But, yesterday, Nero returned from his travels. And now, sleep escapes me.
Yours as Ever,
Elissa
She set down her stylus. The moon stared through the window of her chamber, bright and insistent.
She got up from her stool and peeked into the dormitory. From behind the other cubicles’ closed curtains, she heard the steady sound of breathing. She wandered to Cornelia’s doorway. The little girl slept on her stomach, clutching the one possession she’d been permitted to take from home—a rag doll she called Lucia. Stealing past the other doorways, she heard Marcia snoring, Angerona mumbling in her sleep.
She parted the curtains of Flavia’s cubicle and saw her sister’s empty bed. Tonight was Flavia’s night to sit vigil by the fire. Why, then, did she feel afraid?
* * * * * *
Throughout the morning ritual Elissa watched her sister. Flavia yawned as Mother Amelia began the convocation. Her lips barely moved as dreamy-eyed she recited prayers. And when she laid a branch of cedar on the flames, she tripped on her hem and nearly fell. Her robes were smeared with soot, not unusual after tending the fire all night. But what was that stain? According to Elissa’s calculations her sister’s monthly flux wasn’t due for days. Most troubling was the laughter Elissa detected in Flavia’s eyes.
Mother Amelia finished the closing prayer, and as the vestals left the temple, Elissa followed Flavia.
“You look different,” she said.
“Do I?”
“You look—” And suddenly Elissa knew. “You’ve been with him, haven’t you?”
Flavia’s flush provided the answer.
“You’ve bedded him!”
Before Elissa could stop her, Flavia fled the temple.
Elissa wanted to strangle her sister, pull her flaxen hair out strand by strand—
“Elissa—”
“Yes, Mother Amelia?”
“As you know, Lemuria begins at midnight, and the Pontifex Maximus intends to join us for the ceremony.”
“He always joins us for the ceremony.” Elissa edged toward the door, hoping to catch up with Flavia.
“The Pontifex Maximus is concerned about the auspices.”
“As he should be.”
Mother Amelia’s eyes widened. “You’ve had a vision?”
“Many visions.”
She often dreamed of Nero’s death: his entrails shriveling in the sun, his body writhing on a pyre, his mother greeting him in Hades—arms outstretched, fire flaring from her eyes, smoke pouring from her nostrils. Elissa pushed open the temple door, but didn’t see Flavia.
“I have more to say to you, Elissa. The Pontifex Maximus has made a special request. He wants you to call forth—”
“—Agrippina.”
“Yes.”
“I won’t.”
“You must try.”
Elissa gazed out at the forum. The buildings, dazzling in the morning sun, were no better than a prison. Here she would live, and here she would die.
“Help me, Jesus,” she whispered.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.” She bit her lip.
“I forbid you to speak that name. I’ve warned you to stay away from Messianic Jews. Have you been attending meetings?”
“No.”
“Look at me.” Mother Amelia raised Elissa’s chin, peered into her eyes. “Have you seen Gallus Justinus?”
“No!” She spoke the truth, at least in theory.
She had attended no more of Paul’s meetings. But, in her dreams, she often saw Justinus. And, in her prayers, she called on Jesus.
“Are you listening, Elissa? Tonight, when veils between the worlds are thin, you will call forth Nero’s mother.”
“The dead don’t like to be disturbed.”
Already, she felt Agrippina’s fingers reaching up from Hades, clutching at her ankles.
* * * * *
“The Lord is my shepherd,” Elissa read for the hundredth time, “I shall want nothing....”
Except Nero’s death.
She refolded the papyrus, placing her last letter from Justinus on top of all the others. Carefully, she rewrapped the letters in silk, tied the blue ribbon in a bow and kissed the bundle, before hiding it between the pallet and the leather webbing of her bed.
Nero had gone too far, coupling with her sister. There was only one solution, and this time she would seek assistance. The aristocracy’s discontent with the princeps had been simmering for months and now it reached a boiling point. Dissatisfaction brewed in the Senate. Nero needed no more than a push to send him tumbling from the throne into a roiling stew. The recipe required only a dash of salt, someone to turn up the heat and rally those in power. Who better than Justinus, a valiant knight and war hero?
But visiting his home would be unwise. Since Saturnalia, Tigellinus kept close watch on her, his spies were everywhere, and Elissa was well known on the Esquiline. According to his letters, Justinus spent most of his time studying with Paul. No one would recognize her in the Hebrew Quarter. Her heart raced at the thought of seeing him.
Digging through her cedar chest, she came up with the rags that served so well as her disguise. She drew them on, wishing she could go to him wearing something more becoming. She combed her hair and pinched her cheeks, regretting that she lacked carmine for her lips. Cosmetics were considered an indulgent vanity as were mirrors. She gazed at her reflection in the wash basin, wondering if Justinus thought of her, at this moment, as she thought of him. Touching the double incisors, covering them with her fingertips, she wished she might be beautiful. Pale and perfect like her sister. The water in the basin rippled, transforming her face. And the image she saw was Agrippina’s.
The basin crashed onto the floor, splashing water. It crept over the tiles, reflecting memories, pictures from her childhood. She told herself she must be faint from hunger, dazed from lack of sleep.
On her knees, she mopped the water, trying to forget what she had seen.
She placed several cushions on her bed and pulled a coverlet over them. From the doorway, it looked as if she lay sleeping.
At this hour the dormitory was quiet. Her fellow priestesses were partaking of the midday meal. She’d claimed to be suffering from her monthly flux, and told Mother Amelia she needed rest. She hurried past the servants’ quarters, down the stairs, and through the atrium. Thais had left her post, and the front door stood unguarded. She glanced around, saw no one, and slipped out.
The sun lurked behind a cloud and shadows fell across the forum washing the white buildings bluish-gray. At midday, most people went home to eat and take a nap, returning to work after several hours. She walked along the near-deserted Via Sacra.
A drop of rain fell on the paving stones, and more drops followed. Jupiter released a bolt of lightning and then a crack of thunder. Elissa ran for cover, finding shelter in a recessed doorway. The downpour drove stragglers into taverns—the only open shops. Further along the street a door swung open. Voices burst out of it, along with the smell of onions and boiled meat. The tavern door opened, admitting two soggy men, and then slammed shut.
Finally the rain subsided. Elissa headed for the river and the Trastevere, hoping to find Justinus in the Hebrew Quarter.
* * * * *
Wanting to avoid her sister’s questions, Flavia claimed to have a headache and planned to spend the afternoon hiding in her room. Under no circumstance did she want to speak to Elissa. She had a scare when her sister appeared in the dormitory instead of going to the midday meal. Narrowly escaping an encounter, Flavia had ducked into her cubicle.
Though Elissa guessed her secret, Flavia told herself nothing would come of it. Even Elissa was powerless against the will of Nero. And of one thing Flavia was certain—Nero desired her. Last night had been proof.
She lay on her bed, running her fingers over her strand of pearls, caressing their smooth surface. She ran her palms over her belly, remembering how he’d touched her—here, and here, a
nd even there. Remembering what she’d done to him, and how he’d begged for more.
No one could deny she was a woman now. Not even Elissa.
The smell of goat stew wafted through her window making her mouth water. She regretted missing the midday meal. Her midnight activities had left her ravenous.
Too restless to sleep, she got up, wandered to the narrow window, stared at rain.
Here she was, trapped behind locked doors again, but, after tonight, her life would change. If the Lemurian auspices were favorable, Nero promised he would marry her, take her as a second wife. He’d told her about Ramses the Great, how the Egyptian Pharaoh kept three wives, hundreds of concubines, and had fathered over forty children. Ramses had ruled for sixty years. But Nero wouldn’t live that long. Not after Flavia bore his son.
She imagined drifting up the Nile, reclining in a golden barge while slaves fanned her with peacock feathers. She imagined wearing gossamer robes, perfumes from the Orient, treasuries of gold and jewels.
Be Cleopatra to my Antony, he’d said.
What would Elissa say to that? Elissa still thought of her as a child, but Nero saw her as his queen—his empress.
Soon Poppaea Sabina would fade into a memory. She grew old, and her time was running out. She couldn’t bear a healthy child. So, what use was she to Nero?
Thrusting aside the doorway’s curtain, Flavia left her cubicle. She meandered through the dormitory, past the servants’ quarters, toward the front of the house. A bolted door didn’t stop her from entering the archives where wills and documents were kept. But she had no interest in musty tomes. Passing shelves of vellum scrolls, sheets of papyrus and wax tablets, she walked the chamber’s length and stood before the row of windows, looking out at the Via Sacra.
Barred to keep intruders out, or to keep the vestals in? She pressed her face against the iron grate. The forum appeared quiet. A single figure, dressed in rags, walked along the avenue. Something about the person seemed familiar.
Elissa.
Where was she going?
Determined to find out, Flavia ran to the door. The fall of footsteps on the stairway made her retreat. Peering through the door jamb, she watched Marcia clomp past the servants’ quarters and into the dormitory. She might look like a cow, but Marcia had the hearing of a cat. Trying to sneak down the stairway would be risky.
But there might be a better escape.
Returning to the row of windows, Flavia found the one she sought. The iron bars wobbled in the crumbling casement. Easing the grate back and forth, she loosened the plaster, lifted out the grate and set it on the floor.
She looked out at the pouring rain, and saw her sister huddled in a doorway, a ragged palla draped over her head.
Definitely up to something.
She leaned over the window-ledge, ignoring the downpour. Ivy crept along the wall, and the twisted branches appeared sturdy. The ground below looked wet and slippery. Climbing would be difficult, but she enjoyed a challenge.
* * * * *
Veils of mist rose from the Tiber’s rushing waters and swirled around Elissa’s feet. She walked across the bridge and felt like she was walking through a cloud.
Footsteps, muffled by the fog, tapped softly behind her.
Or was it rain?
She stopped. So did the tapping.
She glanced back, half expecting to see Angerona. Shifting vapors swallowed the river, swallowed everything. Clammy wetness seeped through her palla, and the tunica beneath her stola clung to her back. Brushing a limp strand of hair out of her face, she listened for footsteps, heard only the steady beat of rain.
When she reached the far side of the bridge, a labyrinth of twisting lanes told her she was in the Hebrew Quarter. Here, women remained cloistered in their homes and were rarely seen, men mumbled prayers in Hebrew, and pork was a forbidden meat. The Jews were a strange people, though Elissa saw few of them today. The Day of Saturn was their Sabbath and all the shops were closed.
She wondered which way she should turn. She only knew she sought the shop of a tentmaker. There were no streets signs, no numbers on the houses. Just graffiti. The cobblestones were slick with rain. Reaching out her hand to steady herself, she touched a wall dripping with water, and something slimy brushed her face.
Stifling a scream, she hurried on. Saw no sign of a tentmaker.
Backtracking, she walked along another street.
Fog crept toward her from the river, and she could barely see her shoes. The idea of finding Justinus seemed ludicrous. Commonsense told her to return to the House of Vestals before she was discovered missing.
Or worse.
People often met their death in Rome’s deserted alleyways. Just last week a woman had been raped and stabbed. Retracing her steps, she sought something familiar. She would have asked for help, but every door she passed was closed.
She hurried by a stinking pile of rags.
The rags shifted.
From beneath the tattered pile of cloth a gnarled finger appeared, beckoning for her to come closer. She heard a wheezing sound. Blood-shot eyes peered out from the mud-caked rags.
“You seek the truth?” said a rasping voice.
“I seek the prophet Paul.”
The gnarled finger extended, pointing a blackened nail.
“But I’ve just come from there.”
“Then you did not go far enough.”
“To find the tentmaker’s shop?”
“To find what you are seeking.” Eyes glinted in an ancient face, though whether male or female, Elissa couldn’t guess. A gash festered on the creature’s forehead.
“You’re hurt,” Elissa said.
“An old wound that doesn’t heal.”
“Maybe I can help you. Tell me your name.”
“You don’t recognize me?”
“Should I?”
The creature sucked in air. “We met last autumn at the Circus Maximus, but I looked younger then.” Opening its mouth the creature revealed double incisors. “My name is Agrippina.”
“Agri—”
The gnarled finger beckoned. “Rome burns and from union unholy the sister will bring forth a son. Have you heard these words before, Elissa?”
A chill ran through Elissa’s heart. “How do you know my name?”
“I know many things. I know the meaning of the prophecy.”
“What is it?” Elissa inched toward the pile of rags.
“Come closer.”
She took another step.
“Your answer lies in Book Fourteen.”
Bony fingers, cold as death, wrapped around Elissa’s ankle. Her scream was followed by a clap of thunder. Breaking from the creature’s grasp, she turned and ran. Rain pelted her with icy needles, stung her face, soaked through her palla.
Fog descended, dark and thick. When she glanced back, the pile of rags was gone.
Certain she heard footsteps, she called out, “Is anybody there?”
Within the soup, she saw a face, pale and frightening.
The face was joined by others. Waxen masks of the dead destined to wander from their graves, eyes smoldering within the shadows.
Lemures.
The slippery cobblestones caused Elissa to stumble. Regaining her balance, she sprinted through a twisting alleyway.
“Though I walk through a valley dark as death,” she recited, her voice thin and breathless. “I fear no evil for you are with me.”
Lemures surrounded her. Mouths gaping, hands outstretched.
Through a shadowy veil, Elissa saw her brother.
“Marcus!”
She ran toward him, tears streaming from her eyes as she threw herself into his arms.
His body felt warm and wonderfully alive.
“Elissa?”
She looked up at his face.
“Justinus?”
“I thought I heard you calling.”
She peered into the fog. A sign swung on squeaking hinges above a doorway. It advertised a tentmaker�
�s shop.
Justinus drew her close, and their mouths merged in a kiss, more insistent than the rain.
* * * * *
“Run away with me.” The look in Elissa’s eyes told Justinus she desired him as much as he desired her.
“I can’t run away,” she said.
“I have land. We’ll move to the countryside, be farmers, tend the fields.”
“Grow apples?”
“Would you like that?”
“Very much.”
The door to Paul’s apartment opened, cutting short their conversation. Justinus expected to see the assigned guard, but instead Timothy greeted them.
“Shalom,” he said and grinned, delight sparkling in his eyes. “If you’re expecting the guard he’s gone forever. Paul has been released.”
“That’s good news,” Justinus said.
“And good news should be celebrated with good friends. Come in.” Timothy clapped Justinus on the back then smiled warmly at Elissa. “Your clothes are soaking. Have the two of you been swimming?”
“The river’s a bit cold this time of year,” Justinus said jokingly. He shook off his cloak and handed it to Timothy.
“Yours as well,” Timothy said, holding out his hand to receive Elissa’s palla. “The fire will soon dry your clothing.” He ushered them into the apartment where a brazier burned cheerfully.
Paul sat at a table stacked with documents. Hunched over a sheet of parchment, he wrote by the light of an oil lamp. Reed pens, meticulously sharpened, were set along the table’s edge. Arriving at the end of a sentence, he punctuated it with so much force that the pen’s tip snapped off. Without looking up, he reached for another.
“Sorry,” he said, glancing at his guests. “I want to finish this letter.”
“Paul often writes all night,” Timothy said good-naturedly. “Luke and I force him to eat, blindfold him and hold him hostage to get him to sleep.”
Usually serious, today Luke seemed light-hearted and he chuckled in agreement.
Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome Page 20