Despite the heat, Nero’s face grew pale. “That’s not what we’re discussing.”
“I think it is.”
Anticipation sparked the crowd.
“If I am guilty, so are you.” Recognition flashed between them. “After all, we are brother and sister—in the priestly sense, of course.”
For once, Nero seemed at a loss.
Pointing the finger of her wounded hand at him, Elissa addressed the crowd. “The Pontifex Maximus took me by force. In other words, he raped me. The act of incest at its worst.”
“She’s a liar,” Tigellinus shouted. “A liar and a whore.”
“Then all Romans are whores,” Elissa countered. “Like you, Tigellinus. Whores and slaves to Nero.”
Coming to his senses, Nero pounded his scepter. “Court is adjourned,” he shouted.
“Not before I have my say.” Mother Amelia stood, still twisting her handkerchief. A hush fell on the court as all heads turned to the Vestal Maxima. “By the gods I hold sacred, I bear witness to Elissa Rubria Honoria. Despite the evidence this court has brought against her, I know her to be true of heart, immaculate in every way. By my life, I swear she is innocent.”
The crowd went wild, screaming, shouting, climbing ropes and swinging from the balconies.
“Sit down!” Nero ordered, but no one listened. Brandishing his scepter, he bellowed, “The sentence stands!”
Elissa watched with amazement as men and women stormed the arena, declaring her innocence, calling for justice, yelling obscenities at Nero.
“Tigellinus!” Nero banged his scepter on the dais. “Do something!”
Tigellinus reached under his arm, withdrawing his sica.
Justinus shinnied down a rope and jumped into the arena. He landed in front of Tigellinus, surprising the prefect, and knocked the sica from his hand. Locked in a stranglehold, the two men tumbled over one another. Onlookers surrounded them, pelting the prefect with citrons, eggs, anything they had on hand, and cheering Justinus.
“Guards!” Nero shouted.
Praetorians descended on the chaos. But their efforts to control the seething crowd seemed half-hearted as if they too doubted Elissa’s guilt.
The mob scaled the dais, swarming Nero like angry bees.
Using his scepter, he attempted to beat them off, riling them into a frenzy. Stung by the crowd’s animosity, Nero leapt from the dais and fought his way through fists and curses, attempting to reach the exit. A child grabbed the hem of his silk robe and the fine fabric ripped as he fled the arena.
Tigellinus was not so easily deterred. Escaping Justinus, he pushed through the mob toward Elissa. He bound her wrists and dragged her from the court. She would be stripped of priestly vestments, beaten, paraded through the streets to the Colline Gate where she would be entombed and left to die.
And yet she felt victorious.
Darkness cannot prevail within the light of a happy soul.
Like all good Romans, she took pleasure in watching Nero tumble from his pedestal.
CHAPTER XXXIV
Flavia ran her tongue over her lips, cracked and dry from lack of water. No servants had come to her rescue.
She no longer felt pain.
Her arms, straining in their sockets, had long ago gone numb. The dying lantern emitted sickly light. She gazed up at her shackled hands, attempting to move her fingers.
She recalled a story Marcus had once told her, one of Aesop’s fables. A farmer sewed seeds of hemp in a field where a swallow and a flock of crows were feeding. “Don’t trust that farmer,” the swallow warned the crows. “Make sure you pick up every seed.” The crows paid no attention to the swallow and, after eating their fill of seeds, they flew away. Come spring, the remaining seeds grew into hemp, by midsummer the hemp was woven into cord, and from the cord the farmer made a net. In that net the crows were caught. But the swallow escaped.
Fog drifted through Flavia’s memory. The story’s moral evaded her.
Death crept toward her like the night, dark and inevitable.
Was she already dead?
She wasn’t certain.
With no gold coin to pay the oarsman, she would be forced to swim across the river Styx. Her shade would find no peace in the afterlife, and her soul would wander between worlds.
A lemur.
As she drifted toward darkness, the moral came back to her: Destroy the seed of evil or it will grow and become your ruin.
* * * * *
Twelve days before the Nones of August, as the Dog Star moved across the heavens, Justinus paced his room.
Elissa was going to die.
He could think of nothing else.
Although the Vestal Maxima had claimed her innocent, Nero pronounced her guilty. The sentence was unpopular, but the word of the Pontifex Maximus was final. Too cowardly to face the urban mob, Nero and Poppaea fled to their palace in Antium and left the task of entombing Elissa to Tigellinus.
Her funeral would be held today.
Justinus wiped his brow. Sweat poured down his back, soaking through his tunic. Even at this pre-dawn hour July’s heat felt oppressive. He opened the shutters, felt the stirring of a breeze. The Dog Days of summer promised no rain. No chance Elissa’s funeral might be postponed.
The clang of bells called out the fire brigade. Not unusual. It happened almost every day. The gods’ wrath, people whispered.
God’s wrath brought down by Nero.
Justinus wished he had killed him when he’d had the chance. But hiding in this tenement, a fugitive, he had no opportunity. It’s not for us to judge our fellow man, Paul would have cautioned him. Paul didn’t understand the politics of Rome. Destroying evil as powerful as Nero required, not patience, but violence.
The Dog Star dipped toward the horizon. Soon it would be dawn, and the city would be waking. Scents from the perfumery, on the building’s first floor, drifted through the window making Justinus lightheaded. Jasmine, lotus, orange blossom from the Orient—scents too exotic for this tenement.
The perfumery marked the last of his tenants.
Justinus had always taken pride in maintaining his properties, but over the past months he’d done little to care for them—especially this one where he lived. Pipes, frozen last winter, had never been repaired. The roof leaked, and the ceiling spat bits of plaster. Lately even lack of running water didn’t bother him. In turn each of his tenants left. And now the building was condemned.
As was Elissa.
Dawn’s light revealed the Circus Maximus. Nero’s sordid playground loomed across the street, and from his window Justinus could see the gates Marcus had entered, but never left. There would be no games today. Today, Rome’s entertainment would be Elissa’s death.
His gaze fell on the cedar chest.
Paul had told him he was needed here in Rome.
An idea formed within his mind, and he could not let go of it. He paced the room, becoming excited as the idea bloomed into a plan. Finally, he understood his mission. He had been chosen by God, not to convert Nero to following The Way of Jesus—a task which proved impossible—but to rid the world of evil. To root it out by destroying what Nero best loved.
The Circus Maximus.
He opened the cedar chest. Flinging aside clothes, discarding a sandal missing its mate, he dug. He discovered a medallion from Britannia, his father’s knife, a forgotten figurine. At the bottom of the chest, he found what he needed. The jar of tung-oil Paul had given him.
Accelerant.
All he needed was a spark.
He ran downstairs to the perfumery in search of a flint. At this hour, before shops opened, the business was abandoned. Even in July the perfumer used heat to distill raw materials, and Justinus found embers still smoldering in the brazier.
Conducting an experiment, he poured a small portion of tung-oil on a rag and touched it to a glowing coal. The oil proved more potent than he’d expected, and the rag burst into flames. He dropped the burning cloth and stamped it with his foot
, but only succeeded in dispersing the fire. He ran to the fountain where water should have flowed and found it dry—the result of his negligence.
Flames caught hold of a curtain, climbed the fabric, and leapt onto a nearby shelf. The wood ignited quickly and the shelf gave way. Amphorae filled with oil crashed to the floor spewing their precious contents. The air was redolent with clove, lemon, and sandalwood. The fire gobbled up the oil, then looked for more. Flames devoured shelf after shelf. Tumbling jars gushed precious fragrances, splattering the walls, coating every surface with oily fuel and transforming the perfumery into an inferno.
Justinus found a horse blanket and used it to bat the flames, but that only encouraged the fire. Choking on fumes, he bolted to the door and kicked it open. A fireball rushed after him, scalding his back, singeing his hair.
He raced across the street and watched in horror as a flash, more powerful than lightning, blasted through the building. Plaster and timber exploded in a shower of debris as the tenement burst into flames, spewing sooty cinders, painting the sky black, obliterating the rising sun.
He thanked Jesus—thanked the Almighty Father, Jupiter, Apollo, Zeus, any god he could summon—the building had been condemned and vacated of people.
But he hadn’t considered the wind.
It swept down from Caelian Hill, fanning flames, encouraging the fire to attack adjoining buildings. Sleepy tenants, roused from bed and still in their nightclothes, rushed from their apartments and out into the street.
Horses whinnied, kicking at their stalls. Chickens escaped their coops and ran squawking underfoot. The screams of women blotted out the wails of children.
Clanging bells announced the arrival of a fire brigade. The vigiles quickly formed a line leading to the Aqua Appia, the nearest aqueduct, and began passing leather buckets of water. Grabbing a bucket, Justinus joined them.
The inferno consumed everything in its path: a grocery, an apothecary, a forger’s smithy. The temperature increased until the heat became unbearable, hot enough to melt metal. The apothecary’s copper vats spit blue, green, and purple flames, as if conjured by a sorcerer. Choking on smoke and drenched in sweat, Justinus tossed buckets of water as fast as he could muster them, but before the water met the flames it evaporated.
Timbers came alive and fell on fleeing people. A frightened family ran from a collapsing building and faced a blazing wall of flames. The mother, clutching her newborn infant against her breast, narrowly escaped a burning beam.
A small boy stood in the middle of street, screaming, “Mama.”
Horses, manes on fire, stampeded toward him. The clomping hooves were deafening as the horses galloped past. Justinus dropped his water bucket and lunged for the child.
Too late.
The boy’s skull was crushed.
Sinking to his knees, Justinus cradled the trampled body.
“God forgive me.”
Wind carried flames across the street, igniting the Circus Maximus. Fire raged through the entryway, up the wooden steps, and through the spectator stalls.
And as the dawn grew darker, Justinus bowed his head over the boy and sobbed.
CHAPTER XL
Dawn crept across the forum, its purplish light darker than usual, as if a storm were brewing. Wrists bound, head shaved, dressed in a simple tunica, Elissa looked out at the crowd gathered to witness her demise. Haruspices had examined the sacrificial entrails, the position of the stars had been consulted, and the Collegiate of Pontiffs declared the omens favorable for her funeral. Throughout the piazza, myrrh smoldered in copper braziers. Praetorian guards surrounded the Temple of Vesta, and Tigellinus stood at the bottom of the seven steps like the hound of Hades.
All night, Elissa had prayed to Jesus. Only he, who died so cruelly, could understand the injustice of her circumstance. Welts scored her back, inflamed and festering, a reminder of the beatings she’d received from the Pontifex Maximus.
“Your palanquin awaits you.” With a gentle hand, Mother Amelia guided Elissa.
The litter—made of solemn alder wood, black curtains rippling in the breeze—had been especially prepared for the occasion. Priests, rather than slaves, had been assigned to carry Elissa through the streets to the Field of Iniquity.
“Daughter,” a voice called.
Elissa turned, slowly, as if submerged in water. Her reality had shifted, and she felt like an observer in these final moments of her life, detached and mildly curious.
Constantina wore mourning rags, her haggard face smeared with ashes. Breaking from a cluster of family, she walked toward Elissa, arms outstretched. Her embrace was fierce, and Elissa lacked the strength to respond. She felt like one already dead, a shade among the living.
“Forgive me,” Constantina said.
“For what, Mater?” A lump formed in Elissa’s throat. Calling Constantina mater seemed fraudulent, but Constantina was the only mother she had ever known.
“I wish you had married; I wish I’d refused the priests when they took you from our home; I wish you’d led a normal life—”
“Don’t blame yourself for fate, Mater.”
“I blame the gods.”
“I’m the one who should be sorry. My existence must have caused you pain.” Tears welled in Elissa’s eyes. “I know all you’ve done for me.”
Constantina touched Elissa’s cheek, lightly as a butterfly. “Then know you have never caused me pain, sweet daughter.”
Honoratus stood nearby. Fighting to remain stoic, his face reflected no emotion, but the depth of his anguish was apparent in his eyes.
“My little girl,” he said.
“Pater—” Her voice choked with tears.
Honoratus kissed her forehead, took her hands in his, and said, “I know you’re innocent.”
Tears spilled from Elissa’s eyes. She felt like she was five years old.
“There’s something I must tell you,” Honoratus said. “Something you have a right to know. Something I thought politic to keep a secret—”
“I know, Pater. I know.”
“Who told you?”
“That’s not important.”
“My little girl. Where do you get your stubbornness?” Honoratus squeezed her hands.
The wind picked up, sweeping dust into their eyes. Or so Elissa told herself when she saw her father cry. She glanced toward her wailing aunts, the solemn faces of her uncles. Egnatius must have come to gloat. He stood apart from the family. The household slaves were in attendance. Spurius loudly blew his nose. The vestals, dressed in their whitest robes, hovered like apparitions.
Marcia approached. “Forgive me,” she said.
Elissa touched her round face. “There is nothing to forgive.”
“I’ll pray for you,” Marcia managed to say, before bursting into tears.
Cornelia clutched her rag doll. “I’ll miss you, ’Lissa,” she said, her pink lips trembling.
Elissa knelt, peered into Cornelia’s eyes. “I’ll miss you too. Take good care of Lucia.”
“She wants to go with you.” Cornelia held out the doll.
Elissa shook her head. “It’s dark where I’m going. Lucia would be afraid. She needs to stay with you. You’re her mother, aren’t you?”
Cornelia nodded, her relief apparent.
Before Angerona had the chance to speak, Elissa turned away.
“Where’s Flavia?” she asked Mother Amelia.
The Vestal Maxima glanced at Tigellinus. “No one seems to know. She must have gone to Antium with Nero and Poppaea.”
The lump in Elissa’s throat became painful. “Please tell my sister I forgive her.”
“Of course, my dear.”
Elissa surveyed the crowd, hoping to see Justinus yet praying he would stay away. Praying he was safe. The crowd had increased in number and, though the mob was strangely quiet, she sensed their anticipation.
She heard Constantina weeping.
The song of birds.
Felt the rush of wind.
Tigellinus stepped forward. He bound Elissa’s wrists, tightening the rope until it cut. A mournful wail emanated from the gathered people, not only for Elissa, but for Rome.
The blindfold made her world go black.
“This way, my dear.” Mother Amelia touched her shoulder.
Elissa climbed into the palanquin, her body still aching from Nero’s rod and whip. But fury overtook her pain.
She was on the verge of protesting, on the verge of claiming innocence, about to shout that Nero, not she, should be punished, when a gag was stuffed into her mouth. Leather straps bound her to the litter and a pall was drawn over her body. On the count of three, the priests lifted the palanquin and the procession began.
Ululations reverberated through the forum.
Bound and gagged, there was no use in struggling. Elissa lay still. Breathing. Feeling blood course through her veins. Lights flickered beneath her eyelids.
Jesus had carried his own cross.
What was her life compared to his?
A small sacrifice.
She told herself that soon she would see Marcus. He would be waiting by the River Styx, ready to receive her. She heard the rush of water, smelled the river’s fecund scent. Was there any difference between birth and death?
The litter bounced along. They must have left the forum. From the crowd’s rowdy noise, Elissa surmised they’d reached the Fauces Suburae, an artery that ran past the maze of the Subura. The litter bounced on.
She heard the curtains luffing. Smelled smoke too caustic to be incense. Somewhere outside the city wall farmers must be burning fallow fields.
“Fire,” someone shouted.
“Where?”
“The Circus Maximus.”
“The brigades will soon appease it.”
“It’s spreading fast. Wind carries the flames.”
Tigellinus barked out orders, and Elissa heard the stamp of horse’s hooves as men were dispatched. She listened to the fire brigade’s distant clanging and sensed the city’s rising panic.
Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome Page 27