Brides of Rome

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Brides of Rome Page 5

by Debra May Macleod


  “Husband,” she said to Tiberius, “any word from Rome?”

  “Only that Antony’s thugs have moved from slaying to stealing,” he slurred. “Every day they add new names to their death list—men that are to be arrested and either executed or exiled, and whose fortunes are to be confiscated to fund their hunt for Caesar’s killers.”

  “What about our names? Are our names on the list? And our estate, is it protected?”

  Tiberius burped and laid his head back on the couch. “Solum tempus monstrabit.” Only time will tell.

  In other words, the drunken idiot had no idea.

  As Livia heard Diodorus’s familiar shuffling behind her, she rested her face on her hands and closed her eyes. The ruse didn’t work, however, since he stopped in front of her couch and reached down to tug at her hair.

  “Tiberius,” he said, “your wife knows how to go through the wine. I think she should start earning her keep around here, don’t you?”

  A snore from Tiberius’s couch.

  Swaying on unsteady legs, Diodorus lifted his tunica. The stench made Livia cough and she opened her eyes to stare at the patch of coarse black hair between his legs, his sweaty manhood hanging limp at her forehead.

  “Laocoön knew better than to trust the Greeks,” he said, as he clutched a handful of Livia’s hair and pulled her head between his legs. “Especially those bearing gifts.”

  Chapter IV

  Adversae Res Admonuerunt Religionum

  Adversity reminds people of religion.

  —Livy

  rome, 43 bce

  Later the same year

  “Pomponia, this water doesn’t smell right.” High Priestess Fabiana stood tiredly by a fountain in the courtyard in the House of the Vestals, sniffing the contents of a clay amphora. “It’s from the spring, so it should be fine. Maybe it’s my imagination. Put some in a glass jug and smell it. Have a couple of the slaves drink it. Let me know if they get sick.”

  “Yes, Fabiana.”

  The year following Caesar’s assassination had taken its toll on Fabiana. The political maneuverings of Rome’s most ambitious and ruthless men, and their constant petitioning for favor from her as Vestalis Maxima, had made the lines around her eyes deepen and her normally light temperament grow heavy.

  More and more duties, especially the political or ceremonial ones performed during public festivals or rituals, were falling on the younger Vestal Pomponia. The elder Vestal Nona Fonteia was more senior than Pomponia and should have been the natural choice, but it seemed to be Fabiana’s wish that Pomponia take on more responsibilities, and the high priestess had come to rely on her for duties small and large.

  Nona didn’t seem to mind. A deeply devout priestess of Vesta, she had always preferred the more private, even secret, aspects of a Vestal’s duties to those that involved public ritual or political ceremony.

  Even when it wasn’t her watch, Nona spent much of her time in the temple’s sanctum offering prayers to the goddess of the home and hearth on behalf of Rome. If she wasn’t there, she was either in the mill overseeing the preparation of the sacred mola salsa mixture and ritual wafers, or in the study instructing the novices.

  Nonetheless, even Nona was required to perform more public functions these days. In the aftermath of Caesar’s assassination and the bloody power struggles that followed, the Vestal priestesses worked, by daylight and candlelight, to fulfill their duties and do what they could to maintain calm in the city.

  Pomponia arranged for the water to be tested and then headed out of the house wearing a sleeveless stola and light veil. Her guards escorted her to the front of the Temple of Vesta, where Nona was supervising a group of novices. They were taking flames from the sacred hearth within and placing them in the bronze firebowls around the temple.

  Except for a few days during the Vestalia festival in June, the public was not allowed to enter the temple or see Vesta’s fire. Yet these firebowls, each secured to the top of a white pedestal, allowed people to take embers of the sacred fire home to burn in their own hearths. Even before the first temple to the goddess had been built in the Forum by the second king of Rome, Vesta had been honored this way: privately, by families who heard her laughter in the crackling of their home fires and were comforted by it.

  Pomponia saw Nona ascending the steps of the temple. As Pomponia walked toward her, she noticed a loose cobblestone on the street and pointed it out to the guard. “Fix that.”

  “Yes, Priestess.”

  Pomponia caught herself. “Please.”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  “Sister Nona,” Pomponia called out.

  Nona stopped midstep. “Yes, Pomponia?”

  “I’ve messaged the brickmen as you requested. They will be here at daybreak tomorrow to repair the oven in the mill and start building another one.”

  Nona brushed some ash off her stola. “Good. I can’t keep up. Every morning there are more people waiting outside the temple for the sacred wafers. I’ll need more for public functions too. Our new Caesar is planning extra sacrifices next month. Rome will run out of bulls at this rate.” She sighed. “I’ll have to double production at least. I may as well have my bed moved into the mill.”

  “I know something that will make you feel better.”

  “What is that?”

  Pomponia grinned. “I’ve ordered fifty amphorae of Pompeian wine, just for you. They can keep you company in the mill.”

  Nona laughed as she pulled open a bronze door to the temple. “You hit the mark, sister. That does make me feel better.”

  As the older priestess returned to her duties in the temple, Pomponia walked back to the house, pointing to one loose cobblestone and then another as the guard nodded and assured her he would have them secured immediately.

  Back in the House of the Vestals, she headed to her office and sat at her desk. She blinked at the sprawl of documents and began to organize them—what needed her urgent attention and what could be delegated or ignored altogether—and then procrastinated even more by tidying a few things up.

  She had just started tackling urgent matters when a temple slave appeared in her office doorway. “Domina,” she said, “there is a Lady Valeria here. She says she is the wife of a priest of Mars and humbly requests an audience with you.”

  Lady Valeria—that was Quintus’s wife. Pomponia frowned. As if Quintus weren’t self-important enough, his wife clearly had no problem assuming she could command an audience with a Vestal priestess. Still, as the wife of a priest she did have standing to do so.

  “Shall I put her in the tablinum?” asked the slave.

  “No, I will meet with her in the courtyard,” said Pomponia, rising from her desk. For some reason, she preferred an open space to meet with Quintus’s wife.

  Pomponia had no sooner arrived in the courtyard and sat down on a cushioned couch near some white rosebushes than a distraught Lady Valeria burst into the garden, running ahead of the temple slave to collapse in an undignified heap at Pomponia’s feet.

  “Help us, Lady Pomponia. They’ve arrested him!”

  “They’ve arrested whom?” asked Pomponia, quickly standing.

  “Quintus!” Valeria put her hands on her face. “His father too! They came into our home yesterday . . . They dragged them both from the house! No one will tell me anything, Priestess. I don’t know where he is.”

  “Who dragged them from the house?”

  “A soldier,” cried Valeria. “One of Octavian’s men.” She kissed Pomponia’s sandaled foot—a serious breach in protocol—and then placed her forehead on the ground. “I beg you, Priestess Pomponia, on the affection my husband has for you . . .” Her voice trailed off and then she began again. “On the respect my husband has for you as a fellow member of the religious collegia, I beg you to intercede.”

  Pomponia felt the blood drain fro
m her face. She knew exactly where Quintus and his elderly father would be: in the Carcer, Rome’s infamous prison, which was located not far from the Senate house.

  “Go home,” said Pomponia. “Let me think . . .”

  Valeria looked up. “You are a priestess of Mother Vesta,” she pleaded. “You have the authority to pardon the condemned, do you not?”

  “Yes, but Vestals rarely invoke that power. We serve the goddess, not the accused.”

  “Quintus is innocent. He is a priest of Mars. He served Julius Caesar and was injured in battle. He does not support the assassins, he does not sympathize with them, he has never given them a single denarius! What proof do they have of any wrongdoing? Why do they want his head?”

  They don’t want his head, thought Pomponia. They want his money. They need to pay their soldiers somehow.

  Pomponia sat down again with Valeria still at her feet. It was the first time that Pomponia had seen Quintus’s wife up close. The young woman truly was lovely, with raven hair that fell in soft curls around her smooth shoulders. Pomponia felt something—jealousy? No, that wasn’t it. Not quite. Rather, it was a sense of satisfaction that she, Pomponia, had a power over Quintus’s life that Valeria could never have.

  “Please, Priestess Pomponia,” Valeria’s voice was even louder now, and heads turned in the normally serene garden.

  Medousa appeared suddenly in the peristyle and marched across the courtyard, her anger barely contained, and put her hand on Valeria’s shoulder.

  “Shall I see Lady Valeria out, Priestess?” asked the slave, although it wasn’t really a question at all. It was more of an adamant suggestion.

  “Yes.”

  Valeria kissed Pomponia’s sandal again and then allowed herself to be escorted out. She had done everything she could. It was in the shining hands of the goddess now.

  A moment later, Medousa was back standing before Pomponia. She cast a warning eye at her mistress. “I have heard the news,” she said. “Whatever you are thinking of doing, you should consult the high priestess first.”

  “Fabiana had Julius Caesar spared during Sulla’s proscriptions,” said Pomponia. “She even gave him sanctuary here in our house until the danger to him had passed. And that was before she was made Vestalis Maxima. I have standing.”

  “Don’t do anything impulsive.”

  “The high priestess is resting and should not be disturbed. Anyway, Medousa, there is a saying: Melius est veniam quam licentiam petere.” It is better to ask for forgiveness than permission. “Prepare my lectica.”

  “Yes, Domina,” said Medousa. “But it may not be wise to travel through the Forum right now.” She lowered her voice. “My lady, I know you were fond of Senator Cicero . . .”

  “What of it?”

  “I have just received word from a temple messenger that he was killed yesterday, executed by Antony’s forces while traveling on the Appian Way.” Medousa assessed her mistress’s blanched face and then continued. “I am told that Antony ordered the senator’s head and hands be brought back to Rome and put on spikes on the Rostra. A crowd is gathering to look as we speak.”

  “My lectica,” the Vestal repeated. “At once.”

  “Yes, Domina.”

  A brief wave of dizziness passed over Pomponia. If what Medousa said was true, Rome was convulsing out of control. Cicero had been one of the most respected and influential men in Rome for decades, yet it was no secret that he and Marc Antony had been at each other’s throats for years. The only thing they had in common was ego.

  Cicero had often spoken against Antony in the Senate. His criticisms had been open and caustic, and although he had not played a part in Caesar’s assassination, he had nonetheless expressed the fanciful wish that Antony had been stabbed alongside the dictator.

  Yet Cicero’s ultimate desire was for peace and order to be restored to Rome. He had calculated that the new Caesar was the man most likely to make that happen and so had begrudgingly thrown his support behind Octavian; however, that clearly hadn’t protected him from Antony’s wrath.

  Pomponia’s thoughts turned to Quintus. If the untouchable Cicero could be executed with impunity, no one was safe. Especially not someone like Quintus, a man whose family possessed great wealth but little political importance.

  As her lectica was being prepared, Pomponia had Medousa and two other slaves dress her in a finer white stola, cinching it under her breasts with a knotted rope belt and then draping a linen palla over a shoulder. They arranged her hair into the seni crines, the traditional braided hairstyle of Roman brides. As brides of Rome, Vestal Virgins wore the style with particular pride. Next, Medousa secured an infula—the Vestals’ red-and-white woolen headband—onto her mistress’s head, attaching the ribbon-like vittae and then placing a white veil over her head.

  “Such dress is for public rituals and sacrifices,” muttered Medousa.

  “Such dress is for commanding reverence,” Pomponia corrected. “No matter the occasion.”

  Medousa smoothed the veil on her mistress’s head and then placed her hands on either side of Pomponia’s face, staring into her eyes with sudden severity. “Valeria is his wife.”

  Medousa felt the sting of Pomponia’s hand on her cheek.

  They exited the House of the Vestals and stepped without speaking into the lectica waiting near the portico. They sat opposite each other as the lecticarii—eight muscular temple slaves, four in the front and four in the rear—lifted the lectica off the ground by its long poles. Carrying its weight on their shoulders, they began to make their way over the cobblestone, toward the Carcer, escorted by the guards Caeso and Publius.

  Medousa leaned forward to pull the heavy red curtains of the lectica closed.

  “Leave them open,” said Pomponia. Medousa leaned back. I should discipline her more often, thought the Vestal. Still, they had known each other since they were both children, bound together as more than mistress and slave, as friends. “I am just concerned about my colleague,” she said, softening.

  “And I am concerned about my mistress,” replied Medousa. Her voice was still harder than Pomponia would have expected. “You push the limits of your privileges, Domina.”

  “What Vestal hasn’t?”

  “You know what will happen if people misinterpret your concern for him as something else.”

  “I have done nothing that could be taken as impropriety.”

  “No, but these are unpredictable times,” said Medousa.

  “It would be expected that a priestess of Vesta would speak for a priest of Mars,” said Pomponia. “It would look strange if I did not try to spare him.”

  The slave slumped back. “Perhaps.” She crossed her arms and fumed under her breath in Greek. “Hēra, eléēson.” Hera, have mercy.

  “Medousa, siōpā! ” Pomponia snapped back, chastising Medousa in the slave’s native Greek.

  The Vestal and her slave proceeded along the Via Sacra, soon passing by the massive and bustling Basilica Aemilia, its long expanse of two-tiered arches filling Pomponia’s field of vision.

  The haggling of shoppers on the street, the gossiping of various officials, and the loud, grumbling negotiations of merchants and bankers in the basilica’s colonnade died down a bit as those who saw the Vestal litter lowered their voices and their heads in respect to the priestess who passed.

  The procession paused momentarily as a matted little dog nipped at the heel of one of the litter-bearers. It took a slave in a torn tunica and two politicians in expensive snow-white togas to free the man’s sandal strap from the dog’s mouth so the lectica could move on.

  “Mehercule! ” swore one of the politicians as he put a bloody finger to his lips. “That’s the hellhound Cerberus, escaped from the underworld.”

  The lectica hadn’t cleared half the basilica when Pomponia saw the chattering, ruminating crowd gathered in the ope
n space in front of the Rostra. They were pointing up, shaking their heads and trying to decide what it all meant.

  This crowd had seen much in the last year. They had seen the body of the dictator Julius Caesar lying on the Rostra until Marc Antony’s speech had incited them to rise up, claim it as their own, and burn it to ashes in the Forum, near the Temple of Vesta.

  But this was different. Cicero was no dictator, no soldier. He was a politician. A civilian. And despite the stature and wealth he had acquired for himself, many still saw him as a man of the people. The sight of his head—tongue pulled out to mock his famous oratory—and swollen purple hands suspended above the Rostra was something they hadn’t seen before.

  It wasn’t the gore that upset them. They were fine with that. They had seen far worse during the wild-beast hunts and gladiatorial fights of the games. Even a chariot race in the Circus Maximus couldn’t be considered a success without a few severed limbs rolling onto the track or some broken bodies, whether charioteers or spectators, being tossed around.

  The frightening thing about the sight of Cicero’s body parts on the Rostra was that it represented a total breakdown of Republican order. If Cicero could be murdered, and his murder so blatantly waved before Rome’s collective face, there was no telling how far Antony and Octavian would go.

  As the lectica passed by the Rostra, Pomponia turned her head away. She would not dishonor Cicero’s life by gawking. Surely this butchery does not please the gods.

  She thought of him that day so long ago, that day when the elephants were slaughtered at the games and she was still a child who knew so little about the power and purpose of Vesta’s sacred fire. She said a silent prayer to the goddess. Please Mother Vesta, let this not be a mistake. I will offer into your divine flame when I return to the temple.

  Yet instead of feeling comforted, instead of feeling reassured, Pomponia felt a sudden flare of shame spread throughout her body. All of Rome was in turmoil, and yet her only concern at this moment was for Quintus. That was not right.

  She was a Vestal priestess, and her duty was to Rome. She promised herself, and the goddess, that once Quintus was safe, she would put him out of her mind. Whatever feelings she had for him, she would indulge them no further.

 

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