by K. M. Ashman
Chapter 5
Rome 64 AD
Sister Rubria, as she was now known, sat staring in to the flames with love and respect. This was one of her duties as a priestess of the goddess, to oversee the fire for half a day every three days, sharing the work with the five other priestesses. Despite the long hours and the strange one-legged stool designed especially to stop the watchers falling asleep during their vigil, Rubria embraced the task with all her heart. The fire represented the very essence of the goddess and was the central hearth of the empire of Rome.
Though the inner temple was sacrosanct and denied to any person not of the order, a second fire in an iron pot was taken each morning to the entrance of the forum where a line of children waited outside the gates for the flames of Vesta to arrive. Each child would then ignite the kindling in their own clay pots before taking it back to their homes.
During the vigil, food and water were denied to any priestess watching over the flames and any request to be relieved for any personal need would result in a severe admonishing by the Pontifex Maximus.
The fire itself was contained within a granite hollow in the floor of the temple and fed constantly by logs brought into the city from the imperial forests to the west of the Apennine Mountains. Rubria’s duty was to ensure the flames were fed from the stockpile contained in the six alcoves around the circular walls of the temple and to honour the goddess with the suitable prayers on the stroke of every hour. It was a duty of love and one she cherished with all her heart.
Rubria rose from her knees at the culmination of the twelfth prayer and checked the fire’s strength. She retrieved the soft broom and gently swept the marble floor surrounding the hearth. Though there was never any mess other than the occasional fall of ash, the act ensured the temple was always as pure as the goddess herself and was a ceremony that reached back over a thousand years to when the original flame was in a much more humble setting. She knew that at the sound of the bell, a fellow Sister would enter the temple to take her place and she would be able to continue with her other duties.
Today was a special day for Rubria. Her inauguration as a priestess had been six weeks earlier and she had since spent most of the time in prayer or carrying out her duties to the goddess. Today would be different as for the first time since she arrived, she was to leave the forum grounds and travel up the nearby Palatine hill to the Domus Transitoria, the home of the emperor. There she would be presented to Nero himself and though no one quite knew if he would be there or not, Rubria briefly experienced the sin of excitement as she hurried back to her rooms on the upper level of the balcony surrounding the forum.
As usual, her servants had prepared the sunken bath with hot scented water and fresh clothes lay folded on her bed. Her room was very different from the rough cell she had occupied during her time as an acolyte and the sumptuous surroundings reflected her elevated position in the spiritual life of the city. Colourful tapestries adorned three of the walls and thick carpets from the east protected her feet from the chill of the marble floors. A huge bed dominated the room, its Dias making it so high that it had to be accessed by a small set of wooden steps.
The entire sleeping area was draped with swathes of white silk, making a sanctuary of purity where the priestess could rest. Against one wall was an ornate couch with carved arms at both ends where she could sit and entertain visitors while a table with a washing bowl stood in a corner. Finally, in the middle of the one unadorned wall was the most important thing in the whole room, a niche containing a candle to the goddess. This was her own shrine where she prayed daily, reasserting her devotion and begging forgiveness for her transgressions.
Rubria undid her broach and handed her veil to the one servant left in the room before stepping fully clothed into the sunken bath and kneeling in the cleansing hot water. The servant followed her in and helped Rubria remove her clothing.
‘You may do my hair now, Antonia,’ said Rubria eventually.
The servant poured soap on Rubria’s re-growing hair and worked it into the scalp. Antonia had been appointed Rubria’s personal servant and though born a Roman citizen, had surrendered her rights to serve the priestesses of Vesta, as had many young girls. When she had finished she poured fresh jugs of hot water to clear the soap and walked out of the bath to obtain a woollen wrap. She averted her eyes as Rubria emerged from the water and held open the towel to await her mistress.
‘Thank you, Antonia,’ said Rubria, as the servant wrapped the robe around her, ‘you may leave.’
The servant dropped to her knees and closed her eyes, her hands held together in prayer as Rubria gave her blessing. It was the only payment sought or given and Antonia finally left the room, refreshed in the blessing of the goddess. Rubria dressed herself in the crisp white robes and after a prayer at the shrine, left her room to descend to the courtyard below.
‘Are you ready, Rubria?’ asked the high priestess as she approached the awaiting litter.
‘Yes, mother,’ she answered.
‘Then take her word forth,’ said the older lady and opened the litter doors.
As Rubria bent to enter the sumptuous litter, the high priestess touched her on the arm. Rubria stopped and looked at her mentor, seeing a slight look of concern on her face.
‘Be careful, Rubria,’ she said.
‘Careful?' answered Rubria, ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, it’s probably nothing but … just be careful.’
‘I will,’ replied Rubria and climbed into the litter.
Eight slaves were allowed through the gates to take their places bearing the poles of the litter accompanied by a squad of Pretorian Guard. Usually a Decurion commanded a contubernium but due to the importance of the occupant, a young centurion, resplendent in his gleaming bronze ceremonial armour, accompanied the eight strong unit. The high priestess approached the centurion.
‘Hail, Dragus,’ she said.
‘Holy Mother,’ he smiled, ‘it is truly a great occasion today.’ The centurion had been appointed protector of the virgins by his legate and he would fulfil his role for a full year. He had already served for six months and had built up a mutual trust with the high priestess.
‘It is, but...’
‘But what?’ he asked.
She indicated for him to follow her away from the litter and spoke quietly.
‘What is his mood today?’ she said eventually.
‘Holy Mother, I am not privy to the inner circles of the emperor,’ he said, ‘though I have to admit there are concerns amongst the guard.’
‘Concerns?’
‘He alienates the senate and there are rumblings about his focus.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I have to be careful, mother,’ he said, ‘there are ears everywhere.’
‘You have the word of the goddess herself, centurion,’ she said, ‘your counsel will be withheld.’
‘I hear tell he descends into madness,’ he said eventually, ‘the bordellos and taverns are frequented by his presence whilst his legions want for direction.’
‘Does not the senate take him to task?’
‘He sees himself above the whims of the senate and revels in debauchery of the worst kind.’
‘I hear his tastes grow even more deviant.’
‘His preferences degenerate and I would not hurt you ears with description.’
‘I have heard as much,’ she answered, ‘and my concern grows.’
‘We have to go, said Dragus and dropped to one knee as the priestess gave him her blessing. He got to his feet but as he turned away, she called out once more.
‘Dragus.’ she said,
He turned and looked back.
‘Watch over her,’ she said indicating the litter, ‘she has the aura of the goddess about her.’
----
The movement of the litter was quite relaxing to Rubria as it rocked on the shoulders of the slaves. The drapes were drawn back at her request for quite apart from the pleasure it would gi
ve the people to catch sight of one of the priestesses, she was just as interested in those she passed. She had never walked the streets of the city and at eighteen was still relatively unwise in the ways of the world.
Before the small procession, marched a lecter, the personal bodyguard afforded her by the senate for her visit to the emperor. In one hand he carried a staff to indicate his authority and to strike any coming too close, while in the other he carried an axe, a reminder he had the power of execution in the service of the state. The contubernium marched before and behind the litter and the centurion brought up the rear so he could see any threat.
‘A virgin approaches,’ shouted a passer-by and Rubria peered out of the litter to see a commotion in the street as several of the populace rushed to get a better view.
‘Clear the path.’ shouted the lecter, ‘make way for Vesta.’
‘Bless me, priestess,’ called a woman and ran toward the litter.
A soldier broke ranks and pushed her back.
‘Control them.’ called the centurion, ‘keep the way clear.’
They soon cleared the streets and within ten minutes, the litter had been put down in the grounds of the emperor’s palace. Rubria waited until the slaves and the guards had withdrawn before she got out of the litter. Before her stood the lecter, his staff resting on the floor and axe hanging at his side.
‘From here you will proceed alone,’ he said, ‘go through the doors and proceed past the royal pools to the double doors at the far end. The emperor awaits.’
‘Thank you,’ she said gently and looked up to thank the centurion. What she saw took her aback.
The soldier was staring at her with an intensity that was frightening.
‘Centurion, are you alright?’ she asked.
Dragus snapped back to reality. For a moment he had been swept away in the glory of her beauty. Her face, her piercing blue eyes, even her very demeanour took his breath away. Never had he seen a vision such as this and he realised why the Holy Mother recognised such promise in her.
‘I am fine,’ he said, ‘I will wait at the gate for your return and will escort you back to the temple.’
‘Thank you,’ she said and held the stare of the handsome soldier for a few more seconds before lowering her eyes. She turned and walked through the gates, her silk wrap flowing behind her.
Dragus watched her go, confused, annoyed and frightened at the feelings coursing through his veins. He was on fire, his skin tingled and his breathing was laboured. He knew this was all wrong for the girl was a priestess and as such lay beyond the reach of any mortal man but never had he felt such as this. Surely, it was a test sent from Vesta herself.
----
Rubria walked toward the inner doors, past a line of fountains feeding a beautiful pool. For the first few paces she considered the reaction of the guard but quickly put it out of her mind as she concentrated on the audience she was about to undertake. Nero had ruled as emperor for ten years and the first five had been kind and prosperous with the aid of his mother, Agrippina but as he had grown more confident and took more control of his own fate, he had seen her as a threat rather than an ally and arranged her murder five years earlier. Despite this, Rubria held her head high for no one was beyond the touch of the goddess and perhaps she, Rubria, could reach out to the kindness within.
----
Chapter 6
London 2010
‘So, who is he?’ asked Brandon, looking at the profile on the ring.
‘Unless I am mistaken,’ answered India, ‘it is Phillip the second of Macedonia.’
‘Means nothing to me, who was he, some sort of Roman god?’
‘No, not a god,’ she said, ‘not even Roman.’
‘History wasn’t one of my strong points in school,’ said Brandon, ‘I was more interested in rugby, women and cider.’
‘It figures,’ she said.
‘So who was this Phillip?’
‘Phillip the second was the king of Macedonia in the fourth century BC and father of Alexander the Great,’ she said. ‘Surely, you must have heard of Alexander, he conquered most of the known world at the time including Persia, Egypt and Syria. He died at the age of thirty two having ruled for only thirteen years and is reckoned to be one of the best military leaders of all time.’
‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Brandon, ‘but what about his father, this Phillip guy?’
‘He was a great leader as well but not on the same scale as his son.’
‘So what is the link here?'
‘I don’t know,’ said India, ‘though, I am almost certain the necklace is a fake.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, from what I can recall the reverse side of the real thing should have some sort of Macedonian god or date. The one stolen from the library had neither.’
‘What did it have?’
‘I’m not sure. I have seen it before but can’t recall where. What we need is the necklace so we can compare it to the records.’
‘Unfortunately,’ he said, ‘that is not possible. The thief has long gone so that avenue is closed. Would there be any in the museums?’
‘I doubt it,’ she answered, ‘there would be coins of Phillip but I would bet they are Macedonian coins with normal Macedonian images. There wouldn’t be anything like this.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because it is a modern coin, minted no more than a few hundred years ago. Sixteenth century is my best guess.’
‘And you’re sure about this?’
‘When you have seen as many coins as I have and spent half your life dating them you tend to get a hunch about these things.’
‘Okay, assuming your right, what else can you tell me?’
‘That’s about it,’ she said, ‘without the actual necklace to analyse there is nothing else. Oh,’ she said suddenly, her mind racing, ‘hang on, it’s bloody obvious.’
‘What is?’
‘Why didn’t I think of it before?’ she crossed the room to his laptop and switched it on.
‘Are you online here?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘What’s your password?’
‘Manchester United.’
She gave him a derisive look and logged on.
‘Do you think you can find a picture of a similar necklace on the internet?’ he asked.
‘No, I don’t have to. I know where I can find the image of the exact necklace.’
‘Where?’
‘Hammersmith Numismatic Society web page,’ she said, ‘my Mr Jones, as you so often refer to him, posted a picture asking for information a few days ago.’ She hit the return key and spun the screen around to face him with a flourish. Her face dropped as she saw he was holding up a print-out of the exact screen shot displayed on the computer.
‘You already had a picture,’ she said in astonishment.
‘Sorry, India,’ he said, ‘I had to make sure you were straight.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I had to make sure you are not in on this, whatever this is.’
‘You bastard,’ she said.
‘It had to be done,’ he answered, ‘you are the only link we have to the coin and this was the easiest way was to see if you were holding back any relevant information.’
‘Well,’ she said eventually, ‘do I pass?’
‘You do.’
She snatched the picture from his hands and returned to the coffee table.
‘In that case,’ she said, ‘get me a magnifying glass,’ and after a moment’s pause added, ‘and another cup of tea.’
----
‘First of all,’ she said poring over the picture, ‘the front of the coin is exactly as I thought. The face is definitely Phillip the Second of Macedonia and dates after 354BC.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘His face is very distinctive,’ she said, ‘and looks like most images of him recorded at the time. The long straight nose is a family trait and the laurel wreath sit
ting around his head is typical of his image. In itself, that is not enough but most coins of the time depict their king’s facing right, this one faces left.’
‘Why is that important?’
‘In 354 BC, Phillip attacked Methone in the Aegean sea. During the battle, an arrow smashed into his face and he suffered a lot of damage, including the loss of his right eye. Since that date, any coinage minted always depicted the left side of his face. His good side, so to speak.’
‘What about the script?’ asked Brandon and spelled out the letters surrounding the head, ‘M…Y…R…T…A…L…E’
‘That is quite strange,’ she said, ‘as the coin postdates the battle, the name is out of sync.’
‘Why, who is it?’
‘It is the name of his wife,’ she said ‘but it is all wrong. When he married her in 357 BC her name was indeed Myrtale but when Phillip’s horse won in the Olympic Games a year later, she changed her name to Olympias in honour of the victory.’
‘Perhaps she still used it or he preferred it,’ said Brandon.
‘I wouldn’t have thought so. Going back to an old name was seen as unlucky and anyway, Alexander was born in the same year and it would have been an insult to him. No, this is one of the reasons I think this is a fake, the coin was minted by a different culture that perhaps got their names or dates wrong.’
‘Okay,’ said Phillip, ‘what about the other side?’
She didn’t bother using the magnifying glass for this one, just picked up the sheet.
‘This is something altogether different,’ she said ‘and is wrong, wrong, wrong.’
‘How?’
‘Wrong country, wrong period and wrong culture.’
He looked at the picture on the coin. To him it looked like a crude attempt at a matchstick man, the type often drawn by young children in their first attempts at drawing. A large round head sat on two vertical thick lines depicting the body and legs, whilst the arms were held tight against the sides.
‘Go on.’
‘Where do I start?’ she asked, ‘this image is a symbol recognised by many different cultures across the world. It refers to an ideology shared by thousands of religions from Paganism to Catholicism and ranges from the dawn of time right up to modern day. It is Pagan in origin and represents the universe itself or more recently an actual person or should I say, Deity.’