a new vestal virgin will be chosen by lottery at Nero’s Saturnalia feast. Some place their bets on Faustina Equita, daughter of a wealthy corn merchant; others favor Claudia Avisia. Astrologers have studied the position of the stars, haruspices have interpreted the splayed entrails of twenty bullocks, but you and I know, Nero will decide the outcome.
She gazed through the open ceiling of her father’s atrium. A single star floated in a sea of night. Pigeons cooed in the rafters and the house creaked as water carried heat beneath the floorboards. She shifted in her chair, unable to get comfortable.
Across from her, Flavia reclined on a couch, her slender legs propped on cushions, her tumbled hair gilded by the oil-lamp’s glow.
“What are you writing?” Flavia asked.
“Nothing.” Elissa ripped the papyrus in half and fed it to the brazier’s flames. She wandered aimlessly around the room and returned to her chair.
“Do you think Pater will get better?” Flavia asked.
“I don’t know.”
Their father had suffered another bout of apoplexy. Weakness of the heart, according to Doctor Karpos. Elissa had spent the afternoon tending him. Only at her mother’s insistence had she left the stuffy bedchamber. Constantina, ever dutiful, would sit vigil by her husband’s side throughout the night. Consequently, Elissa had been appointed to represent her family and escort Flavia to the Saturnalia banquet.
“We should go,” she said. “Get this over with.”
“I don’t want to arrive early. I intend to make an entrance.”
Elissa sighed.
Spurius shuffled across the room and set a bowl of apples on a small table that stood between the sisters. “A Saturnalia gift from Gallus Justinus. He hopes your parents will accept, and—” The old slave’s shaggy eyebrows lowered, and his gaze fixed on Flavia. “He offers his apologies.”
“Thank you, Spurius,” Elissa said, cutting short his impending lecture.
“It’s others should apologize.” Spurius left the atrium, his gait decidedly more sprightly.
No doubt he was headed to the kitchen for a helping of food and gossip. The servants would huddle over fish stewed with onions, discussing moral values, whispering about Flavia’s impropriety, ruminating on the fate of the House of Rubrius. Later, woes forgotten, they’d go out to celebrate.
Extending her foot, Flavia pushed away the bowl of apples with her toes. “According to Nero,” she said, “apples harm the vocal cords.”
“By all means, let’s give him several.”
The vial of mandragora felt cold against Elissa’s breast.
If only she could be a child again curled in her father’s lap, secure within the safety of his arms. If only she could play a game of hide and seek with Marcus or help her mother to spin flax. If only she could live a different life. How pleasant it would be to gather in the evening with her family for a meal, discuss the day’s events with her husband, weave bedtime stories for the children.
She glanced at the curtain leading to her father’s bedchamber. “I’d better check on Pater.”
“He’s asleep,” Flavia said. “The physician prescribed a potion.” Sitting up, she stretched her arms. She bent over the table, examining the bowl of apples, touching each of them before choosing the brightest scarlet apple in the bowl. Falling back onto the couch, she took a noisy bite.
“You just said apples harm the voice.”
Flavia shrugged. “Lot’s of things are bad for me, but I still like them.”
Elissa shot her a disapproving look. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”
“About what?”
“Marriage.”
“I have other plans.” Flavia crunched the apple.
“Nero murdered your brother. Burned him alive.”
“I’ll make sure he gets his punishment.”
“How?”
“I have my ways.” Flavia took another bite, severing the apple’s core.
Sitting straighter in her chair, Elissa studied her sister. When had she become so cold? “How do you think Marcus would feel,” she said, “if he saw what you are doing? If he knew you planned to bed the man who murdered him?”
“Marcus is dead. His opinion doesn’t matter.”
“He died to save your life.”
“To save my life?”
“Nero threatened to have you tortured. When Marcus heard that threat, he donned the poisoned robe.”
Flavia stopped chewing. “Even if that’s true, it doesn’t change my plans.”
“Of course not. You care only for yourself, your position in society.”
“And you don’t? You’re a vestal virgin. Educated, allowed to own property. You have freedom other women dream about. Would you give up your freedom to marry Eg
natius?” Flavia spat a seed onto the floor. “I know what men are, and I know how to use them.”
“You think you can control Nero?”
“I know what he wants.”
“You have no idea.”
Flavia pursed her carmine lips, the color of a prostitute’s. “He’s a man, Elissa. He might select me as a vestal, but I won’t remain a virgin. And I’ll see he pays a high price for the honor.”
“Fool!” Elissa slapped the apple from Flavia’s hand, and the fruit bounced across the tiles. “You think you’ll outmaneuver Nero?”
“I intend to try.”
“Don’t go to the feast. I’ll make your excuses, explain Pater has fallen ill. A vestal’s parents must be of good health—”
“I’m going.”
“How can you be so selfish? Marry Egnatius and you may live to be a mother. Marry Egnatius and our parents may survive to become grandparents. Stupid girl!”
“You’re the fool, Elissa. Pining away for Gallus Justinus. Do you think he’ll wait another twenty years for you? You think he’ll want to couple with a hag of forty?” She smiled. “I wonder what it would be like to bed him.”
Elissa clenched her jaw, controlling the urge to slap her sister.
“He’s well built, I grant you,” Flavia said. “No wonder women find him attractive. Have you noticed his bulge? I’m trying to imagine how large his member gets. You know they swell, don’t you, Elissa? Grow hard and big, long as a cucumber.”
“A cucumber?” Elissa couldn’t help but ask.
“And point straight up, like a spear. I’ll bet Justinus’s phallus is bigger than a bull’s, bigger than an elephant’s, bigger than—”
“You’re disgusting!”
Flavia surveyed the bowl of apples and chose a yellow one. “I think you’re jealous.”
“Of you?”
“Have you never wondered what it would be like to slide your naked body against a man’s, to feel him deep inside of you—”
“Quiet.” Elissa glanced toward their father’s chamber. She ran her hand over her forehead and noticed she felt feverish. How many nights had she lain awake, imagining?
“Catch.” Flavia tossed her the apple.
“Has Nero taken your virginity?”
“Not yet.” Flavia started up the stairs, then turned back to Elissa. “Perhaps tonight. I’m going to get ready now.”
If Flavia hadn’t run, Elissa would have tackled her.
Sinking back into her chair, she examined the apple. Yellow with a rosy blush.
CHAPTER XXVII
Blood dripped from the altar of the Temple of Saturn, pooling on the marble, soaking the priests’ robes, while a band of flute-players drowned the victims’ squawks and squeals. The Pontifex Maximus had outdone all expectations, sacrificing not only four score of sheep, six score of oxen, a hundred pigs, but black-and-white striped horses from the plains of Africa, Caspian leopards from Asia, flocks of exotic birds never before seen in Rome. Flavia’s meager sacrifice of Romulus and Remus could not compare to Nero’s spectacle.
She watched Nero, studying the way he stood, the way he spoke, looking for some glimmer of the desperate child, but he kept his weakness hidden. He stood beside the altar, crowned by a diadem studded with pearls and gemstones, Master of Saturnalia, Lord of The Roman Empire. Her brother’s murderer. More than anything, she wanted to see him grovel.
“Let the feast begin,” he proclaimed, and the crowd broke into cheers.
The plebs adored their Caesar—his charismatic smile, his penchant for spectacle. Flavia could not help admiring his power. Despite his filthy deeds and perverse ways, she felt strangely attracted to him.
“I’ve never witnessed such extravagance,” she said to her sister.
“Wasteful butchery,” Elissa muttered.
Elissa took Flavia’s arm in hers, steering Flavia away from the bloody altar and through the noisy throng. Above the forum, on Palatine Hill, every window in the palace glowed. The sisters climbed the steps of the Temple of Castor and Pollux. Guards flanking the stairway stood straighter, out of respect for a vestal, as Elissa passed.
Flavia lifted her hem, exposing a slender ankle. Her white robe, meant to be pristine and modest, clung to her body. Having neglected to bind her breasts, her nipples stood erect, demanding the guards’ attention. She enjoyed hearing the men gasp, sensed the heat of their desire—assurance that she possessed a power greater than her sister’s.
“Cover yourself,” Elissa said, pausing to rearrange Flavia’s palla.
They walked through the temple to the entrance of the Domus Transitoria. When they arrived at the doors, Flavia shrugged the palla from her shoulders. She was rewarded by a lascivious smile from the prefect of the Praetorian Guard. Tigellinus slouched in a chair, his feet propped on a table.
“Good evening,” Elissa said, her tone as warm as ice.
“Priestess Elissa.” Tigellinus did not bother to stand up, but slumped lower in his chair. “I see you’ve brought your not-so-little sister.”
“Must I open the doors or will you trouble yourself?”
“No trouble, Priestess Elissa. I’ll make sure of that.”
Tigellinus snapped his fingers and two slaves lifted the heavy bar. The doors opened with a groan. “Enjoy yourselves,” Tigellinus said, his eyes focused on Flavia’s chest.
He was a pig by any standards, far too lowly to touch her. Flavia offered him a condescending smile. Breasts bouncing, she trotted after Elissa, reassured of her magnificence.
The courtyard glittered with what must have been a thousand oil lamps. Hothouse flowers lined the walkways, releasing exotic perfumes. Guards stood beneath the portico, watching from the shadows. A harpist played in the central pavilion. Defying the night’s chill, three young men, wearing nothing but loincloths, splashed in the fountain. They caught Flavia staring at their well-formed bodies and motioned for her to join them.
She giggled.
Elissa took her sister’s hand and pulled her through the garden, through the nymphaeum and its cascading waters. They ascended the double stairs and entered the vestibule leading to the banquet hall. A slave, dressed in the short kilt of an Egyptian prince, announced them. Conversations ceased as the guests strained to see Nero’s latest obsession.
Imagining herself a goddess, Flavia nodded to her audience.
Strands of silver beads cascaded from the ceiling, shimmering in the torchlight, rattling like rain. Opposite the entrance, a dais had been placed along the wall and there an empty throne awaited the Master of Saturnalia. Clusters of couches surrounded small tables loaded with delicacies. Some guests wore masks and many had donned costumes.
On Saturnalia rules were overturned. Concubines, dressed as proper matrons, reclined on couches—while matrons, clad as dancing girls, performed. Priests of Saturn poured wine for slave-boys, and slave-boys ordered knights to do their bidding. Licinius Crassus Frugi, Consul for the incoming year, had been assigned the lowly task of collecting urine from guests too satiated to visit the latrines.
“Nero makes a mockery of our most sacred ceremonies,” Elissa said. “How dare he hold the lottery for the next vestal virgin amid this carnival?”
“I think it’s perfect. After all, Saturnalia is a night for gambling.” Flavia sucked in her stomach and stuck out her chest.
“Your nipples blush,” Elissa said, tugging at her sister’s palla.
Flavia glanced toward the empty throne, wishing Nero would arrive to save her from Elissa. At the far end of the room, high-backed chairs stood against the wall, and there sat the Collegiate of Pontiffs and the other vestal virgins. The twenty candidates reclined on cushions at their feet.
Elissa squeezed Flavia’s hand. “Are you afraid?”
“Afraid he won’t call my name?”
Elissa frowned. “You would be wise to be afraid.”
They walked toward the Collegiate of Pontiffs, and curtsied to the Vestal Maxima. Flavia took her place with the other
candidates, settling on a cushion. She surveyed her competition. She sat between Faustina Equita, a sullen girl who wore too many jewels, and Claudia Avisia, a child who could have been no more than seven. Her competition stood no chance.
Brass trumpets sounded and cymbals crashed, announcing the Master of Saturnalia’s arrival. The guests cheered, rising to greet Nero as he climbed the dais to claim his throne.
Flavia couldn’t take her eyes from him. Dressed in the costume of a musician—stacked shoes that made him tower over other men and robes that sparkled blindingly with every movement. His eyes sought hers. She slid her little finger into her mouth, pulled it halfway out, and smiled. His nostrils flared.
Oh yes, she would make him beg.
Poppaea Sabina stood beside him, her gaze ever-watchful. They said she bathed in asses’ milk to preserve her skin, but even from a distance Flavia could see that asses’ milk had not prevented her from wrinkling. Poppaea returned the stare, and Flavia’s stomach tightened. She saw cruelty in those kohl-rimmed eyes. Much as she hated to admit it, perhaps Elissa had a point. Perhaps she had reason to be frightened.
She glanced around the room, wishing her mother and father had come. The parents of the other candidates appeared anxious. Giving up a daughter to thirty years of service was a dubious honor that could not be refused. Most parents would prefer their daughters to marry, raise a family and live a normal life.
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