The queen sat on a long couch that faced the chairs, tucking her feet under her body and casually scooping up a spoonful of cool pomegranate seeds from a large silver bowl on a nearby table.
“Proceed,” she ordered to no one in particular as she crushed the seeds between her teeth.
A man with a bright orange scarf around his head bowed before the queen. “Thank you, Majesty.” His voice was as gravelly as the sand under his feet.
He gestured showily toward the semicircle of chairs. “The first prisoner is experiencing arsenic poisoning, while the second is demonstrating the effects of a hemlock tincture. Both were administered thirty minutes ago.”
The first prisoner emitted a guttural groan of agony and vomited on his loincloth. The second jerked and then began to convulse so violently that his chair fell over. Two male palace slaves rushed over to prop it back up only to have it topple over again a moment later.
The slaves looked uncertainly at each other and then shrugged at the queen before leaving the prisoner to jerk and writhe on the ground, still tethered to the chair. A pool of urine spread out across the sand as the prisoner lost control of his bladder.
Cleopatra’s handmaiden Charmion arrived to stand at the queen’s shoulder. She turned up her nose at the twitching, drooling prisoners.
“An undignified way to meet Osiris,” she said. “Bloated, retching, and contorted in pain. Majesty will not give her enemies the satisfaction of seeing her like this.”
“If it comes to that,” qualified the queen.
“If it comes to that,” agreed Charmion. “If Majesty must take her own life, there are ways that are more becoming a queen.” She snapped her fingers at the man with the bright orange scarf. “The snakes now.”
Obligingly, the man knelt before the queen, and Charmion, as his assistant placed a long rectangular tray, upon which sat two round covered baskets, on the ground in front of him. The man opened one basket and expertly pulled out a yellowish-brown snake with a horned head and prominent brown crossbands down its length.
Still clutching the snake, he rose to his feet and approached the third male prisoner, who shrieked in wide-eyed panic, desperately struggling against his restraints and pleading to the queen and the gods for mercy. Cleopatra crushed another mouthful of pomegranate seeds between her teeth.
The two slaves who had tried unsuccessfully to right the convulsing prisoner’s chair each grabbed hold of his head and tilted it back to expose his neck. The snake handler clamped the snake’s jaw on the prisoner’s neck and a trickle of blood ran down it.
They all stood back to give the queen a clear line of sight.
Cleopatra stopped chewing and looked at the prisoner with interest. Almost immediately, the prisoner cried out in pain and the area around the snake bite swelled into a hard ball the size of a man’s fist. The skin around it bruised into an ugly purplish hue.
The prisoner tensed and then fell into a paralytic state. His bowels emptied. The orange-scarfed man’s assistant quickly covered the foulness with a large embroidered silk blanket, silently cursing himself for not bringing a cheaper papyrus one.
I’ll take a beating for this later, he thought.
Cleopatra cast a sideways glance at Charmion. “That won’t do,” she said.
“This one may be more suitable for her Majesty,” said the snake handler. He lifted the cover off the second basket and diligently grasped the snake inside, holding it up for the queen’s inspection. “Cobra.”
The snake handler carried the ribbon-like animal to the last male prisoner, who opened his eyes and mouth wide, pleading for mercy. He cast his frantic eyes at the queen and Charmion, and then at his fellow prisoners.
The three other men were dead—and unpleasantly so. The female prisoner was staring straight ahead and muttering a prayer in a language that he didn’t know.
Again, the two palace slaves jerked the prisoner’s head back and the snake handler clamped the cobra’s jaw on the exposed neck. They all moved aside and stared expectantly at the prisoner who, like them, also waited to see what the effects of the snake venom would be.
At first, nothing. And then the prisoner inhaled deeply, as if caught off-guard by a sudden shortness of breath. His breathing became shallow, labored, and his head fell back.
And that was it.
“A fitting death for a queen,” said Charmion. She nodded approvingly to the orange-scarfed snake handler. “Bring me two or three of your best specimens in the morning,” she ordered. “And a handler as well. We shall keep them at the palace.”
“Yes, Lady,” he said. “I am honored to be of service to Her Majesty.”
As the queen began to stand, the female prisoner felt a swell of relief in her body. Tears ran down her cheeks and she silently praised the gods.
“Majesty,” said the snake handler. “If I may be so bold, may I suggest that you witness the effect on the female body? I have selected a woman of a similar size and weight to your Majesty.” He waved his hand toward the female prisoner.
“Oh,” said the queen. “I suppose that’s wise. Carry on.” She took another spoonful of pomegranate seeds from the silver bowl.
* * *
“My Queen,” her royal astrologer had said, “the signs are clear. General Antony and Octavian will defeat the assassins. They will avenge the father of your son. Then Antony will come to you.”
And so it had come to pass.
Brutus and Cassius were dead, defeated at Philippi. Caesar was once again a powerful name in Rome. The unstoppable General Marc Antony was on his way to Egypt to meet with its queen.
Cleopatra descended the six marble steps into a giant oval bath and sank to her neck in the hot goat’s milk. Iras poured a pot of melted honey into the bath, and Cleopatra swam leisurely to stir the luxurious mixture. Still, she couldn’t quite relax.
Antony’s messenger had stated the official purpose of his master’s imminent visit to Egypt: an administrative meeting to ensure that Queen Cleopatra would continue to pay her taxes and send grain shipments to Rome.
But Cleopatra knew there was more to it. Antony would want to know why she had delayed so long in sending coin or reinforcements to help him in the hunt for Julius Caesar’s assassins.
What could she tell him? The truth was, she could not risk taking sides in the Roman conflict. What if the side she chose ultimately lost? She would be seen as a conspirator by the victors, and any chance she had of keeping her throne would be gone.
A large oil lamp fastened to the aqua-and-brown mosaic wall sputtered and then ran dry, and the room dimmed. Iras quietly scolded a slave who, just as quietly, poured more olive oil into the basin. The lamp flickered back to life.
Submerged in the hot milk-and-honey bath, Cleopatra absently fiddled with the garnet gems in her gold bracelet and then slipped it off and tossed it onto the steamy tile floor at Iras’s feet.
She chewed her lip and thought back to the Marc Antony she had known during her time in Rome. He was loud and fleshy, antagonistic and carnal. A buffoon. But a brilliant general.
Cleopatra knew little about his personal habits or vices. Now, she had to rely on her spies who still resided in Rome, those who had continued to move in Antony’s circles.
Even as she bathed in Alexandria, they gathered the information she needed to know in Rome. What were his interests? What wine did he like best? What did he prefer to eat? What entertainment did he take? What did he find amusing? What were his weaknesses? Most important of all, what kind of woman was he attracted to?
Antony would be difficult to manage when he arrived in Alexandria. He would be indignant and eager to exert his authority over her and Rome’s authority over Egypt. She had to find a way to lower his guard. She had to slip through his defenses and get in close enough to make sure that she and her people were safe.
Cleopatra sighed. Yet another
artless Roman man to seduce.
Chapter VI
Aeterna Flamma Vestae
The eternal flame of Vesta
rome, 40 bce
Two years later
It was the kalends of March, the first day of the month and the date upon which the most sacred ritual in the Roman world took place: the annual renewal of Vesta’s eternal fire within the temple.
The ceremony was an old one. Traditionally, it was performed in secret within the sanctum of the temple, but Fabiana had allowed some transparency after a priest, himself inclined to laziness, had questioned whether the Vestals really went through all the trouble of renewing it. Nonetheless, Nona and Pomponia had persuaded the chief Vestal to return to the old ways. This would be the last renewal performed outside the temple.
Accordingly, throngs of people had come out to witness what might be their only chance to see the ritual extinguishment and renewal of the sacred fire. Thousands of men and women—patricians, soldiers, plebeians, freedmen and freedwomen, slaves—now filled the Forum Romanum and surrounded the area around the Temple of Vesta.
While most gatherings of this size would be loud and unruly, this one was quiet and reverent. Mother Vesta had sustained the people of Rome in the tumultuous years following the assassination of Julius Caesar. Sober gratitude had to be shown.
The Vestals, Rome’s only full-time, state-funded priesthood, had kept the living flame burning and performed the ancient rites without error, thus ensuring that the Pax Deorum—the peaceful agreement between the gods and mankind—would continue. It was they who had secured the goddess’s protection for the city. The crowd’s reverence was for them too.
Scarlet banners embroidered with the gold letters SPQR hung from the high basilicas and monuments of the Forum. The statuary, fountains, colonnades, and splendid facades of the other temples nearby had been scrubbed clean for the occasion, and the Via Sacra had been swept bare.
Yet by midmorning the cobblestone around the sacred area of Vesta was covered in wild-picked flowers, mementos, and plates of food—all humble offerings to the goddess.
In years past, Fabiana had instructed temple slaves to remove these offerings as quickly as they were placed, yet the Vestalis Maxima, whose health continued to deteriorate, was too fatigued to participate. As a result, Pomponia had inherited the sacred duties and rites. She left the offerings where they lay.
The Temple of Vesta itself had been adorned with long garlands of fresh laurel that hung from its high frieze and wound around each of its twenty columns—columns that rose up from the white marble podium of its round base to support its bronze roof with intricate Ionic capitals. The fine metal screen behind the columns had been polished, and the entire temple had been meticulously dressed in greenery and white flowers according to tradition and to High Priestess Fabiana’s exacting specifications.
Through an opening at the apex of the temple’s domed roof, smoke from Vesta’s fire billowed out and then began to taper off as Pomponia and the other Vestal priestesses inside allowed the fire to weaken. Palms up to the goddess, they prayed and petitioned for her to send sunbeams strong enough to respark her sacred flame.
The temple’s bronze doors, which faced east, toward the sun, were usually closed to protect the sanctity of the inner hearth. They were open now though, letting in the sunlight and prompting people to crane their necks to catch a glimpse inside.
With the sacred fire reduced to embers, Pomponia raised the handles on either side of the wide bronze firebowl and lifted it out of its cradle in the round marble pedestal of the hearth.
“Vesta, permitte hanc actionem,” she said, securing the goddess’s permission to perform the ritual.
Pomponia carried the firebowl across the mosaic floor, through the open doors, and down the temple’s steps. The other Vestal priestesses followed her out in solemn procession. First was the elder Vestal Nona, who carried a small terracotta figurine of High Priestess Fabiana. Tuccia was next, followed by Caecilia Scantia and Lucretia Manlia.
As soon as the last Vestal had exited the temple, the novices slipped into it to clean the walls, floor, and marble hearth with pure, fresh spring water.
The sight of the Vestal Virgins dressed in their ceremonial white stolas and veils ignited a collective exclamation of awe from those gathered. The only flashes of color in the purity of their dress was the red of their woolen headbands, the crimson border of their formal suffibulum veils, and the gold rosettes of the fibula brooches that pinned the bottom edges of the ritual veil in place at the breastbone. People lowered themselves to their knees, many tossing fresh-picked flowers at the feet of the priestesses.
Pomponia led the Vestals to the laurel-draped marble dais that had been erected adjacent to the temple. Upon it stood the Pontifex Maximus, a serious looking man by the name of Marcus Aemilius Lepidus. Carefully, she climbed the flower-lined steps and strode across the platform to set the bronze bowl on an altar.
The two pontifices, the Pontifex Maximus and the de facto Vestalis Maxima, stood side by side as the other Vestals lined up behind them.
To the left of the dais, designed to be a smaller version of the Rostra, sat a who’s who of Rome’s religious collegia, including the Rex Sacrorum and the Flamines Maiores, the High Priests of Jupiter and Mars, along with a number of other priests, all seated in the proper order. Pomponia acknowledged them with a respectful nod.
She saw Quintus out of the corner of her eye but avoided looking directly at him. After his experience in the Carcer, she had thought his arrogant nature might soften. It hadn’t. He hadn’t even acknowledged what she had done for him or his father.
His wife had, though. The day after Pomponia had secured Quintus’s release from the prison, Valeria had appeared at the House of the Vestals with a beautiful gold bracelet and tearful expressions of gratitude.
The next time Pomponia saw her, her eyes were blackened from her husband’s fists.
Regardless, Pomponia had kept her promise to the goddess. Once Quintus’s safety had been assured, she had done her best to put him out of her mind.
In fact, the two of them seemed to have made a competition out of who could ignore the other more, regardless of whether they were at a public or religious function or simply passing in the street. Every now and then, though, Quintus still found occasion to cast a cold, scolding glance her way. She looked past him to acknowledge the public augurs.
To the right of the dais sat just about everyone else of importance in Rome, most notably Octavian with his sister Octavia, as well as the imposing figure of Marcus Agrippa, Octavian’s brilliant general and closest friend, and Octavian’s sharp-eyed political adviser Gaius Maecenas.
Pomponia smiled inwardly to notice that Marc Antony was still absent. He was still in Egypt talking money and grain with Queen Cleopatra. Although if the rumors were true, it wasn’t all business.
As the Vestal stood before the altar on the dais, a swelling, affectionate cheer went up. “Bless us, Priestess Pomponia!”
“I bless you in the name of Mother Vesta,” she said. She heard the authority, the commanding certainty, in her own voice. Fabiana was a meticulous teacher.
Pomponia had presided as acting Vestalis Maxima in several rituals over the past while: the Equus October, the rites of Bona Dea, the Lupercalia, last year’s renewal ceremony, the Fordicidia, a number of lustrationes, and even the annual opening of the inner sanctum of the temple to Roman matrons during the Vestalia. With each ceremony, with each new responsibility, the natural ease with which she performed her duties increased.
The Pontifex Maximus bowed his head in respect to Pomponia and then put his hands up to begin. “Many generations ago,” he said loudly, “our great ancestor, the Trojan prince Aeneas, fled the burning city of Troy with his family. From his royal bloodline sprang the kings of Alba Longa and King Numitor, father of the Vestal priestess Rhea Silvia. This pr
iestess was beloved by the goddess Vesta, but another god loved her with an even greater passion: Mars, the god of war. One night, as the virgin slumbered, Mars could no longer resist. He came to her and coupled with her.”
Countless people were watching the ceremony, yet Pomponia suddenly felt the weight of a single, hot gaze settle on her flesh. Her eyes moved straight to Quintus. He was staring at her.
The Pontifex spoke on. “The immaculate Vestal gave birth to the sons of the god, twins she named Romulus and Remus. But her father’s enemy learned of the boys and, fearing the powerful men they would grow to be, had them ripped from their mother’s arms. The infants were put in a basket and thrown into the River Tiber. But Mars heard the cries of the virgin and her infants. Despite his hard heart, he asked Father Tiber to bring their basket to shore.”
A snap from the sacred embers called Pomponia’s attention away from Quintus’s unreadable stare and back to the bronze firebowl in front of her. She placed her hands on its edges as if protecting the last of the life within it.
“Mars sent a great she-wolf to rescue his sons on the banks of the river. The she-wolf took the infants to her cave on the Palatine Hill, where she nursed them, nourishing them with the spirit of their divine father. When the boys became men, they desired to build a city, the greatest city that ever was or would be. But the brothers had the spirit of the war god within them and fought over who should lead it. To end the conflict, Mars sent an augur who divined that Romulus would build a city, an Eternal City, a city that would rule the world. Remus resisted, but Romulus slew him and named the city in his own honor.”
Pomponia steadied herself, willing the Pontifex to speak faster and fighting the urge to look at Quintus again. She gave in, disguising the glance as a respectful nod to the priests who sat next to him. Her pulse quickened. Damn him to Hades. He’s still looking at me. She looked away yet again and locked her eyes on the fading embers in the bowl.
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