by K. M. Ashman
‘You see, English, when I walk these streets, I breathe the history. Rome is more than just a tourist attraction. She is and always has been, a living breathing entity. Millions of people visit every year, yet only a tiny proportion care about her history. Her traumatic birth, her violent youth and glorious adulthood, yet though she is old, she has not yet died. Yes she is changing but these ruins in front of you are nothing but an outfit she discards in favour of a more modern image. Such is my city, English, so ask your questions and I will tell you my stories. But complain not if my answers do not match the history books. My tales are from the mouth of my grandmother and a hundred grandmothers before her.’ He stopped and lit a cigarette, breathing in the smoke deeply as he looked over the city he so obviously loved.
A short silence followed before India spoke.
‘You are obviously very passionate about your home, Louigi,’ she said, ‘but we were wondering whether you could let us know anything about the Vestal virgins.’
‘Yes, the sisters,’ he said, ‘the most purest and misunderstood citizens of Rome. Well, I suppose you already know the basics, the recruitment process, the training and their lifetime of devotion to the goddess Vesta. Over the millennia, their purity and devotion became the focus for poets and writers alike and legends have arisen around them. The very mention of their name conjures up stories of drama and beauty, some true, many false but all passionate.’
‘It must have been a very holy existence,’ said India.
‘And boring,’ said Brandon.
‘Oh, don’t believe everything you have heard,’ said Louigi. ‘Yes, most of them were chaste but don’t forget, they were recruited between the age of six and ten and were closely guarded over the next ten years while they were trained. This meant that when they were finally allowed out into the wider world they would have been in their late teens and early twenties, an age when their hormones would have been rampant. In a city where sex and debauchery were not only freely available but also celebrated, they would have been exposed to temptation all around. Many fell afoul of their own desires and broke the vows of chastity.’
‘Hang on,’ said Brandon, turning to India, ‘I thought you said that anyone caught having sex was buried alive.’
‘Oh many were,’ interrupted Louigi. ‘Throughout Rome’s history, twenty-two Vestals were found guilty of breaking their chastity. Eighteen of those were buried alive.’
‘What about the other four?’ asked Brandon.
‘Two killed themselves, one was forced to marry the madman Emperor Heliogabalus but there is no record of what happened to the last one, apart from the fact she was murdered by Nero.’
‘Really?’ asked India
‘Absolutely,’ said Louigi. ‘Though many historians say that Nero married the Vestal Rubria in 64 AD, the fact is, he raped her and then got rid of her body.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Brandon.
‘We know Rubria was a particularly beautiful woman with long blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes. We also know Nero wanted her for his wife, for it is recorded in the diaries of Suetonius Tranquillus, the Roman historian who lived at the time. He also recorded the rape and we can only guess that the reason he raped her was that she rejected him. That was probably the worst thing she could have done for as we know, nobody ever said no to Nero.’
‘How did he kill her?’
‘Well, we don’t know for certain but out of all the Vestals her fate is the only one not recorded but everyone agrees that after raping her, Nero probably murdered her.’
‘I didn’t know,’ said India.
‘Their history is filled with anomalies,’ said Louigi. ‘Let’s not forget, the order lasted over fourteen hundred years and during that time, thousands of girls would have worn the stola of Vesta. By implication, it is obvious some would have fallen by the wayside. The pleasures of the flesh tempted some and some were indeed executed. There are even stories of some betraying Rome to her enemies.’
‘How?’ asked Brandon
‘Well, they were often used as go-betweens during times of tension as they were seen as incorruptible. Unfortunately, that wasn’t always the case. On one occasion, a priestess called Tarpeia was sent as an ambassador to the besieging Sabine army but sold out in return for what she thought would be a fortune in gold. Unfortunately, the Sabine king tricked her and he had her crushed beneath the shields of his army. When the battle was over, he had her body thrown from a cliff on the Capitoline hill.’
‘The Tarpeian Rock?’ said India.
‘It subsequently became known as that,’ said Louigi, ‘and was a place of execution for traitors for hundreds of years after that.’
For the next hour, Louigi regaled Brandon and India about the lives and deaths of the people of Rome, the triumphs, disasters, achievements and tragedies. In particular, he recounted the stories of the Vestals and their roles in the daily life of Rome. India was transfixed and sat in silence as she listened to Louigi bringing history to life but Brandon was getting impatient. Eventually he took advantage of a break in the conversation.
‘What about the temple of Vesta?’ he said, ‘I understand it contained the treasures of Rome.’
‘Aaah the treasures,’ said Louigi, ‘always the treasures. As soon as the word is mentioned, the tourist’s eyes light up with images of gold and silver. However, it is not often recognised that Rome’s true treasures were not of golden baubles but of history and tradition. You see, just as we look back on Rome’s past, they looked back on the stories of their ancestors and the greatest of these became central to their view of the world. Where we hope for gold, the Romans gathered documents. Where we imagine Silver, they revered artefacts. Such were the true treasures of the temple, parchments from long dead empires, statues from annihilated cities, stories from kings and confessions from emperors. These are real treasures and I would gladly give my life for one day alone with such things. Alas, fate decreed they would be lost forever.’
‘But were they, Louigi?’ asked Brandon, ‘is it possible that any may have survived to the present day?’
‘Probably not,’ said the Italian, ‘though some people think that history may have been altered to hide mistakes.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You already know what I mean,’ said Louigi, ‘your line of questioning tells me you probably seek the Palladium. Personally, I think you waste your time. Many have already taken this path, both scholars and treasure hunters, with no luck.’
‘Humour us,’ said Brandon, somewhat bluntly, ‘what do you mean altered history?’
‘There is an emerging school of thought,’ said Louigi, ‘that the Palladium exists and is in the hands of a private collector.’
‘But how can that be?’ asked India, ‘everyone knows the Palladium was taken to Constantinople by Emperor Constantine. It is buried beneath the Constantine tower with all the other treasures.’
‘But was it?’ asked Louigi. ‘For centuries, that is what has been believed but as more and more evidence is revealed, some historians believe that the statue taken by Emperor Constantine was a fake and the real one actually disappeared hundreds of years earlier, during the reign of Nero.’
‘Why?’ asked India.
‘Because, the last time anyone actually saw it, was just before the great fire in 64 AD. After that, it was withdrawn from view for safekeeping. Apparently, it was kept in a wicker basket and never seen by anyone except the Vestal priestesses. However, it is now thought that either it was burnt in the fire or was stolen in the confusion. Apart from the shame that would have brought on the order, imagine the effect on the population if it was known that the image of their protector had been destroyed.’
‘There would have been widespread panic,’ said India.
‘Exactly,’ said Louigi, ‘it has been suggested that it was withdrawn from view, simply because it was missing. After the devastation of the fire, Nero could not risk the backlash from the people and would have needed a cover
story while a copy was made. Eventually it was placed on display again but what we don’t know is, was it the original or a fake? We will never know for sure.’
‘So was the temple destroyed in the fire?’ asked Brandon
‘Oh yes,’ said Louigi. ‘It was destroyed several times over the centuries, either by fire or by Rome’s enemies but it was always rebuilt.’
‘So do you have any idea where the Palladium may be now?’ asked India.
‘No.’
‘Even if you knew, you wouldn’t tell us, would you?’ asked Brandon.
‘Not really,’ said Louigi.
‘I can’t say I blame you,’ said Brandon. He stood up and stretched his legs, walking around the nearby ancient rubble.
‘So what happened to the Vestals themselves?’ asked India.
‘They carried on for a few hundred years after the fire but not even they could hold back the tide of Christianity sweeping the known world. They were finally disbanded by Emperor Gratian in 382 AD and the last Vestal priestess died twelve years later.’
‘So that’s it then,’ said Brandon coming back to the group, ‘the Palladium disappeared and all the Vestals eventually died out, carrying their secrets with them forever.’
‘Well, not entirely true,’ said Louigi, ‘the Vestals in Rome died out but the cult continued in temples around Europe for a few hundred years after that.’
‘There were Vestals elsewhere?’ asked India in surprise.
‘Oh yes,’ answered Louigi. ‘The goddess’s influence reached right across Europe, even as far as your England.’
‘What?’ said Brandon, spinning round in shock.
‘Didn’t you know?’ asked Louigi, ‘the cult was established in England for hundreds of years.’
Brandon stared at India.
‘I didn’t know,’ she said quietly, ‘where was it centred?’
‘I don’t know much about your England,’ he said ‘but I do know it was near London and was built not long after General Paullinus wiped out the armies of Boudicca. It would have caused quite a stir in Rome as Britannia had only just been conquered and was still a hotbed of violence.’
‘That’s amazing,’ said India
‘I wouldn’t get too carried away,’ said Louigi, ‘there were hundreds of similar temples throughout the empire.’
Brandon looked at his watch.
‘Look, thanks very much,’ said Brandon, ‘you have been a great help but we have to be somewhere else in an hour.’
India looked at him quizzically but stood up anyway. Louigi rolled another cigarette as Brandon counted out two rolls of Euros. He gave the first to the younger Italian before holding out the second roll to Louigi. The man moved his hand to accept the money but stopped suddenly and grabbed Brandon’s wrist. Brandon tried to pull his hand away but the old man’s grip was like iron.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he asked.
‘Who are you?’ snarled the man.
‘What?’ asked Brandon.
‘You have been lying to me.’
‘What are you on about?’ snapped Brandon.
‘The ring,’ growled the man, ‘you wear the ring of Nike.’
Brandon looked down at the ring India had taken from the body of Peter Venezelos back in England.
‘I bought it,’ he lied and yanked his hand free.
‘You are a liar, English,’ said Louigi, ‘there are only a few of these rings in existence and the owners would protect them with their lives.’
‘Why, what do you know about the owners?’
Louigi stared at him and took a step backwards.
‘I don’t know who you are, English,’ he said, ‘but I want no more to do with you. Now go.’
‘Now wait a minute,’ started Brandon and took a step forward.
The younger Italian stepped forward and aimed a previously concealed gun at Brandon’s head.
‘You heard him, English,’ he said, ‘you have what you came for, now leave before it is too late for all of us.’
‘This is stupid,’ said Brandon, ‘why are you so scared?’
‘You are the stupid one, English,’ he said, ‘now go, before I do something we will both regret.’
‘Okay,’ said Brandon, ‘calm down. We are going.’
‘Not just from here,’ said Louigi, ‘you must leave Rome before someone else sees the ring.’
Brandon and India walked slowly backwards to the path before turning and hurrying down to the road. Brandon waved down a taxi and they sat in silence, stunned at the close shave they had just experienced.
‘What was that all about?’ asked Brandon eventually in disbelief.
India turned and looked at him. He expected to see a look of horror on her face but was surprised to see a slight smile playing about her lips.
‘India,’ he said, ‘are you alright. You’ve been quiet for ages.’
‘Oh, I’m alright,’ she said, ‘in fact, better than alright. I think I’ve just worked out where the Palladium is.’
‘You have?’ he stated in shock, ‘where?’
‘Littlewick Green,’ she said with a smirk, ‘come on, we need to book a flight. I’ll explain as we go.’
----
Chapter 19
Rome 64 AD
Rubria and Dragus followed the riverbank downstream as fast as they could. Behind them the population fought to save their city from the flames and the two fugitives passed many human chains passing water from the Tiber to some nearby burning street. Occasionally they heard the metallic rhythm of running soldiers as squads ran to unknown tasks in the darkness. Dragus knew that it was only a matter of time before one or more of those squads were given the task of finding them.
‘Dragus, please, I can’t go on much further,’ pleaded Rubria.
‘We can’t afford to slow down, Rubria,’ said Dragus, ‘as soon as they find that decurion, they will send squads after us, we have to get out of the city.’
Rubria collapsed to the floor and her head hung low.
‘I can’t, Dragus,’ she said, ‘I have no more strength.’
Dragus looked down at her and for the first time realised how exhausted and bedraggled she looked. Her beautiful hair was a mess and she smelled of a mixture of sewage and smoke. He placed his hand under her chin and lifted her tear stained face up to look into her eyes. Once again, he was transfixed by their piercing beauty and for a second, forgot where and who he was.
‘Dragus?’ she said eventually.
The centurion blinked and snapped back to reality.
‘Sorry, priestess,’ he mumbled. It was obvious she couldn’t go much further yet they had to get outside the city walls. If they could just do that, they may have a slim chance. He looked around, searching for inspiration and spotted a fishing boat on the opposite bank. The river was in full flood due to heavy rain in the Apennine mountains two hundred miles upstream and though every Roman soldier learned to swim during their training, he knew there was no way he would get across the torrent.
‘Priestess, listen to me,’ he said, thinking furiously, ‘I want you to wait for me here. Sit back in the shadows and I will come for you as soon as possible. Do you think you can do that for me?’
She nodded weakly.
‘I’ve had enough, Dragus,’ she said, ‘just let them come. I have nothing left.’
Dragus wiped the tears from her face on the sleeve of his tunic.
‘Almost there, priestess,’ he said, ‘do this one last thing for me and you will be able to rest as long you want, I promise. Don’t talk to anyone, I will be as quick as I can.’
‘I will wait until dawn, Dragus,’ she said, ‘if you are not there, I will hand myself in to the guards.’
‘You won’t have to do that, priestess,’ he said, ‘I will be back.’
Dragus watched her limp into a nearby doorway before making his way back upstream. He knew that one of the ten bridges that crossed the Tiber lay some way upstream and he ran as fast as he could
through the crowds. Within ten minutes, he had reached the bridge and joined a group of slaves fleeing the flames on the west bank. The whole thing went better than expected and he soon reached the boat he had seen on the opposite bank of the river. He undid the rope and after pushing the boat into the flow, rowed strongly into the fierce current. Within seconds, the boat caught the flow and picked up speed as it sped downstream. He pulled fiercely on the oars, driving his craft across the river, using the strength of the current to help propel him toward the other side. Suddenly he stopped rowing as he spotted a squad of ten men searching the riverbank downstream.
‘Search everywhere,’ he heard someone shout, ‘they can’t have gone far.’
Dragus ducked down and peered over the edge as the boat spun passed the soldiers in the gloom. He peered frantically downstream, desperate to spot Rubria. For a second he thought he had missed her but suddenly she appeared out of the gloom, sat back against a wall, cradling her revered package in her arms.
‘Priestess,’ he called, ‘over here.’
She looked up and he picked up one oar to try to drive the boat closer.
‘Quickly,’ he shouted, ‘the guards are close.’
He tried driving closer but the current was too strong. Rubria started to run alongside the boat but it stayed tantalizingly out of reach as Dragus fought the current.
‘It’s no good,’ cried Rubria, ‘I can’t reach you.’
The boat passed her by and Dragus stared at the fear in her eyes as he passed. He looked around frantically hoping for an answer. Suddenly he realised that the river bent to the right and the current would naturally drive the small boat into the bank but that was a hundred metres away.