The Dead Virgins (The India Sommers Mysteries Book 1)

by K. M. Ashman

  Rubria’s heart missed a beat and her stomach turned as she realised what he had just said.

  ‘Our glory, Sire? I don’t understand.’

  ‘You and I, Rubria,’ he said, ‘Ruling the world together, a living god alongside the most beautiful woman in the empire. I did it for you, Rubria, all this will soon be yours. A life of untold privilege and power the likes of which has never been seen before. All you have to do is consent to be my bride.’

  Rubria felt sick. All of a sudden, everything made sense. All the times she had been summoned to the palace, all the compliments he had paid and all gifts he had lavished upon her, were simply a means to an end. While she thought he had favoured her for her honesty and counsel, he had only one thing in his mind and that was to entice her into a union that was impossible.

  ‘Sire,’ she said, still staring over the city, ‘I am flattered but surely you can see this is impossible?’

  ‘I see no such thing, Rubria,’ he said.

  ‘But I am a Priestess of the temple of Vesta and am promised to her service. I cannot entertain the company of a man for many years yet. Perhaps when I leave her service it may be possible.’

  ‘For an ordinary man perhaps,’ he said, ‘but I am your emperor and such trivialities worry me not. When I am immortalised, I will swat aside your goddess’s little whims aside as I would a fly. I am Nero and there has never been any such as me.’

  ‘But Majesty,’ she said, breaking free and turning to face him, ‘surely you understand, this is not a burden imposed on me but a calling I embrace completely.’

  ‘That will soon pass, priestess,’ he said, ‘when you sample the glory of my power and the pleasure of my bed, all such thoughts will be like memories in the wind.’

  ‘Sire,’ she pleaded, ‘please cast these thoughts aside, I can never forsake the goddess. This can never happen.’

  Nero’s face changed slightly as her words sunk in.

  ‘You misunderstand, priestess,’ he said, ‘this is not an option but a decree. You will be my bride and you will do so willingly or else suffer the consequences.’

  Rubria was breathing fast now, close to tears as she realised there was no way out of this.

  ‘Sire,’ she said eventually, ‘my calling permeates my very soul and though I recognise your glory, the needs of my goddess will always come first. I beg of you to turn off this path for I cannot join you. I will always be here for you as confidante and friend but whatever the consequences, I cannot consent to be your bride.’

  Nero stared at the girl before walking toward the door and Rubria breathed a sigh of relief, believing he was going to leave.

  ‘I will not lie to you, priestess,’ he said as he pushed the wooden bar across to lock the door, ‘I am bitterly disappointed. Ours was to be the most glorious wedding ever seen in the history of Rome.’ He turned around and faced her. ‘You could have had everything, Rubria and if you had only seen the sense of being my bride, I was willing to wait before partaking of your particular pleasures. Our wedding night was to be magical, romantic, sensual and gentle as I introduced your pure body to the pleasures of the flesh.’

  Rubria trembled with fear as Nero circled her like a cat circling its prey.

  ‘But you have taken that option away now, priestess,’ he continued, ‘you have spoilt it for yourself. However, all is not lost for I will still have my vision. My grounds will be planted, my palace will be built and though there will no longer be a wedding night to look forward to, there is an upside.’

  She stared at him in fright as his voice lowered, menacingly.

  ‘Sire?’ she said, her eyes transferring the unspoken question.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘at least I won’t have to wait for the wedding night before enjoying your hidden treasures. In fact, everything suddenly seems much better. Why wait and share when I can have it all right now?’

  ‘Sire, surely you don’t mean…’

  ‘Oh but I do,’ said Nero, ‘you had your chance, priestess, I asked nicely but it seems you don’t understand nice, so now we’ll do it the other way.’

  ‘Sire, please, no…’

  Nero lurched forward and grabbed Rubria by the throat, his wine laden breath in her face, as he forced her back against the marble wall.

  ‘Enjoy your last few minutes as a priestess, Rubria,’ he snarled, ‘for your role as a virgin is about to come to a painful and bloody end.’

  He forced the terrified teenager to the floor and as the reflections of the fires sweeping Rome reflected off the marble walls, Nero Augusta, Emperor of Rome raped Rubria, Priestess of the Temple of Vesta.

  ----

  Chapter 12

  London 2010

  ‘First of all,’ said India, ‘you have to realise that the time period we are talking about covers thousands of years and for much of that time, nothing is documented. All we can go on are the stories handed down through the ages until they were written down around the times of Homer in Greek history.’

  ‘So everything you tell me could be rubbish,’ said Brandon bluntly.

  ‘Well, not exactly rubbish as many different historians wrote similar accounts. It is just that sometimes the details contradict each other. For instance, though the Roman and Grecian pantheons were based on the same gods…’

  ‘Pantheon?’ interrupted Brandon.

  ‘Sorry,’ said India with a sarcastic smile, ‘I forgot I was dealing with a heathen. A pantheon is the collective name for a group of gods and though they were based on the same ones, their names were different. Zeus was Jupiter, Poseidon was Neptune and Aphrodite was Venus. Many of the legends were the same though details were different.’

  ‘Coincidence?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘Possibly,’ said India, ‘but some of the detail is so fantastic it has to share the same source.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll give you an example. In Greek history, Athena was born from her father’s forehead. Her father was called Zeus. In Roman history, Jupiter, the Roman king of the gods, gave birth to Minerva in the same fashion.’

  ‘Who came first?’ asked Brandon, ‘Romans or Greeks.’

  ‘Greeks,’ said India.

  ‘So perhaps the Romans just copied the Greeks?’

  ‘That is possible,’ said India, ‘but it proves my point. The only written history we can rely on is from those two eras and there is a grey area where they overlap. If you speak to a dozen different historians, you’ll get a dozen different points of view. What we have to do is see through the maze of detail and identify the common references.’

  ‘And you are the person who can do this, I assume?’

  ‘It’s my passion,’ said India, ‘I have no interest in establishing the absolute accuracy of the detail as I believe we will never know the exact truth. All I am interested in is establishing the provenance of the cult of the great mother. However, to do this I am forced to read every fact and fable, no matter how fantastic and by default, I have become a bit of an expert.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Brandon, ‘I’m convinced. You are hereby, designated official historian. Now, what can you tell me about Samothrace?’

  ----

  ‘Like I’ve already explained,’ said India, ‘the cult of Isis was spreading westward throughout the Mediterranean and over the course of time, became absorbed into local history in many different guises. In Crete, she became Athena, in Greece Artemis and in Rome, Vesta. I could go on but suffice to say there are countless goddesses linked to the great mother and as the cult of Isis spread through the Aegean, it was inevitable that many of the thousands of islands were populated. Subsequently, due to their isolation the memories remained relatively undiluted and over time, the last stronghold of her memory was the island of Samothrace.’

  ‘Is there any evidence?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘Well, if you accept that Athena and Isis actually refer to the same deity, then yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It is a bit complicated due to t
he countless versions available.’

  ‘Give me the streamlined one.’

  ‘Okay but don’t forget that no matter how fantastic it may sound, the historians of the time passionately believed in the accuracy of the stories. In most versions, Athena was the daughter of Zeus and lived with the gods on Mount Olympus. She and her Sister Pallas were play fighting one day when Zeus intervened to avoid injury.’

  ‘Health and Safety?’ Brandon sneered sarcastically. India ignored him.

  ‘Anyway, it backfired,’ she continued, ‘Pallas was distracted and Athena accidentally dealt her a fatal blow. Athena was devastated and created an idol in her sister’s honour, a wooden statue three cubits high.’

  ‘Cubits?’ interrupted Brandon.

  ‘About four feet,’ India sighed, ‘the statue was of Pallas and Athena set it up as a shrine in her honour. Obviously Zeus was devastated at losing a daughter and for Millennia, mourns the death of Pallas.’

  ‘Is this relevant?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘If you want the whole picture, you need to know the background,’ snapped India.

  ‘Okay, calm down.’

  India glared at him before continuing.

  ‘Legend has it that Zeus eventually seduces Electra, one of seven sisters known as the Pleiades and she falls pregnant but when she pays tribute at the shrine of Pallas, Zeus is enraged that the statue has been soiled by the hands of an un-pure woman.’

  ‘Un-pure,’ said Brandon, ‘how?’

  ‘She was pregnant,’ said India, ‘virginity was highly prized by the ancients.’

  ‘Seems to be a recurring theme,’ said Brandon.

  ‘Zeus cast the idol from Olympus,’ continued India, ‘and Electra returned to her birthplace on Samothrace to build a new temple, placing the statue of Pallas at its heart. Eventually Elektra gives birth to a son, Dardanus and a few years later has another son, Iasion, again fathered by Zeus. The stories say that Zeus favours Iasion and teaches him the great mysteries of the pantheon. In time, Iasion starts a cult dedicated to the gods and people travel from all over the known world to this little known island to join the cult. Eventually the initiation rites became known as the Samothrace mysteries.’

  ‘Is that where Phillip comes in?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘Oh no, he came thousands of years later,’ said India, ‘anyway, when Iasion is killed beneath the hooves of his horses during a chariot race, his brother Dardanus is overcome with grief and leaves Samothrace, taking the statue of Pallas with him. He forms a new kingdom called Dardania at the foot of Mount Ida in modern day Turkey.’

  ‘Hence the name Dardanelles, I suppose,’ said Brandon.

  ‘You’re learning fast,’ said India. ‘His city thrived for three generations until eventually, on his death bed, he summons his grandson, Illius. He told him to form a new city on the lower plains of Dardania and to place at its heart the statue of Pallas. He said that Zeus had visited him in a dream and had told him that the city would become the greatest ever seen and as long as the statue stayed at its heart, it would never fall to any enemy.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘He did and the vision from Zeus was correct. It became one of the most famous cities of all time.’

  ‘What was it called?’

  ‘He named it after himself and called it Illium.’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ said Brandon.

  ‘Perhaps you know it by the name of his father,’ said India, ‘his name was Tros.’

  ‘Troy,’ said Brandon immediately, ‘the city was called Troy.’

  ----

  An announcement came over the tannoy, calling them to the plane.

  ‘We’ll continue this on board,’ said Brandon as they made their way to the gate. The conversation didn’t resume as they found themselves sharing a row of seats with a particularly friendly old lady who insisted on talking to India for most of the flight. Finally, they arrived in Rome and after they had cleared customs, they went out to find a taxi.

  ‘There they are,’ said India and made her way over to the rank of white cabs.

  ‘Wait,’ said Brandon, ‘it’s all sorted.’ He walked toward the bus stop and a battered old Fiat pulled up before him.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘this is our ride.’

  She paused before getting in the back of the car and looked at the typical dark haired Italian behind the wheel.

  ‘Did you get my message?’ asked Brandon from the passenger seat as soon as they pulled off.

  ‘I did,’ answered the driver in a welsh accent, causing India to stare at him in amazement, ‘the package is in the glove compartment.’

  Brandon retrieved a padded envelope and took out a pistol and a thick bundle of fifty-euro notes.

  ‘Any news on transport?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘Early morning flight,’ he said, ‘there’ll be a boat waiting for you the other end. I’ve got you a safe house for tonight, the address is on the envelope.’

  ‘Great,’ said Brandon, putting the gun into his jacket pocket, ‘how’s business?’

  ‘Good,’ said the driver, ‘I’ll be sorry to leave.’

  ‘Always said you had all the easy jobs,’ said Brandon.

  ‘The summit ends in a couple of days,’ said the driver, ‘I’ve been told my next posting is out in the sticks.’

  ‘Good,’ said Brandon, ‘about bloody time you earned your rations.’ He peered out of the window. ‘Could you drop us off here, Jonesy?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Why here?’

  ‘The lady needs some bikinis,’ he said and the driver smiled at India in the rear view mirror. She threw him a sarcastic smile as he pulled over to the pavement.

  ‘I’ll take your bags to the house,’ said Jonesy, ‘make sure you’re at the airport by ten tomorrow morning, there’ll be a plane waiting.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Brandon, ‘see you soon.’

  ‘Take it easy,’ said the driver and drove off leaving them outside a shopping precinct.

  Brandon peeled off twenty notes from the bundle and gave them to India.

  ‘I’ll be in that café,’ he said, ‘you go and get yourself some clothes.’

  ‘Do you need anything?’ she asked.

  ‘You could get me some shreddies,’ he said.

  ‘Shreddies?’ she asked with a sigh of impatience.

  ‘You know, underwear.’

  ‘Right. What about clothes?’

  ‘Already sorted,’ said Brandon, ‘the mob will have had some sent over already.’

  ‘The mob?’

  ‘India,’ said Brandon, ‘stop asking questions and go and spend some money. I’ll have a dozen pairs of Calvins, the rest is yours, now go and have fun. I’ll see you back here in two hours.’

  ‘Okay, keep your hair on,’ she said, ‘I was only asking. You secret squirrels can be so touchy.’ She turned around and stomped into the nearest shop doorway.

  Brandon waited for a moment, watching in amusement as she pulled fruitlessly on the locked door handle. She took a deep breath and turned around to walk past him without making eye contact.

  ‘Don’t say a word,’ she snarled as she passed.

  ----

  The following morning they returned to the airport and boarded a small plane to Alexandroupoli on the northern edge of the Aegean. An hour later, Brandon stood on a quayside, looking over the sea while India was reading a timetable on a chalkboard, written in Italian, Greek and English.

  ‘Next ferry is at one,’ she said, ‘it seems like we’ve got a bit of a wait.’

  ‘No we haven’t,’ said Brandon, ‘there’s our boat.’

  She looked across and groaned as a battered fishing boat chugged alongside the harbour wall.

  ‘Don’t you guys ever travel in style?’ she asked.

  ‘Told you,’ he said, ‘grey man.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ she sighed, ‘whatever.’ She lifted her holdall and walked down to the jetty, closely followed by Brandon with his rucksack.

&nb
sp; ‘It stinks,’ said India as she stepped off the boarding plank. ‘Why can’t we take one of those?’ She pointed at one of the several cruise liners moored in the dock, preparing to disgorge their tourists into the city.

  ‘This will do fine,’ he answered and passed the bags to the captain. As soon as they were on board, the boat chugged out of the harbour and into the blue waters of the Aegean. India and Brandon sat at the rear in the shade of a makeshift tarpaulin shelter. The captain came back toward them with a couple of cans of coke.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he said in broken English, ‘the journey will take about three hours, stay out of the sun.’ He turned and went back to the wheelhouse.

  They made small talk for an hour or so until the subject returned to Samothrace.

  ‘So, what do you expect to find on this island?’ asked India.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Brandon, ‘but all the clues we have point there. Sometimes the best way to get relevant information is to visit the scene itself. You saw that for yourself in Victoria.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said.

  ‘So, tell me about Troy,’ said Brandon, ‘if it was so invincible, why doesn’t it exist today?’

  ‘Well,’ said India, warming to her favourite subject, ‘it was built about two and a half thousand years BC and lasted until Greece sacked the city about twelve hundred BC.’

  ‘This, I know about,’ said Brandon, ‘the Greeks built a giant wooden horse and left it outside the gates of Troy but inside it contained armed Greek warriors, correct?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, ‘the Greek warriors waited until the city was asleep and after dropping from the wooden horse, opened the gates of the city from the inside, letting the rest of the army in. What few people realise is that several days earlier, Diomedes, a Greek warrior, crept into the city and stole the statue of Pallas. Don’t forget, the legend was that as long as the statue was in the city, then it could not fall. Without it, the city was vulnerable.’