by Kevin Ashman
‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘The fire seems to be out, your task is complete.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘The Temple is a ruin and there is no sign of the sisters. If we leave it here who knows what will become of it? We have to take it with us.’
‘Rubria, it will be hard enough to stay alive, If we take this with us it will be impossible.’
‘I don’t care,’ she said, ‘I am not leaving it here for some passing thief. Either it comes with us or I stay here to make sure it reaches the hands of the Sisters.’
Dragus stared at Rubria for an age before realising she was deadly serious. Finally he picked up the Palladium and wrapped it in his cape.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘Have it your way, but can we get a move on? They could be back at any time.’
Rubria stood up and searched the store cupboards before finally returning with a couple of greying togas.
‘Best I can do,’ she said and they turned their backs to each other to get changed.
Finally they stood before each other, both dressed as servants. Dragus threw their old clothes in the wine store and shut the door.
‘May buy us some time,’ he said, ‘Now, how do we get out of here?’
‘Can’t we just walk out?’ she asked.
‘Can’t risk it,’ he said, ‘There may still be soldiers out there. It doesn’t matter how we are dressed, they won’t be expecting anyone to be walking out of here.’
‘No, I mean through the servant’s door,’ she said.
‘There’s another entrance?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘It’s not common knowledge but how do you think the servants carry the supplies in? We couldn’t have them soiling the Forum with their dirty feet now, could we?’ she asked ironically.
‘Right,’ he said, picking up his sword from the floor, ‘Let’s go.’ He placed the palladium under his other arm and followed Rubria out of the slave’s quarters and into dark streets of Rome.
The madness of the night continued as they slipped unnoticed into the crowds. Groups of citizens ran this way and that, panicking as they tried to save what precious few possessions they may have from the unrelenting flames. Soldiers joined peasants and freemen stood alongside slaves as human chains passed leather buckets from hand to hand. They barged their way through the throng, trying to find a way out of the confusion, but everywhere they went seemed to be affected by the fires sweeping across the eternal city. A soldier appeared out of the smoke, leading a group of slaves to some unknown destination. He grabbed Dragus by the arm.
‘You two,’ he ordered, ‘Come with me.’
‘We can’t,’ said Rubria, ‘We have to be somewhere else.’
‘I don’t care where you have to be,’ he said, ‘This is more important.’
Dragus kept his head turned slightly away, but despite this, a look of recognition crept into the soldier’s face.
‘Do I know you?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Dragus, ‘Like the lady said, we have to go. Now let us pass.’
‘Yes I do,’ said the soldier, ‘I have seen you in the barracks. You are a legionary, but why are you dressed like a slave?’ Suddenly the soldier’s eyes widened in shock.
‘Centurion, Dragus,’ he exclaimed, ‘I don’t understand. I was told you were dead. Perished in the Temple of Vesta along with…’ He stopped and stared back and fore between Dragus and Rubria before taking a step backwards.
‘Look, I don’t know what’s going on here,’ he said, ‘But I think you should come with me.’
‘Decurion,’ said Dragus. ‘There are things happening here you don’t understand. Now let us pass.’
‘I can’t do that, sir,’ said the soldier.
‘Yes you can,’ said Dragus, his tone lowering menacingly. ‘I still outrank you. Now step aside before this goes too far.’
The soldier went to draw his sword but before it had cleared the sheath, Dragus threw himself forward and tackled him to the ground. Although both soldiers had undergone similar training, only one had undergone any active service and there was only one possible outcome. All the stomach churning terror and self preserving battle rage he had experienced back on the killing fields of Britannia washed over him like a waterfall. Within seconds Dragus had overpowered the soldier and smashed his opponent’s head, over and over again onto the cobbled floor. Only the fact that the soldier was wearing a helmet prevented his head from being caved in.
‘Stop it!’ screamed Rubria, grabbing the back of his tunic, ‘You’re killing him.’
Dragus came back to his senses and let the man’s head go.
‘Shit,’ he murmured, ‘I’m sorry, I thought…’ He stepped back and Rubria crouched down besides the unconscious soldier.
‘He is still breathing,’ she said, ‘But needs a Medicus.’
Dragus turned to the group of slaves who had witnessed the scene in horror.
‘You there,’ he said, pointing at the nearest man, ‘Go and get help.’
‘Now!’ he screamed when the man didn’t move immediately. He turned to Rubria. ‘Priestess,’ he said. ‘Leave him. We have to get out of here.’
‘We can’t leave him,’ she said, ‘He is bleeding.’
‘He will be okay,’ said Dragus, ‘I have seen many such injuries on the battlefield. He will have a headache he will remember for the rest of his life, but he will live.’
‘Promise?’
‘Trust me,’ he said, ‘But we have to get out of here. As soon as he is able, he will tell the garrison we are alive and a search will be instigated. We have to make use of every minute.’
‘Okay,’ she said standing up. ‘If you’re sure. Which way?’
‘I just realised where we are,’ he said, ‘We need to go down here.’ He pointed down a side street.
‘Why, what’s down there?’
‘The river Tiber,’ he said. ‘It’s our only hope.’
Chapter Eighteen
Rome 2010
Once again, India and Brandon were in the safe house in Rome. Helios had picked them up from Samothrace in the middle of the night in his fishing boat, and they had sailed to Rome over a period of two days, hugging the coastlines of the Greek islands to avoid any searches that may be underway. Finally they had arrived in Civitavecchia, and, after rewarding Helios handsomely with a wad of notes, Brandon had flagged down a taxi and they had made their way to the safe house.
‘Who exactly is he?’ asked India in the taxi.
‘Who?’
‘Helios.’
‘Ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,’ murmured Brandon, gazing out of the window.
‘Ah, Grey man syndrome,’ she said.
‘Something like that,’ he said and remained silent for the rest of the trip.
— -
They were each given their own room, and, after taking a long hot shower, India eventually joined Brandon down in the lounge, refreshed and ready to eat. Shirley, the landlady was an English woman who had married an Italian many years previously and had a surprise up her sleeve.
‘Hello luvvie,’ she said when India entered the room, ‘You look nice. Sit down and I’ll bring you a drink. What would you like?’
‘Oh, I don’t know really,’ said India, feeling a bit awkward. It wasn’t as if this was a hotel or guest house, this was someone’s home.
‘I tell you what,’ said Shirley, ‘While you’re having a think, I’ll make us all a nice cup of tea, shall I?’
‘Oh, tea would be wonderful,’ said India with a smile, ‘I didn’t like to ask.’
‘You can ask me anything you want, luvvie,’ said Shirley.’ It may have been twenty years since his lordship swept me off my feet and brought me here, but I still think you can’t beat a good old cup of British char.’
‘Lovely,’ said Brandon and Stella left to make the tea.
‘Feel better?’ asked India
‘What do you mean?’ asked Brandon, ‘I’m fine.’
‘You were a b
it moody in the car,’ she said, ‘I just thought there may be something wrong, that’s all.’
‘No, nothing wrong,’said Brandon, ‘Just thoughtful.’
‘Penny for them,’ said India with a smile.
‘All this historic stuff,’ said Brandon. ‘It’s all very interesting and all that, but we don’t seem to be getting anywhere fast and all the time that little girl back home is in danger.’
‘I thought we were doing well,’ said India. ‘We’ve managed to trace one of the suspects this far. Isn’t that good?’
‘In a sense, yes,’ said Brandon ‘But don’t forget, everything we have uncovered so far is just conjecture. We have nothing that actually ties him to England and have found nothing yet that may link him to the girls. All we have is the dead guy from the library and this Peter Venezelos who tried to burn down the house. There are so many different parts to this puzzle yet nothing seems to fit.’
The door opened and Stella brought in the tea.
‘Dinner won’t be long,’ she said, ‘Roast beef and Yorkshires do you?’ The delight on both people’s faces was priceless and she returned to the kitchen to finish the meal.
‘A good old roast,’ said Brandon, ‘Better than all that foreign muck.’
‘Behave,’ said India, ‘When in Rome and all that.’
‘Anyway,’ said Brandon, ‘Tell me about this Vestal Temple. How is it linked to this Palladium thing?’
India sipped her tea and sat back to explain.
‘Like I said,’ said India, ‘The statue of Pallas Athena finally ended up in Rome, hundreds of years after its disappearance from Troy. Stories vary how it got there, but when it did, it was placed in the care of the Vestal Virgins.’
‘And who were they, exactly?’
‘They were extraordinary women who dedicated their lives to the worship of the Goddess Vesta, or as we now know, the Great Mother. They originated sometime around the formation of Rome and there were never more than half a dozen at any one time.’
‘What did they do?’ asked Brandon.
‘Nothing much really, they cared for the sacred fire at the heart of Rome, a symbolic flame that represented the hearth as a central point of any family. They also took part in religious rituals throughout the year and looked after various important documents and treasures of the government.’
‘Like the Palladium?’
‘Yes, but that was just one of many. Some we will never know as they were guarded jealously but we know they also looked after important papers of state.’
‘But why did they have to be Virgins?’
‘The tradition stemmed from thousands of years earlier when the young girls of the villages used to be left behind to tend the fires when the rest of the villagers went out to hunt and forage. Due to their age they were obviously virgins, and, over time, virginity became synonymous with tending the sacred fires. Eventually it became almost a cult and the Vestal Virgins became a very powerful entity within Rome. They were feted by many and had the power of reprieve over criminals sentenced to death. They were salaried and in a very patriarchal society were allowed to own property and develop business interests of their own. Those who saw out their thirty years ended up very wealthy and powerful women.’
‘What do you mean, thirty years?’
‘Oh it wasn’t a lifetime sentence,’ said India, ‘They were selected between the age of six and ten and had to serve at least thirty years in the Goddess’s service, ten as a trainee, ten as an actual Priestess and ten as a tutor. After that they were free to leave the order and marry if they so desired. Mind you, so privileged was the position that most stayed within the order.’
‘And during those thirty years, they had to stay chaste?’
‘Yes, and that’s the flip side. Their virginity was seen as a symbol of their divinity and a sign of their devotion to Rome. Once they had lost that link the penalty was brutal.’
‘Don’t tell me they were killed,’ said Brandon.
‘That’s exactly what happened,’ said India. ‘In the beginning they were simply flogged to death or strangled, but, as time went on, society demanded that no-one could take the life of a Vestal Virgin so they came up with a cruel alternative. Anyone found guilty of losing their virginity, whether by choice or by rape, were sentenced to a horrific fate. They would be carried through the streets of Rome on a litter in front of the whole population. The crowds would remain deathly silent as they witnessed the soiled Priestesses make her way to the streets of Campus Sceleratus where a subterranean tomb had been prepared. She would then be forced to climb down a ladder, and, in the room would be a candle, a bed, some water and food. Once down there, the room would be sealed and covered with the soil and slabs of the road above. The crowd would disperse and the city returned to its business.’
‘How long would she be down there?’
‘That’s just it. That’s where she stayed and her name never mentioned again.’
‘What, forever?’
‘Yup!’
‘But I thought you said they couldn’t kill a priestess.’
‘Well, in their own way they thought that they weren’t killing her. She had food, light, water and comfort. As far as they were concerned when they left her she was alive and what happened after that was of no concern to them.’
‘That’s stupid.’
‘But true,’ said India.
‘How many were killed like that?’ asked Brandon.
‘The figures vary but probably not more than a dozen or so.’
‘Wow,’ said Brandon. ‘That’s brutal.’
‘A severe price to pay for love,’ said India.
‘Or lust,’ said Brandon.
‘Don’t be such a philistine,’ said India. ‘I’m sure that any that may have succumbed to their desires would have done so only because they had fallen in love.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Brandon sarcastically. ‘Anyway, where is this Temple?’
‘Near the foot of the Palatine hill,’ she said, ‘Or what’s left of it. There are substantial ruins there and apparently you can still see the base of the Dias that once held the Palladium.’
‘And you think that’s where Venezelos would have gone?’
‘As good a guess as any,’ she said.’ It was the last place the Palladium was known to be, and had been for hundreds of years. If you are going to try and learn about its whereabouts you may as well start there.’
‘And you think that is what these boys were after.’
‘If they believed it existed, I have no doubt. It would be the greatest find since Tutankhamen’s tomb. Not only would it be a political coup for Samothrace but would make anyone finding it, instant millionaires.’
‘So that’s where we’ll go first, then.’ said Brandon.
‘May as well,’ said India. ‘I can’t wait, I’ve always wanted to see the buildings around the Palatine.’
‘Roast beef first,’ said Brandon, ‘Sightseeing later.’ As if on cue Stella’s voice rang out from the kitchen.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ she called. ‘Come and get it.’
They both stood up and walked into the dining room to enjoy a British feast in an Italian home.
Early the following morning they took a taxi to the ancient city and made their way to the area of the palatine. As the car drove off they stood in awe looking up at the ruins. Crowds were gathering and touts were already trying to rope in the tourists to their respective tours. Brandon looked around and settled on one younger man who sat to one side rolling a cigarette.
‘This way,’ he said and walked over to the Italian.
‘Excuse me, do you speak English?’ he asked.
The man glanced up briefly but returned his attention to the cigarette.
‘Tours over there,’ he said, ‘Fifty Euro’s, best tours in Roma.’
‘I don’t want a tour,’ interrupted Brandon.
‘Then I can’t help you,’ said the Italian, reaching into his inner pocket for a lighter.<
br />
Brandon held out two fifty Euro notes in front of the man’s eyes. The Italian paused and drew a lungful of smoke, before blowing it out slowly.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘I want a personal tour of the Palatine,’ he said. ‘Just us two and a local expert. Someone who knows the history of this place inside out and can tell us things that may not be in the official guide books.’
‘Like what?’
‘Anything.’
‘I know of someone,’ he said. ‘Used to work for the museum and was the best guide around here for years. Got fired for selling something he found in the undergrowth.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Brandon, ‘Where can we find him?’
‘You don’t,’ said the man, ‘I do!’ He took the hundred Euros’ from Brandon’s hand. ‘One hour he said. We will meet you back here.’
Brandon grabbed the man’s wrist.
‘Make sure you do,’ he said ‘And if he is good, there is another five hundred each for both of you.’
The guy took another drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke over Brandon’s head, before pulling his hand from the man’s grip.
‘Don’t worry, English,’ he said, ‘For five hundred I will bring the Pope himself.’
‘One hour,’ said Brandon and they watched the man walk away.
‘What was all that about?’ asked India.
‘Sometimes you have to dig deeper beneath the surface to get to anything of quality,’ said Brandon. ‘Anything the tour guides have to say we can probably find out on the internet. What we want is someone who grew up around here.’
‘Do you think he will come back?’ she asked
‘He will come back,’ said Brandon, holding out another note. ‘Be a love and get us a coke,’
India snatched the note with a snarl, but as she walked towards the ice cream stand, a slight smile played around her mouth.
An hour later they were sat on a bench in the shade of a dried olive tree. Finally the Italian reappeared with a reluctant looking old man.
‘Is this him?’ asked Brandon.
‘This is Louigi,’ said the younger man.