Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  The Master of Saturnalia pounded his eagle-headed scepter, and the room fell into silence.

  “Welcome to my home,” Nero said in a falsetto voice that set a few guests tittering. “We will open with a song.”

  Still using the falsetto, he broke into an aria and pounded out the rhythm with his scepter. When he was done guests rose to their feet, clapping enthusiastically—especially the bushy-haired young men, who were trained in the Egyptian method of applause and well paid by Nero. They even had special names: The Bees made a humming sound, the Roof-tiles clapped with hollowed palms, the Brick-bats clapped with flat hands and made the loudest sound. The other guests squirmed in their seats, unsure of how they should respond. Flavia was among them.

  “I am King of Misrule,” Nero announced. “And tonight I demand all rules be broken. Allow me to demonstrate.”

  He climbed onto the throne, grinning at his audience. Turning his back to them, he pulled up his robe, exposing his buttocks, and bent over. Upside-down, he peered through his calves. “Anyone who takes this evening seriously will be severely punished.” In emphasis he broke wind, and the crowd gasped.

  “Let the games begin!”

  Panels in the ceiling turned, releasing flowers. Roses rained down on the guests, pelting them with thorns as well as petals. Nero exploded into laughter, and the guests joined him nervously.

  With increasing trepidation, Flavia glanced at her sister. She sat between Mother Amelia and Priestess Angerona, rigid in her high-backed chair, her face an angry mask.

  * * * * *

  Elissa pinned her gaze on Nero and watched his every move. He stepped down from the dais and wandered through the banquet hall greeting his guests. He spoke to his childhood nurse, Claudia Ecloge, then kissed her gently on the forehead. With some people he showed tenderness, but she couldn’t trust him to do the same with Flavia.

  He stopped at the table of a prominent merchant. The merchant’s smile quickly faded when the King of Misrule ordered him to prance around the banquet hall pretending to be Bacchus. The rotund man did as he was told, sweat pouring from his blotchy face. Nero finally allowed him, out of breath and close to fainting, to sit. The King of Misrule then commanded the merchant’s wife to bare her breasts while reciting a bawdy poem. Close to tears, the poor woman complied. Satisfied at the havoc he had wrought, Nero returned to Poppaea Sabina and reclined beside her on the couch.

  The atmosphere grew more relaxed. A stage had been erected by the entryway and the orchestra began to play a soothing melody. The flutist was particularly fine, Elissa thought.

  The scent of roasted meat wafted through the banquet hall and servants entered, carrying platters of the exotic animals sacrificed to Saturn.

  “Pigeon stuffed with sausage then cooked inside a swan,” a boy wearing nothing but an earring offered.

  “Leopard fried in olive oil with rosemary,” said another. “Guaranteed to make you virile.”

  “Roasted crocodile in pomegranate.” A boy, dressed like a Persian harem girl, proudly displayed his platter.

  “No, thank you,” Elissa said.

  Reaching beneath her stola, she touched the vial of mandragora nestled in the crevice of her breasts. She needed only an opportunity to slip the contents into Nero’s drink. After ingesting the tincture, he would become at first elated, even delirious. In small quantity, mandragora was an aphrodisiac.

  But she planned to be generous.

  Josephus claimed mandragora exorcised daemons—if that proved true, the remedy would soon expel Nero from this world. The thought caused Elissa to smile for the first time that evening.

  “Where is Justinus tonight?” Angerona asked. Her face was flushed from drinking wine and her palla had fallen from her shoulders. She wore gold bangles on her arms, and they clinked annoyingly.

  “How would I know?” Elissa said coldly.

  “I’m watching you,” Angerona said.

  “I’m watching you as well.”

  Of course Justinus wasn’t in attendance at this sham of a feast—this charade meant to mock the vestal virgins. Elissa hadn’t seen him since that day in the Subura. To do so would be dangerous. Through his letters, the letters she paid Thais dearly to receive, she knew that he still followed Paul. Sometimes Justinus transcribed a prayer, a phrase she could latch onto. Sometimes he wrote of love. Though she hadn’t seen him for two months, not an hour passed that she didn’t think of him.

  Mother Amelia patted Elissa’s hand with oily fingers. “Your mind is on your sister,” she said, chewing a lump of chicken drowned in cream. “Never have I eaten fowl this tender.” She smacked her lips, before adding, “Your sister will be fine. In our house, Flavia will be protected.”

  Protected how? Elissa wondered.

  With every passing hour, Mother Amelia seemed to become more oblivious. She leaned close to Elissa, imparting a blast of scallions and wine. “After dessert, it will be time to hold the lottery and, you’ll see, everything will come out right.”

  She lived in a world of children’s tales.

  “Excuse me, Mother Amelia,” Elissa said, rising from her chair. “I must find the latrine.”

  “Downstairs, my dear.” The Vestal Maxima waved her greasy hand in the direction of the orchestra. Lifting a honey-poached dormouse by the tail, she lowered it into her mouth.

  Elissa headed for the exit. She walked past Nero. He stood on the stage, belting out a song. All eyes focused on him as he screeched.

  She saw her opportunity.

  His chalice stood abandoned, not far from the stage, on a nearby table. Fishing for the vial within her stola, Elissa edged toward the cup. She glanced at the crowd, making certain no one watched, uncorked the vial and quickly poured the tincture into the greenish bile that Nero drank.

  A heavy hand came down on her shoulder. She dropped the vial, and it rolled under the table.

  “What are you doing, Priestess Elissa?”

  Plastering a smile onto her mouth, she turned to face Tigellinus. “I’m on my way to the latrine.”

  The purplish scar that cut through his upper lip deepened in color. He glanced at Nero’s chalice. So did she. His hand dwarfed the cup as he sniffed the tonic.

  “Nasty smell.” He pressed the cup beneath her nostrils. “Laced with what?”

  “Echinacea? It soothes the throat.”

  “Take a sip.”

  Elissa glanced around the banquet hall, but no one seemed to notice them. Nero continued singing. By all appearances, she and Tigellinus might be discussing the weather. Across the room Mother Amelia concentrated on dessert, an elaborate cake requiring four men to carry it from the kitchens. Marcia preyed on a platter of snails dripping in oil. A red dog with a curling tail had found Cornelia and sat beside the girl, tail wagging, as she slipped it bits of meat. Angerona was too busy flirting with a knight to notice Elissa. Elissa’s gaze met her sister’s, and Flavia started to get up. Elissa shook her head in warning.

  “Drink,” Tigellinus said.

  Perhaps it would be best to drink, to put an end to suffering and join her brother in the underworld. Elissa’s lips met the cup’s rim. Her tongue tingled then went numb.

  Tigellinus watched, curiosity glowing in his eyes. To squelch his fire, Elissa tossed the cup’s contents at him.

  He pressed his hands against his eyes, green slime running down his cheeks. “You’ve blinded me!”

  Nero stopped mid-song to glare at Tigellinus. “How dare you interrupt my performance?”

  Blinking his red eyes, Tigellinus pointed at Elissa who’d edged out of his reach. “That bitch tried to poison you.”

  “Play on,” Nero shouted at the orchestra.

  They began a boisterous tune, drowning out all conversation.

  Elissa glanced toward the exit, but guards blocked her escape.

  Nero leapt down from the stage, landing in front of her. “You tried to poison me? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “There’s proof,” Tigellinus
said.

  A slave-boy crawled under the table to retrieve the empty vial.

  Nero sniffed it. “Mandragora,” he announced.

  “An aphrodisiac,” Elissa said.

  “My Saturnalia gift?” Nero spoke so only she could hear, leading her away from Tigellinus. “I require no aphrodisiac to tup your sister.”

  “Keep your hands off Flavia.” She grabbed the vial from him.

  “I should kill you now,” he said.

  “You have no evidence.” She dropped the vial and crushed it under her heel.

  Nero chuckled. “I enjoy our little game, don’t you, Elissa? By the way, I’ve deciphered the prophecy. It’s not about my mother after all.”

  “I don’t care about your stupid prophecy.”

  “I am Rome, am I not? And I burn for you.”

  What nonsense.

  She tried to walk away from him, but he stayed at her heels. “From union unholy the sister will bring forth a son. I see the meaning clearly now: I, Rome, burn for you—and your sister will bear my son.”

  Elissa turned to face him. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

  “But we’re having so much fun. Come with me, Elissa, it’s time for the lottery, and I want you to draw the lot.”

  Tigellinus trailed after them, ensuring she followed Nero onto the dais. The King of Misrule retrieved his scepter and pounded the heavy staff until the guests grew quiet.

  “Fellow citizens, the moment you’ve been waiting for has come.” He spoke to the crowd’s upturned faces. “Priestess Elissa Rubria Honoria will draw the name of the next vestal virgin, Priestess of the Sacred Flame.”

  Poppaea Sabina handed him a bowl.

  The clay lots rattled as he stirred them. He handed Elissa the bowl. “Draw.”

  She reached her trembling hand into the bowl.

  Please God, let it not be Flavia, she prayed, and I promise to devote my life to Jesus. She’d lost all faith in Roman gods.

  Her fingers wrapped around a small clay tablet.

  “Read the name aloud,” Nero commanded her.

  Her sister’s name swam before her eyes. The lot fell from Elissa’s hand and shattered on the floor.

  “Most inauspicious,” Poppaea said.

  Nero thrust the bowl in front of Elissa. “Draw again.”

  Again?

  Was it possible Flavia had escaped, and another girl would be chosen? Elissa reached into the bowl, withdrawing another tablet. Before she could read the name, Nero grabbed the lot out of her hand. He held the bit of clay above his head.

  “The gods have spoken,” he proclaimed. “Rome’s next vestal virgin will be—” He cleared his throat. “Flavia Rubria Honoria.”

  “It can’t be,” Elissa cried. But no one paid attention.

  All eyes turned to Flavia—so pale, so young, and so afraid.

  End of Part Three

  PART FOUR

  Thing of Evil

  Who can watch, who can tolerate this evil?

  Only the shameless, only the voracious gambler,

  wealthy Mamurra of Gaul, living in a distant land.

  Oh Rome, debauched and decadent,

  do you bear witness to these atrocities?

  Everything he touches turns to gold,

  And, pridefully, he beds them all without discretion.

  For this thing of evil, did the brave captain go to war,

  for this you voyaged west to that far island?

  —Catullus

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  Flavia bent over the copper cauldron and blew on the embers. It was her night to tend the sacred flame, a weekly task she’d come to hate.

  When she’d arrived at the House of Vestals, she’d held hope for her new life—imagined, as Nero’s favorite, she would have fine clothes, jewels, anything she desired. But instead of feasts and parties, she’d been sequestered within the House of Vestals, as if, knowing he had captured her, the princeps had lost interest. Her days were squandered in the library reading tomes of history, writing legal documents—endless pages of dreary copying—all under the scrupulous supervision of her sister and the Vestal Maxima.

  She fed the fire several lumps of coal then wiped her hands on her white robe, leaving sooty smears. What was she, but a glorified scullery slave?

  She pulled at the strand of pearls Nero had given her, a forbidden ornament that she hid beneath her robes. After her name had been announced at the Saturnalia feast, she had expected him to claim her as his prize, carry her off in front of all of Rome. Instead, she had been escorted by her sister to the House of Vestals. For days she’d waited for a summons to the palace.

  But the summons never came.

  At night, alone in her cubicle without even Romulus and Remus to keep her company, she’d cried herself to sleep. Days dragged into weeks, weeks added up to months until winter became spring. Now it was May, the time of Lemuria—when the dead woke from their tombs to walk among the living.

  For all she’d seen of Nero, she might be a ghost. Forgotten. Dead. Invisible.

  She ran her fingers through her shorn locks, evidence of her position as lowly novitiate. What a fool she’d been to think she might replace Poppaea. Now that Nero held her in his snare, he had no use for her.

  Scooping more coal onto the fire, she watched the flames leap. She banked the ashes, coughing as they choked her. Seeking air, she headed for the temple doors. A flurry of moths swirled through the dark like snow and rushed toward the fire, as if begging to be burned.

  She stepped outside into the green-smelling air, into spring bursting with life.

  Silvery light shimmered on the buildings of the forum. Dawn wouldn’t break for several hours, and the constant clatter of cart wheels had finally ceased. An owl hooted in the nearby grove. Flavia glanced toward the House of Vestals—dark and silent. If she left who would know?

  She ventured down the temple steps, her slippers whispering against the stone. Circling the temple she gazed up at the Domus Transitoria, wishing she might see a light, wishing Nero would appear. The palace loomed over the forum like a sleeping giant.

  A twig snapped behind her and she caught her breath.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Flavia?”

  Before she could scream, a hand clamped over her mouth. She recognized his scent. Nero loosened his hold, nuzzled her neck. She shivered.

  “Did I frighten you?”

  “A little.” Her heart still raced. “What brings you here at this hour?”

  “Wandering.”

  “By yourself?” She glanced around, expecting to see guards, or worse, Poppaea Sabina.

  “I often wander by myself at night. When else can I be invisible?”

  “You want to be invisible?” She cocked her head. “I want to be seen.”

  He touched her face, traced his fingers down her cheek and over her lips. “You’re lovely,” he said.

  “I thought you would send for me.”

  “I’ve been busy, practicing my music. I plan to travel, perform as a citharode. It’s a dream I’ve had.”

  “I have dreams too.”

  He smiled and looked quite handsome.

  “What do you dream about, little Flavia?”

  “Of you.”

  She lifted her face to his, and he bent to kiss her mouth. His tongue slid between her lips, flicking like a serpent’s. She flicked her tongue in response. Meanwhile she considered what her next move should be—this time he wouldn’t get away.

  According to rumors, after his recent performance in Naples, an earthquake had destroyed the theater. The senate hoped he would view the disaster as an omen, return to Rome and stop performing. The aristocracy considered Nero’s concerts an embarrassment. But, Flavia mused, kindling his dream of being a citharode might prove her ticket to escape.

  Nero’s kisses moved from her lips to her shoulders.

  “I want to travel too,” she said.

  “You have a fine sense of adventure.”

 
“Will you go to Greece?”

  His caresses stopped. He ran his fingers through his hair. “My journey to Athens has been cancelled. The Greeks were heartbroken, of course. Now I plan to visit Alexandria. I don’t want to disappoint my followers again, but my astrologers insist that I consult my ancestors before making the journey.”

  “What can ghosts tell you?”

  “They’ll tell me if the omens are auspicious.”

  “I want to go with you”

  He searched her eyes, and she looked into his—steady and unblinking.

  “I’d like you to come,” he said.

  Heat shot through her body, not from his next kiss, but from knowing she was one step closer to her goal. She wanted him to sweep her off her feet, rescue her from her dreary life, and take her far away from Elissa’s hawkish eyes.

  “I want to bear your son.”

  He studied her.

  “Willingly, you’d break your vows?”

  “For you.”

  “The penalty for infidelity is death.”

  “The priests won’t question Caesar. You are above the law.”

  He hesitated. “I’m not the man you think I am.”

  “I know exactly who you are.”

  My brother’s murderer, she thought, keeping her gaze steady.

  “I’ve done loathsome things.” He looked at the sky. “A thousand years from now,” he said, “stars will shine as they do now, the moon will rise and set. But who will remember us?”

  “Who cares what people think a thousand years from now?” She took his hand in hers, and led him toward the sacred grove.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  III days after the Nones of May

  Year X, reign of Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus

  Dear Justinus,

  I’m glad to hear your studies with the prophet Paul are going well. Each day I say the prayers you have sent me in your letters, and perhaps your prayers are working. The last few months have been blessedly uneventful—Flavia has settled into our routine, my father’s health is much improved, and Nero has been gone from Rome. Perhaps Mother Amelia is right, and everything will work out for the best.