Brides of Rome

by Debra May Macleod

  For everyone’s sake.

  * * *

  The Carcer loomed in front of Pomponia. Its unadorned stone face and utilitarian columns were a sharp contrast to the fluted Corinthian and Ionic columns and brightly colored ornamentation of the temples and monuments around it. It was the most unfriendly, austere building on the Capitoline or in the Forum. Then again, a pretty prison wouldn’t have the same impact.

  Medousa stuck her head out of the lectica and spoke to one of the litter-bearers. “Set down near the entrance.”

  Once the lectica was on the ground, Medousa stepped out and then turned to help Pomponia exit gracefully. A throng of onlookers had already gathered. A Vestal priestess coming to the prison? Why? Could she be pardoning someone? Murmurs of speculation and excitement filled the air.

  Without a moment’s pause, without stopping to think about what she would say or do, Pomponia pulled her palla tightly around her body and, as if she were Vesta herself come to earth, strode past the dumbfounded guards who stood at the front entrance of the prison.

  “My lady,” she heard one stupefied guard attempt, but he was quickly hushed by his colleagues. Leave it to the prefect, seemed to be the general consensus. That’s why he makes more money than us.

  Pomponia stood just inside the Carcer’s portico as the prison’s prefect—a tall, angular man caught with a mouth full of bread—stood up quickly from his desk, knocking over a cup of wine and trying to swallow his food whole.

  “Priestess,” he choked. And then more clearly, “Priestess, how may I be of service?”

  “You may show me to the prisoner Quintus Vedius Tacitus without delay.”

  It was the without delay part that troubled the prefect. Shouldn’t he check with someone? “Priestess,” he stammered. “Perhaps I could just send a messenger to get General Antony or Caesar . . . They are just in the Tabularium, so it would only take a moment . . .”

  Caesar, mulled Pomponia. She would have to remember to call him that. Julius Caesar hadn’t just left his great-nephew Octavian his fortune; he had also left him the powerful Caesar name. Knowing the weight this name gave him, Octavian now insisted on being called Caesar at all times and by all people. And why not? His name made him divi filius—son of a god.

  Apparently the only one who wouldn’t do it was Marc Antony. It was bad enough that Julius Caesar hadn’t left him so much as a dirty toga in his will. There was no way in Hades he would call the suckling Octavian by Caesar’s name.

  “You can get Caesar and the general if you wish,” said Pomponia, “but I will see the prisoner now.”

  Exploiting the prefect’s uncertainty, Pomponia strode past him. She didn’t want to give him time to think or stall or come up with another option.

  The prefect rubbed his head. What were his options? He certainly couldn’t restrain her. If he laid a hand on her, he would quickly find himself a tenant inside the very prison he guarded.

  Sending a silent message with his eyes to an open-mouthed guard—Go get Caesar! Go get General Antony!—he fell into step beside the Vestal.

  “My lady, it’s this way.”

  “Thank you, Prefect.”

  Within four or five steps, the light of the world disappeared and Pomponia found herself swallowed by dank darkness. Cold radiated out from the square blocks of stone that confined her like a tomb, and she pulled her palla around herself more tightly.

  With each cautious step into the black, airless space, she felt more disconnected from the living world. Her elbows brushed the hard rock walls. Instinctively, she began to take shallow breaths and lowered her head.

  The heavy stone roof hung impossibly in the air above her. It felt as though it could collapse at any moment and crush her. Tiny shafts of light managed to snake through the small chinks between the thick blocks of stone, but other than that, there was no light.

  Why had the prefect not brought a torch along? A dry, hacking cough emanated from somewhere within the stony gloom. He doesn’t want me to see what’s in here, she realized.

  And then a few feet ahead, the underworld appeared.

  It was a small hole in the stone floor, no larger than a man’s body, from the depths of which flickered a faint orange flame. A low murmur reverberated from the hole. The voice of Hades.

  No. She knew the voice. It was Quintus, in prayer.

  Pomponia felt lightheaded. She had heard about this hole. Prisoners who were to be executed were thrown down it—literally thrown down it—to squat twelve feet underground in filth and fear until the day of their death.

  It wasn’t that long ago that Julius Caesar had defeated the mighty Gaul warlord Vercingetorix, chieftain of the Arverni tribe, and then had him thrown down this very hole, where he had rotted for five whole years. The next time Vercingetorix saw the light of day was when he was pulled out for Caesar’s triumph. He was paraded in the Forum before a jeering Roman mob, ultimately needing to be dragged along the cobblestone by a horse when his legs gave out. Men and women swore and spat at him. Children threw food and feces at him. Two executioners lugged him onto the Rostra, tore off his clothes, and strangled him to death.

  Pomponia remembered watching the whole thing. It had been a great day. The warrior king of the Gauls—Rome’s greatest enemy—was dead. Hail, Caesar.

  Swallowing her dread, the Vestal lowered herself with as much dignity as possible onto her knees. The cold instantly sank into her bones. The sewer-like stench from the pit was unimaginable.

  “Quintus Vedius Tacitus,” she called down.

  The murmuring stopped. Shuffling. Pomponia leaned forward, straining her eyes to peer into the dimly lit tunnel to the underworld.

  A voice rose up from below. “Priestess Pomponia?”

  No pretense, no conceit. Just fear and desperation.

  “Yes, are you—”

  “My father,” his voice was hoarse. “Have you seen my father?”

  “In dea confide,” said Pomponia. Trust in the goddess.

  “I trust you,” he replied.

  Pomponia had no idea why, but her heart sank just a little. Just then, she sensed someone else in the space around her. Still kneeling, she turned around to look behind her.

  “Lady Pomponia,” said Marc Antony. “To what do we owe the honor of a Vestal’s presence in such a hateful place?” An edge of impertinence.

  Pomponia stood up and faced him squarely. “In the sacred name of Vesta, I ask for the release of this prisoner, Quintus Vedius Tacitus, citizen of Rome, priest of Mars, causarius soldier of Julius Caesar.” She paused and then met his impertinence with her own. “And his father.”

  “I see . . .”

  Another voice. This one younger and sharper. “Free the prisoners immediately.”

  Pomponia looked past Antony. Even in the faint light she could see the glimmer in Octavian’s cool gray eyes.

  “Caesar,” said Pomponia. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all,” said Octavian. “I must thank you for bringing the innocence of this man and his father to our attention. They will be released at once and any claims against their estates shall be removed. Chaos reigns in Rome right now, and such mistakes are lamentable.” He took a step back. “Now please, Lady Pomponia, let me escort you out. This is no place for a priestess of Vesta.”

  “Of course, Caesar. How kind.”

  The daylight bored painful holes into Pomponia’s eyes, and she squinted as Octavian led her back outside toward her lectica and an astonished Medousa, who stood beside it. Pomponia had the inopportune urge to laugh at her slave. With her expression—eyes wide, mouth hanging open—Medousa looked a little like the wild-eyed Gorgon depicted on her pendant. The slave had not expected to see her mistress exit the prison all but hand in hand with Caesar.

  “I shall send some extra guards to accompany you back to the temple,” said Octavian. “You have my word
that all I have said will be done.” He smiled. “My divine father had great respect for the Vestal order. As Caesar, I intend to build upon that friendship.”

  “I am happy to hear you say so,” said Pomponia. She made a quick study of him: he was taller and much younger than Antony, who stood behind him, but not nearly as muscular. A model of diplomacy and shrewdness, she knew that she was not as much studying him as they were studying each other.

  “Priestess Pomponia,” he said. “I have been told the Vestalis Maxima has charged you with many duties. I expect we will be working together more. We should get to know each other better, nay? I will have my clerk arrange a meeting.”

  “I would like that, Caesar.”

  Over Octavian’s shoulder, Antony spat on the ground near the entrance to the Carcer. A look of restrained irritation crossed Octavian’s face. As allies, he and Antony were united in their hunt for Caesar’s assassins. As men, however, they were oil and water.

  Pomponia stepped into the lectica, followed by Medousa. The lecticarii lifted it off the ground and turned back the way they had come, with the crowd of enthralled onlookers tripping over each other to clear a path for them.

  “Perhaps this Caesar is not all bad,” Pomponia said to Medousa.

  But her slave only huffed. The memory of the rich red tapestry that had covered the ceiling of Julius Caesar’s gilded lectica and of the gold medallion of Venus that had stared down at her while the dictator had taken her innocence filled Medousa’s mind.

  “If you’ve seen one Caesar, you’ve seen them all,” she said.

  Chapter V

  Πῦρ Γυνὴ καὶ Θάλασσα, Δυνατὰ Τρία

  Fire, woman, and the sea are the three mighty things.

  —Aesop

  egypt, 42 bce

  One year later

  “Apollonius, if you give me one more papyrus to sign, I shall have you ripped apart by crocodiles in the bathhouse.”

  Queen Cleopatra slouched back into the carved wooden chair that sat in the middle of her large study within the Royal Palace in Alexandria. She threw the stylus at Apollonius, making a half-hearted attempt to hit him as a sleek brown cat leapt lithely onto her lap.

  “Majesty,” said the slave, bowing. He collected the scrolls that were scattered across the queen’s ornate desk, the surface and legs of which were inlaid with gold and lapis lazuli. “I will speak to the vizier about this. I believe there is much here that he can handle.”

  “I’m hungry.” Cleopatra snapped her fingers, and a female slave knelt before her. “Iras, bring me some wine cake.”

  “Yes, Majesty.”

  As Apollonius leaned over the desk to gather the last of the papyrus scrolls and pile them neatly into a basket, Cleopatra’s languid gaze settled on him. “Any news?”

  “The Roman civil war continues,” said Apollonius. “Although things may change soon. Only this morning I heard that General Antony and Caesar”—Cleopatra struck him on the head and the cat jumped off her lap—“General Antony and Octavian are in Macedonia. All sources say that Brutus and Cassius have fled there. Perhaps Antony and Octavian have finally hunted them down.”

  “One pair of Roman wolves hunting another pair of Roman wolves.” She snorted. “Typical.”

  Iras returned with a platter of wine cake and set it before the queen. Cleopatra picked at it without taking a bite. An oil lamp on her desk sputtered, and she passed her hand back and forth over the flame, lost in thought.

  “Majesty,” said Apollonius, “will you be attending the Royal Library today? The curator humbly requests your approval on a new wing dedicated to Majesty’s writings. I have seen it myself, and it is quite splendid. There is a central reading area with your works on mathematics and astronomy, and then another for philosophy.”

  “Yes, Apollonius.” She pushed the wine cake aside and took a sip of cool honey water. “It’s just a matter of time until a Roman wolf is at our door. The Royal Library needs to be protected. Certain works must be hidden.”

  “Romans are not accustomed to educated women, Majesty. Nor to queens. Regardless of which wolf wins, they will try to destroy your books. A strong woman makes them look weak. And you did make enemies during your time in Rome.”

  Cleopatra rubbed her temples. “I did my best Apollonius, but they were such vapid oafs!” She winced at the memory. “During supper, they would gorge themselves on baked dormice and ostrich brains and birds baked in feathers, all of it washed down with a drink made of fish innards. The worst of them were skillful enough to ingest all of this while tonguing the breast of someone else’s wife and calling for more wine. It was unbearable. And forget trying to elevate the conversation to something above the groin! Oh, there were some bright lights. I did enjoy Senator Cicero’s company in the beginning. He was fascinated by Ptolemaic Egypt.” She tapped a finger on her desk, thinking back. “That buffoon Marc Antony was always creating trouble between us, though.”

  The brown cat lifted a paw to claw at the queen’s dress, but she brushed it aside, standing. “Are the prisoners ready?” she asked.

  “Of course, Majesty. They have been brought to the courtyard and all is prepared.”

  Cleopatra strolled regally across the large brown and green tiles of the palace floor, past a colonnade of thick columns painted to look like towering palm trees, and then past a long row of larger-than-life statues of Egyptian gods and goddesses.

  Isis, all-powerful goddess of marriage and wisdom, wearing a scarlet dress and holding a cobra. Osiris, god of the underworld and husband to Isis, his skin painted a fertile green to symbolize the cycle of death and rebirth. Horus, the sun god and son of Isis and Osiris, his falcon head painted brilliant blue with a red-and-white crown atop it.

  Cleopatra felt a pang of nostalgia. She had walked this corridor many times with Caesar. Once, he had stopped in his tracks directly in front of the statue of Tawaret, goddess of pregnancy and childbirth. With the head of a hippopotamus, limbs of a lion, tail of a crocodile, and belly of a pregnant woman, it had made him laugh out loud.

  Cleopatra, he had said, when I am dead, I fear my Egyptian statue will have the limbs of a tortoise, the tail of a camel, and the head of an ass.

  Ah yes, my love, she had replied, but I will make sure it is dressed in full Roman armor. How better to outfit an ass-headed god?

  As the brown cat trailed behind her, playfully pawing the back of her dress and catching his claws in the fabric, she strode past the chamber room in which she had first met Caesar. She had been so desperate then.

  Her brother Ptolemy—that mouth-breathing, backstabbing little bastard—and his push for sole power had forced her into the desert, on the run for her life and struggling to raise an army, while he ingratiated himself to Caesar in her palace.

  But she had always been smarter than him. She had arranged to have herself rolled into a carpet—oh the stifling heat in there!—and carried into the palace as a gift to Caesar, and all of it right under Ptolemy’s ugly, upturned nose.

  Cleopatra smiled at the memory. The guards had unrolled the carpet at Caesar’s feet and, to his astonishment, out she had tumbled. The exiled queen of Egypt herself, her gold bangles jingling, and her royal diadem perched in her messy hair.

  Caesar had jumped to his feet in surprise and amusement. They had talked all night in the flickering light, the scent of the castor oil in the lamps perfuming the air. When his eyes fell on her breasts, she had pulled him down onto the carpet, on top of her, and they had made love until morning. The virgin queen of Egypt lying under the Roman general Julius Caesar. It was the way he wanted it. It was the way it always had to be.

  A while after that royal coming together, her brother Ptolemy’s body had been found floating facedown in the Nile, his flesh so green with rot that even the vultures hadn’t touched it. Julius was a man of his word.

  For the most par
t, it had been a good personal and political arrangement for both of them. Caesar was a reasonable lord, and he trusted her judgment. She showed him Egypt’s mysteries, including the great pyramids, and they sailed along the Nile, not just as lovers and allies, but as true friends.

  She took him to the tomb of his hero, Alexander the Great, where he stood with bated breath while she pulled back the drapery of Alexander’s sarcophagus to reveal the warrior’s mummified body. Caesar was moved to tears by the sight of the great general’s soft wisps of hair, and she had kissed his face dry.

  They had so many plans. If a Roman general and an Egyptian queen could be lovers, could not Rome and Egypt be true friends? She thought of the great library they were to build together in the Roman Forum. Even the Romans had welcomed the idea. Senator Cicero and many others had expressed their support. And then there was Caesar’s influential great-aunt, the chief Vestal, who had paid for a beautiful shrine to Isis to be built in Rome.

  Ah, but Caesar was gone. So too were the certainty of Cleopatra’s reign and the stability of Egypt. Most frighteningly, also gone was the safety of Caesarion’s life. When it came to Caesarion, it didn’t matter which Roman wolf won. Both would tear out his throat.

  Caesar’s assassins would never let a son of Caesar rule Egypt. One day he would seek to avenge his father’s death—they knew that—and he was too much of a risk. And Antony and Octavian? Perhaps Antony would not care. But Octavian, that opportunistic little runt who had the gall to call himself Caesar, he would definitely want Caesarion’s head on a spike. Two Caesars was one Caesar too many.

  As Cleopatra approached the courtyard, two slaves pushed open the heavy doors and an explosion of hot sunlight burst into the palace. She squinted but kept walking until the smooth tile under her sandaled feet turned sand-covered and the courtyard surrounded her on all sides.

  Five wooden chairs sat in a semicircle on the sandy tile of the courtyard floor. Four men in loin cloths and one woman in a short dress were tied to the chairs. Two of the men were writhing in pain, mouths bubbling sputum and eyes rolling in their sockets.