Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  “Why not?”

  “Run back to your chambers and hide. Better yet, seclude yourself within the House of Vestals.”

  The doors burst open, and two senators tripped into the hallway, their togas disheveled, their faces flushed. Laughter followed them.

  “Disgusting,” one of them muttered. “The nerve, throwing us out.”

  “Worse than Caligula.”

  Straightening their togas, the senators slunk down the corridor. Tigellinus followed, ensuring their departure.

  Flavia took that opportunity to slip through the doors and into Nero’s chambers.

  Revelers, still drunk from the banquet, packed the entryway. Some leaned against the muraled walls, others lolled on wine-stained couches, while those too stupefied to stand sank to the floor. The sun had risen hours ago, but the windowless room was as dark as evening, and oil lamps provided flickering light. Rich perfume and rancid sweat smothered any remnant of a breeze.

  Making her way through the crowd, Flavia managed to find standing room in Nero’s tablinum. The room teemed with men in various states of intoxication.

  Music greeted her—tambourines and flutes accompanied by a trilling voice. She recognized a wedding song. The lyrics had been altered and seemed more suitable for an orgy than a marriage.

  She pressed through the crowd, attempting to see the singer.

  Chairs and tables had been pushed against the walls to accommodate the swarm of guests. They settled on high-backed chairs, leaned against tables, perched on windowsills and cushions, their attention riveted to an enormous marble desk that now served as a stage.

  The bride, a substantial girl, stood on the desktop and, to Flavia’s amazement, it was she who sang. Flame-colored silk veiled her face, and a bridal girdle jingling with coins encircled her hips. The way the bride moved seemed familiar. The slave, Pythagoras, stood beside her, his satyr’s goatskin worse for wear. He shifted from foot to foot playing the nervous groom.

  Of course, Flavia realized, this was a pantomime. Bawdy entertainment for the guests. What else could this charade be, but the grand finale to three days of orgies and gluttony? Only Nero was missing.

  The bride ended her song with a series of high-pitched trills, and the guests applauded with enthusiasm. With a flourish, she swept aside her flame-red veils and bowed to her audience.

  Flavia stared in disbelief. Beneath the elaborate pile of curls, the kohl-rimmed eyes, the carmine lips, she recognized Nero.

  “Time for the ceremony,” he said, his voice a falsetto.

  He yanked the groom into his arms. The kiss was passionate and lingering.

  Flavia looked away. She felt dizzy. The room seemed to be spinning. A neighbor’s shoulder broke her fall. Egnatius! Hypnotized by Nero’s performance, her cousin barely noticed the young man who had bumped into him. Flavia moved away from him, but the room was crowded and she could not go far.

  Nero raised a bejeweled hand for silence.

  “Good citizens of Rome, in case you think your Caesar mean, I bestow upon my groom a most generous dowry: land, a lavish domus, and a flock of fine servants. As for the wedding sacrifice—” Nero gyrated his girdled hips, making the coins jump, “—I offer up my not-so-virgin ass.”

  The guests laughed nervously.

  Flavia expected Nero to fling aside his veil, rip away the wig of curls, laugh at his outrageous joke. Instead, he grabbed Pythagoras, joining their hands as was customary for marriage vows.

  “Do you, Pythagoras, take me as your wedded wife?”

  The slave looked frightened as a man condemned to die.

  “Answer me.” Nero’s voice, suddenly a baritone, boomed across the chamber, “Do you take me as your bride?”

  “Wh-whatever you desire, Caesar.”

  “Right answer.” Nero flung his bridal wreath of herbs, a symbol of fidelity, out into the crowd. “Now we will consummate the marriage.”

  “In f-front of everyone?”

  “Ravish me, husband.”

  The bride jumped from the desk, nearly crushing several spectators. A priest broke the wedding loaf over the happy couple’s heads and guests scrambled for crumbs to gain good luck. With the resolve of a tragic hero, Pythagoras carried Nero, kicking and screaming like a captured Sabine, into the adjoining bedchamber.

  Flavia lurched forward, caught in a wave of people as guests surged after the bride and groom, throwing walnuts for fertility. Oil lamps glowed in every corner, on every table. Nero’s sleeping couch had been draped with flame-colored silk and strewn with rose petals. Grunting under Nero’s weight, Pythagoras set down his unwieldy bride.

  “You brute,” Nero said in a falsetto voice.

  The reluctant groom tried to escape, but the bride jerked him back onto the bed.

  “Be gentle, I’m delicate.” Nero rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself onto all fours wiggling his buttocks at Pythagoras. Loosening his girdle, he hiked up his bridal robe. “Deflower me.”

  “In front of everyone?”

  “Rut me like a horny boar.”

  The guests watched in stunned silence.

  It was not unusual for a bridal party to witness the wedding’s consummation. Not unusual for one man to take another—members of the aristocracy often enjoyed slaves and boys. But the man in power reserved the dominant position. Why would Nero feign submission?

  Flavia knew the answer. He craved humiliation.

  And to satisfy his hunger, she planned a feast of punishments. As an appetizer she would bind his wrists and ankles as he had done to her. For the main course she’d tantalize him with the whip. How dare he embarrass her in front of all these witnesses? Already people whispered that she couldn’t please a man. Now, not only would she be the brunt of jokes, a laughingstock for all the empire, but a disgrace.

  In disgust, she watched as Nero reached between Pythagoras’s thighs, found flaccid proof of the slave’s lack of enthusiasm, and squeezed. Whether out of fear or stimulation, the shaft grew thick and stiffened.

  “Screw me or I’ll chop it off!”

  Eager to retain his parts, Pythagoras mounted the bride.

  “Long live the happy couple,” a voice called out.

  Flavia turned, and saw Egnatius.

  Others took his lead.

  “Be fruitful and multiply.”

  “May the gods grant many children.”

  Flavia bit her tongue and tasted blood. She despised Nero and hated what she had become—what he had made her.

  The crowd cheered as Nero shrieked and whimpered.

  “An improvement on his singing,” someone said.

  Flavia couldn’t bear to watch another moment. Blinded by anger, choked by shame, she fought her way toward the door. Halfway to her destination she ran into Egnatius.

  “Flavia?” he stared at her. “What are you doing here?”

  “Leaving.”

  “Stay and have some fun.” He pressed his cesspool of a mouth on hers.

  She bit him and he yelped.

  Fists flying at his ugly face, she punched and clawed. Everything was ruined, all her dreams and all her plans. Even her stupid cousin saw her as a whore. Someone grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her away from Egnatius, dragging her through the crowd and out into the vestibule.

  “Let me go,” she shouted.

  Kicking at her captor, she tried to free herself. But what freedom could she gain? Like her doves, she would be forever caged.

  Tigellinus held her firmly, his forearm clenched around her neck. One sharp twist and she’d be dead. “What shall I do with her?” he asked.

  “She’ll make the perfect pet for me,” an all too familiar voice answered.

  Tigellinus released her to Poppaea. Crushed against her ample bosom, Flavia struggled to breathe.

  “My naughty nymph,” said Poppaea. “I imagined you were dead.”

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  Flavia struggled to free her hands from the leather bindings.

  “Does Nero know wh
at you’re doing?” she asked Poppaea.

  “You mean my husband? He’s got other problems.”

  Poppaea tightened the straps, bruising Flavia’s wrists. A chain ran through an iron eyebolt in the concrete ceiling. She pulled, hoisting Flavia’s arms above her head, drawing up her body until, feet brushing the dirt floor, Flavia dangled like a puppet.

  “What do you want?”

  “Just a chit-chat between girls. I’ve dismissed the guards, so we can…talk.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “I’ll remove your blindfold, so you can fully appreciate your accommodations.”

  Flavia took in the cave that lay within the bowels of the palace, dark except for light provided by Poppaea’s lantern. She didn’t want to cry, but her eyes teared. For weeks, she didn’t know how many, Poppaea had held her hostage within the Domus Transitoria. Today she’d been stripped and blindfolded, dragged through moldy corridors, pushed down countless steps—to reach this dank hole. The air smelled vaguely of sewage.

  Poppaea ran her hands along Flavia’s flanks, grabbed hold of her hips and tugged until Flavia’s arms strained in their sockets.

  “Why. Not. Torture. Pythagoras?” Flavia’s voice came in gasps. “He married your husband.”

  “He poses no threat. Pythagoras is a diversion. But you, my pet, may bear a son.”

  Flavia struggled against the leather bonds, but that only made them tighter.

  Poppaea paced from one end of the cell to the other. She paused to kick a rusted bench fitted with a series of pulleys. “The rack might prove effective,” she said. From the filthy floor, she picked up a device that looked like a gigantic claw. “Or the tickler.”

  “Let me go, and I’ll never bed Nero again. I’ll return to the House of Vestals—”

  “You’ll stay right here,” Poppaea spat her words, “where I can keep an eye on you. You think you can take my place, but I’m not replaceable.” She stood before Flavia’s dangling body. “Pity you’re so pretty. What a waste.”

  Flavia felt Poppaea’s cheek, soft and warm, against her belly.

  The stab was unexpected.

  She screamed as pain tore through her cervix, blast through her uterus. She didn’t see the knife until Poppaea held the blade before her face.

  “You’ll never bear his baby now.”

  Blood ran down Flavia’s legs, puddled at her feet. Her bladder emptied, and the sting of urine made her writhe.

  “I’ll send servants to clean this mess.”

  “Cover me,” Flavia begged.

  “You don’t deserve that much respect, but I’ll leave the lantern.”

  Poppaea paused at the cell’s doorway. “By the way, even as we speak, my husband’s at your sister’s trial.”

  The door closed and the bolt fell into place.

  Flavia tugged the leather straps. Her arms ached. Kicking only increased the pain. The cramping in her womb became excruciating, shooting up and down her legs. Gritting her teeth, she squeezed her thighs together and attempted to stay the bleeding.

  Cobwebs drifted from the ceiling, and something crawled along her back. She heard the sound of water. The sewer ran close by. A rat approached the pool of blood and others followed.

  What a fool she’d been. Elissa had been right. About Nero. About everything.

  “A stupid fool!” Her voice echoed hollowly.

  And if Elissa was found guilty, it would be her fault. Her sister would be sentenced and entombed alive.

  Like me.

  Don’t think like that.

  She had never meant to jeopardize her sister’s life. She’d only meant to prove her power and keep Elissa at bay. What had she witnessed? Nothing really. A mere kiss. And the letters were mere words, not proof of infidelity. Justinus wrote mostly about the prophet Paul and his god Jesus.

  The servants would be coming soon.

  They had to be.

  “Help!”

  Was that the sound of footsteps?

  “Get me out of here!”

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  “The Collegiate of Pontiffs, the vestal virgins, and the Pontifex Maximus have reached a verdict.” Sweat beaded on the Major Flamine’s brow. He ran a cloth over his forehead, small defense against July’s sweltering temperature.

  Riveted by the prospect of a vestal virgin’s downfall, all of Rome anticipated Elissa’s trial as if it were a battle between gladiators. Nero seized the opportunity to serve cheap entertainment to the urban mob by opening the proceedings to the public. Court had been established in the forum and risers erected to accommodate the spectators. Men and women, even children, packed the stands until the floorboards groaned. The tribunal of priests and vestals looked down at Elissa from a dais set in the center of the small arena.

  She sat on a stool before them, cradling her hand. The wound had healed, but left a scar. The stigmata served as a reminder of what Nero had done to her. Curling her fingers into a fist, she prepared to hear the verdict.

  Someone laughed. A baby wailed.

  Elissa caught a whiff of citron, the scent of pork and onions. It might have been a festival.

  Guards stood at the exits, and Tigellinus, in full dress uniform, arms crossed over his chest, stood watching.

  Elissa scanned the crowd, thankful that her parents were not in attendance. At her insistence, they had fled Rome for their country villa. To have them witness her disgrace would have been unbearable. Mother Amelia’s revelation had preyed on Elissa’s mind for the past month, but she had kept the secret close. If the name of her birthmother was made public, would it help her case or go against her? In any case, she lacked proof, and without proof who would believe her? One thing was certain—the revelation would destroy Constantina, humiliate Honoratus, and disgrace her family a hundredfold.

  Her gaze moved over the spectators. They came from every stratosphere of Roman society. She didn’t blame Gallus Justinus for failing to appear. In fact, she prayed he’d remain absent. Flavia was missing. In her stead, the letters spoke—although they’d proved nothing. But who needed proof? Ultimately, Nero would decide the verdict. Angerona’s testimony had been most damning. Elissa tried to meet her eyes, but Angerona turned away.

  “All rise for the verdict.” The Major Flamine wiped perspiration from his face. “The sentence will be pronounced by the Pontifex Maximus.”

  Elissa stood. Her feet seemed miles away, and she felt disembodied. Struggling to retain her balance, she focused on the tribunal. Marcia and Cornelia had been crying. So had Mother Amelia, who now seemed bent on strangling a handkerchief. The priests’ stony faces held no sympathy. Angerona’s face presented a tragic countenance.

  Nero sat in his curule chair while slaves fanned him with peacock feathers. He wore a robe of silk, rather than a toga. Upon his head he wore the crown of the Pontifex Maximus.

  The Major Flamine handed him a scroll.

  “The verdict—” Nero cleared his throat, “Guilty as charged.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd.

  Only determination prevented Elissa from fainting.

  Nero raised a hand for silence. “Good citizens of Rome, the vestal virgin, Priestess Elissa Rubria Honoria, has broken her sacred vows and polluted the holy rites with infidelity. She has fornicated, which is deemed an act of treason against Rome. The court finds her guilty of incest. For indeed, an act of fornication by a vestal virgin, is named the lowest deviance.”

  Shouts of protest were drowned by stamping feet and cheers of approval. No women were more revered than vestal virgins, none placed on a higher pedestal. Romans loved to raise their idols to ever greater heights, but even more, they loved to see those idols fall.

  “Order in the court!” Nero pounded his scepter. “Has the prisoner anything to say? Words of repentance? An apology?”

  “Yes,” Elissa’s voice shook. “I do.”

  She faced the crowd, afraid her courage might fail. The spectators grew quiet as she gazed out at the blur of fa
ces. Even now, she felt their respect, their wonder that she dared to speak. Perhaps they hoped that she, a vestal virgin selected by the gods, might convince fate to find her innocent.

  The citizens of Rome deserved better than Nero.

  They deserved the truth.

  “Good citizens,” Elissa said, her voice clear and strong. “Respected priests, women, slaves—I am one of you. A Roman. The Pontifex Maximus asks, do I have regrets? I do. I regret that our beloved Rome has been corrupted by a kind of poison. The venom of greed and arrogance. I regret the Collegiate of Pontiffs swallows lies and finds me guilty.”

  Murmurs rumbled through the crowd.

  “The Pontifex Maximus claims I’ve committed not just adultery, but incest.”

  “That is how the crime is viewed,” Nero said. He yawned, loudly. “Get on with it. You’re boring me.”

  “And does my sister bore you too, the one whose innocence you took?”

  Nero smoothed his robes and flicked away a bit of lint.

  “Oh, yes, I forget myself,” Elissa said. “The Pontifex Maximus lives above the law.” The crowd leaned forward, hanging onto every word. “Meanwhile, I am to be entombed and left to starve—”

  “As you know,” Nero said, his voice quavering with anger, “entombment is the punishment set down by law.”

  “The laws of men?” Elissa asked.

  “Of course, the laws of men. Who else? Women? Slaves? Perhaps a donkey?”

  Laughter, led by Tigellinus, rocked the court.

  Elissa’s voice rang out above the noise. “There are greater laws than laws of men. The law of truth. The law of justice.”

  “The law of God,” someone shouted from the bleachers.

  A pauper peered down from the highest tier, a filthy cloak drawn over his head. His eyes locked onto Elissa’s.

  Justinus.

  She wanted to climb the ropes, scramble up a wooden beam, and throw herself into his arms. His presence strengthened her resolve. She would speak the truth. Death came only once; even Nero couldn’t kill her twice.

  “Incest,” she said, her voice commanding attention, “may also be defined as sexual union between close relations. For example, a daughter and father, a mother and a son. Or siblings.”