“With child,” Elissa said.
“I remember,” Nero said, “Crispus died quite suddenly.”
“Quite conveniently,” said Elissa.
“Soon after his death, Agrippina gave birth to a daughter. Agrippina wanted to return to Rome and could not afford another scandal, so she kept her daughter’s birth a secret.”
Nero’s face had drained of color. He leaned over the desk toward Elissa. “What of your mother? Constantina?”
“My adoptive mother,” Elissa said. “Honoratus and Agrippina had an affair and I was the result.”
Nero’s voice shook when he spoke, “If what you say is true, why claim your heritage at this late date? Do you hope to overthrow me? Seize the throne? Officially you’re dead. What can you hope to gain?”
“Retribution.”
Elissa didn’t see him draw the sica. Nero leapt over the desk, papers scattering in his wake, and held the knife to her throat—the curved blade an evil smile. “You force me to kill you twice.”
The blade felt cold and razor sharp.
“Let her go,” Mother Amelia said.
“I should kill both of you.”
“Yes,” Elissa said, “both of us—your sister and your unborn child.”
“My unborn child?”
“Rome burns and from union unholy the sister will bring forth a son. Remember the prophecy?”
The blade wavered in his hand.
“Release her,” Mother Amelia said.
Shaking violently, Nero withdrew the sica. “A child?” Like a drunkard, he staggered backward and sank onto his stool. “You bear my son?”
“Your child grows in my womb. The prophecy calls for a son.”
“And I nearly killed him.”
“Murder runs in the family.”
“My son.” Joy flooded Nero’s face as the idea took hold. “Heir to the throne. The perfect bloodline, descended on both sides from Julius Caesar.” He clapped his hands. “I shall name him Apollo, for he will be a god. From Rome’s ashes he will rise like the phoenix.” Throwing back his head, he laughed.
“Not your son. Mine.”
Nero’s laughter ended abruptly. “Don’t threaten me. If necessary, I’ll hold you captive until my son is born.”
“I plan to bear my son in peace.”
Nero started toward her.
Elissa grabbed the sica. Fierce as any lioness, she brandished the blade. “Call the guards and you will die.”
Nero appeared shrunken, dwarfed by his piles of papers—remnants of his burning empire. How had she ever thought him powerful?
“Before all of Rome, you claimed you never bedded me. Before the Collegiate of Pontiffs you accused me of infidelity. Resurrect me from the dead, and I will be your nemesis. All of Rome will learn your vulgar secrets and know you for a liar. Claim this child and you will be despised.”
Still holding the blade, she flung open the door, nearly toppling the sentries.
“Make way for the Vestal Maxima,” she said.
The guards bowed, allowing them to pass.
“Stop her!” Nero shouted.
Fog crept through the basilica, copious and clammy. Through the mist, the dead were watching, their eyes bright as stars. Elissa heard them whisper, felt their touch, as she walked along the vestibule.
“I’ll claim the gods have raised you from the dead,” Nero called. “The priests will pronounce you a goddess.”
“Cleopatra to your Antony?”
“Elissa needs none of your proclamations,” Mother Amelia said. “She is a vestal virgin in the truest sense.”
“Come back, Elissa! Together, we’ll become immortal.” Nero’s voice drifted through clouds of fog, as if from a distant world.
The sica slipped from Elissa’s hand. She felt no hate for her half-brother, only pity. His vision afforded him no light, no hope.
Hope.
She felt a spark take hold, felt it kindling the flame she’d kept buried in her heart.
Darkness cannot persist within the light of a happy soul.
She walked out into the evening. The mist parted, and a sunlit path opened before her. A breeze brought the scent of roses, and she swore she heard Marcus laughing.
Justinus waited for her beside a fountain.
Light shimmered in the spray of water, and sparks swirled through the air. The setting sun stained the sky red-orange, cast everything it touched in bronze. He might have been a statue, a hero or a god. But he was human. A beating heart, a thinking mind.
Love burned in his eyes as Elissa approached.
And in that flame she saw her own divinity.
THE END
Acknowledgements Thanks to my writers’ group for all the support over the years: Blake Crouch, Terry Junttonen, Shannon Richardson, Haz Saïd, Dinah Swan, Adam Watson and Douglas Walker. Great thanks and appreciation to my amazing teachers and mentors: Elizabeth Engstrom, Tess Gerritsen, Terry Brooks, John Saul, Karen Joy Fowler, Craig Lesley and Dorothy Allison—to name a few of many. Thanks to John Tullius for creating the Maui Writers’ Retreat, which I was fortunate to attend a number of times, as well as the magical Maui tour to Rome. And thanks to Eldon Thompson (fellow traveler to Rome) for his continuous encouragement, and to my fellow retreater, Tory Hartmann. Thanks to my beta readers: Blake Crouch, Terry Junttonen, Haz Saïd, Leah Morgan and Carol Stoner. Many thanks to Jeroen ten Berg for designing the beautiful cover. Thanks to Terry Roy for her exquisite formatting. And last, but not least, thanks to all the great writers and readers on Kindle Boards.
About the Author
Suzanne Tyrpak is originally from New York and now lives in southwest Colorado. She enjoys traveling, skiing, biking, and hanging out at the library.
Find her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Suzanne-Tyrpak/144232238928903
And follow her blog, “Who’s Imagining All This?” http://ghostplanestory.blogspot.com/
She’d love to hear from you.
Other Books by Suzanne Tyrpak:
Dating My Vibrator (and other true fiction)
Coming soon
Agathon’s Daughter—suspense in ancient Greece:
Born a bastard and a slave, Hestia has a gift—the power to read people’s hearts. This gift brings her notoriety and takes her on journey through the upper echelons of Athens. Sold to Lycurgus, a prominent statesman with sadistic tendencies, she becomes his consort. As Hestia’s wealth and fame increase, so does her despair. Determined to escape her cruel master, she faces enemies at every turn, but the fiercest enemy she faces is herself. To gain freedom, she must unravel the mystery of her past and confront the demons in her own heart.
Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome Page 30