“In honor of his mother the Vestal, Romulus built a sacred fire on the ground. Around the fire, he built Rome itself. His successor, King Numa, built a temple around the fire and appointed a priesthood of chaste women to care for it. It is that fire we renew today, upon the very ground our founding father first lit it.”
The Pontifex pulled back a heavy red cloth on the altar and Pomponia picked up the earthenware cup of wine underneath. She called out the sacred rites. “Art thou on the watch, heaven-born Aeneas? Keep watch.” She looked down into the bronze firebowl. Only a few red embers were left burning.
Pomponia doused the last embers in the bowl with the wine, extinguishing the old fire. It had to be done. It was the only way to truly renew the flame and Rome’s devotion to the goddess. Death, then a pure rebirth. The eternal cycle.
Those present fell even more silent. Until the fire burned again, Rome was vulnerable.
The Vestals typically renewed the sacred fire using branches from the arbor felix, an oak tree blessed by Vesta and Jupiter themselves. While every priestess was skilled at this and additional wood-friction techniques, other ways to renew the fire were permissible, as long as the goddess was properly invoked and the new fire was not derived from the old.
Today, for this renewal, Fabiana had instructed Pomponia to take advantage of the unusually sunny kalends of March and renew the fire with nothing but the rays of the sun. Not only was it an unpolluted act, it was an impressive sight.
Pomponia lifted a tool of polished bronze off the altar. Its metal had been polished to a mirror shine by the novices so that it could reflect the sun’s rays and ignite the new fire. It was a technique borrowed from the Greeks but refined by the Vestals. The Pontifex placed a new bronze bowl before her and she looked inside. The tinder was there, as she had arranged it: dried grasses from Vesta’s grove in a round bird’s-nest shape.
She looked up at the sun. As she arranged the tool to catch the sun’s rays and direct them to the tinder, the Vestals behind her held their palms up to the goddess.
“Vesta Aeterna,” called out Pomponia. “First and last, your inviolate priestess begs you to enter this flame so that we may renew your eternal fire.”
Heated only by the sun, a black spot formed in the tinder. A moment later, red embers glowed. Wisps of smoke rose up, sunlight filtering through them, but still the fire struggled to be reborn.
Pomponia set down the bronze tool. She covered her mouth with her veil and bent over to recite the Precatio Vestae, the secret prayer that called upon the goddess, into the embers. Her whispered breath made the embers flare up and reach out, crackling to life and quickly consuming the tinder.
She lifted up her hands. “Vestam laudo,” she said, “ignis inexstinctus.”
The Pontifex put his hands in the air. “It burns!” he called out and a thousand voices praised Vesta’s name at once. Pomponia carefully added more tinder to the bronze bowl and the fire crackled louder. A loud fire was a good sign. The cracks and snaps were the voice of the goddess speaking to her faithful. But what was the goddess saying to her?
Pomponia smiled down at the new fire. And then, without thinking, she looked up directly into the face of Quintus. A hammer of emotion struck her in the stomach. He had not looked away. This time, she defiantly held his gaze. Would it soften? For a moment she thought it might, but it remained cool and critical, and she turned away.
With all reverence, Pomponia lifted the bronze firebowl and led the procession of priestesses back toward the temple. Inside, they would complete the ritual by placing the new firebowl in the hearth, laying sanctified kindling on it in the proper divine pattern, and performing the last of the secret rites to Vesta.
Pomponia ascended the top step of the temple and moved into the sanctum. Behind her, behind all the Vestals who now surrounded the hearth, the bronze doors of the temple closed tightly.
Moments later, plumes of smoke began to once again rise through the opening in the temple’s domed roof. There was a collective cheer from
the crowd.
The priests and politicians around the dais stood up, stretched their legs, and began to mix and mingle, strolling into the Forum and making plans for the rest of the day.
Similarly, the large crowd of spectators broke apart as groups of friends and family members started to make their way out of the Forum and into the livelier streets, shops, taverns, and even brothels of Rome.
But Quintus stayed in his seat and continued to stare at the closed bronze doors of the temple.
* * *
By midafternoon, the celebrations had spilled into the Campus Martius, the sprawling public land dedicated to Mars. That was for a good reason. The kalends of March wasn’t just the annual date Vesta’s fire was renewed; it was also the traditional birthdate of Mars himself. Such an auspicious day presented political opportunities that Octavian wasn’t about to pass up.
Earlier that day, Pomponia had graciously accepted yet another of his massive donations to the Vestal order. Now, as he attended a public sacrifice to Mars in the Campus Martius, he was vowing to build two new temples in Rome.
Pomponia shifted on her feet as she stood next to him in front of a grand marble altar to Mars. It had been a long day. She wished she could have stayed in the temple to care for the new fire, but a Vestal was required at all religious functions. Her status, and the day’s importance, meant that Vestal was her.
At least she had help. Tuccia and Medousa were with her. It would’ve been impossible to keep Tuccia away. The day’s events were to end with a much-anticipated chariot race between the Greens and the Blues in the Circus Maximus, and Tuccia would have sulked openly if she couldn’t attend.
“At this moment, the foundation of the Temple to the Divine Julius Caesar is being laid on the very spot of his funeral pyre in the Roman Forum,” Octavian’s clear, commanding voice boomed outward. “It will stand only steps away from Vesta’s temple. In honor of the goddess’s life-giving light, in honor of the star that shone over my divine father’s funeral pyre, this temple shall be known as the Temple of the Comet Star.”
A happy cheer rose up, but it wasn’t just for the temple. To the delight of the Roman people, Octavian’s generosity extended beyond temples to include large donations of bread, wine, and coin that were being distributed throughout the city. The more people ate, drank, and put into their purses, the more they liked their new Caesar.
“As Romans, we all share in the victory over my divine father’s assassins. Thanks must be given to Mars Ultor, Mars the Avenger! That is why, out of my own purse, I also pledge to build the Temple of Mars Ultor in my new forum, where the priests of Mars shall make daily sacrifices to my victory at Philippi!”
Another happy, wine-fueled cheer.
But then Octavian raised his hands. The crowd fell silent, their cheers replaced by sudden reverence and the sound of pipes. The procession of the sacrificial animal had begun.
Shuffling and a loud bellow. Everyone turned their heads to see a great white bull being led toward the altar. Its mighty head was topped with laurel and its horns had been gilded. Its muscular body was draped in ribbons and strings of colorful flowers. Impressed murmurs ran through the crowd.
The Pontifex replaced Octavian at Pomponia’s side and stood before the grand altar. “Favete linguis,” he called out, signifying the start of the sacrifice. All fell silent again as the magnificent beast approached.
Pomponia’s stomach dropped to see that Quintus was at the animal’s head, gripping the gold nose ring in its flared nostrils and guiding it toward the altar. He was dressed in his priestly white woolen toga and, like all priests of Rome, he performed his duties capite velato, with his head covered by a fold of his toga.
He looked handsome.
She clutched the bowl of sacred wafers in her hands. Why must he lead the beast? But she knew it wasn’t his choice. Like her, he w
as bound to the rites and rituals of his god. Like her, he performed the duties his high priest put upon him. And guessing from his position, he was being groomed as the next Flamen Martialis.
She met his eyes for a moment and then looked at the marble altar. On top, a bronze firebowl burned with Vesta’s flame and incense pots sent fragrant smoke to Mars. A patera and a long-handled simpulum ladle held libations of oil and wine respectively.
As Quintus grew nearer—they would be uncomfortably close during this ritual—her eyes dipped down to study the colorful relief carvings of battles, horses, and legions that adorned the altar. Her eyes hesitated over one scene: the god Mars crouched over the sleeping Vestal Rhea Silvia.
In the carving, the priestess’s white stola had fallen off her shoulders to reveal the outline of her bare breasts. The mighty god gazed down passionately at her, reaching out one hand to touch her while the other moved his red cloak aside to expose his arousal.
When Pomponia next looked up, Quintus was standing only an arm’s length away. His eyes moved from the suggestive carving to her. She felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment, but he looked away indifferently, his attention focused on the bull he restrained. One hand clutched the gold ring in its nose and the other held a length of rope that attached to a loose halter around its giant white head. The animal was docile, having been hand-raised for this purpose, and contentedly chewed at whatever was in its mouth.
The Flamen Martialis approached the altar. “O divine Jane, divina Vesta,” he said, beginning the ceremony with the traditional invocation to Janus and Vesta. He poured oil over the altar and sprinkled a few drops into the fire that burned on top. “O Father Mars, we pray that you strike down our enemies. We pray that you fill the hearts of our sons with courage and vengeance. We pray that you lend your fearsome strength to the people and the Senate and the soldiers of Rome. To you, Mars Pater, we offer this fine beast as testimony of our will and devotion, so that you may do these things.”
Pomponia took two sacred wafers from the terracotta bowl in her hands and then set the bowl on the altar. Quintus pulled downward on the bull’s nose ring, compelling it to lower its head, so that she could more easily lift the wafers over the tall beast’s head.
As he did, Pomponia noticed his hands. They were large and strong, and she could see the muscles of his forearms tense under his toga as he clung to the nose ring and rope. Wide gold cuffs encircled his wrists, and he wore a single silver intaglio ring. She squinted at the image of the god on the ring’s carnelian sealstone. Not Mars. Vesta.
“Vesta te purificat,” she said. Vesta purifies you. She crumbled the wafers between the bull’s golden horns, careful to avoid its eyes. It was important the animal remain unperturbed and willing.
“Deis,” said the Flamen Martialis. To the gods. He took the wine-filled simpulum from the altar and offered it first to the Pontifex Maximus before taking a sip himself and then passing it to Pomponia, who did the same.
According to custom, she then offered the simpulum to Quintus . . . and then immediately realized that he could not let go of the animal. Instead, she held the vessel to his lips and watched his throat move as he swallowed the wine. Her skin flushed. She had performed this ritual many times with priests, but this time it felt strangely intimate. She poured a small amount of wine over the bull’s head and then set the simpulum back on the altar.
“Victimarii,” the Flamen Martialis called out. At that, two men, their upper bodies bare in preparation for the bloodbath that often attended the sacrifice of such large animals, replaced Quintus at the head of the bull. One of them gripped the handle of the silver dagger atop the altar.
“Step up, Priestess,” Quintus commanded under his breath. The same brash, reproaching tone.
She cursed herself. Why was she so distracted? Lifting her stola, she stepped onto a marble elevation alongside the altar. As she did, one of the men raised the bull’s head and the victimarius—the man in charge of performing the sacrifice itself—opened its neck in one deep, skillful stroke.
Without so much as a groan, the bull fell onto its front knees and then collapsed onto its side, its breath heaving for a moment before stopping altogether. Warm blood surged out of its neck to quickly fill the gold bowl Quintus was holding in place.
Quintus passed the full bowl to another priest in exchange for a new one. The animal was so voluminous, though, that blood still pooled under Pomponia’s raised step. The worst of it was absorbed by the sand that covered the base of the altar, but rivers of red still ran across the marble floor to soil the priests’ sandals and spill over the edge of the platform onto the soft earth.
Two haruspices knelt in the bloody sand at the animal’s side as the man who had dispatched the bull skillfully opened it up and placed part of its entrails into a bronze bowl for the haruspices to read for signs. They muttered to each other, to themselves, and then to each other again before finally nodding in approval.
The signs were good.
Lepidus reached into the bowl and lifted out the animal’s weighty innards, holding them up high and then lowering them into the fire on the altar. The pungent smell of the burning viscera was slightly masked by a sweeter fragrance as he sprinkled incense and then poured wine into the fire. The gods would be sated.
“Gratias vobis ago, divine Jane, divina Vesta,” said the Flamen Martialis. The ceremony was over.
Thank the goddess, thought Pomponia. She lifted her stola to her ankles and stepped down onto the sand- and blood-covered marble floor. The haruspices were still examining the animal’s copious innards. She felt like her own insides had been exposed for the world to see, and she avoided looking at Quintus, who was now toweling the blood off his hands and arms. She was relieved that no one had noticed the tension between her and the priest of Mars.
But in fact, someone had: Quintus’s wife.
As the smoke from the marble altar wisped into the air, several butchers approached the fallen sacrificial animal and began to do their work. The best cuts of meat would be given to the priests and senators. The rest would be distributed to the public.
Yet from the way the crowd dispersed, it seemed that most people were prioritizing sport over sustenance. There were still chariot races to be enjoyed at the Circus Maximus. Others were scattering into areas of the Campus Martius, where Caesar’s bread, wine, and coin were calling.
Pomponia would have liked to leave as well, but she was delayed by Tuccia, who was busy laughing with a number of senators and priests, all of them arguing about the races, laying bets, and insulting each other’s favorite horses and charioteers.
Distractedly, Pomponia clutched the heavy white woolen palla that Medousa—when had she appeared?—had wrapped around her shoulders.
“You’re shivering, Domina.”
“It’s chilly.”
“It’s warm enough.” Medousa’s beautiful face was stone.
Pomponia pulled the palla tight around herself. Her slave didn’t miss a thing. They stepped silently up into the Vestal’s ornate horse-drawn carriage, the gold-and-red-colored curtains pulled back to await Tuccia, who finally dove in, glowing and grinning, to sit opposite Pomponia.
“I have fifty thousand sesterces riding on the Blues,” she said. “I swear to the gods, I’ll have Proserpina herself toss that twit charioteer Flavius’s balls into the underworld if he wraps himself around the spina in the first lap again.”
“Flavius has more curses on his head than a poxed whore,” said Medousa. They laughed at their own flippant bawdiness. It was a release from the day’s strict rituals and solemn religiousness.
Finally allowing herself to relax a little, Pomponia tiredly reached down to tug on a sandal strap. “My feet hurt. I should have worn my woolen shoes.”
“Then you’d complain your feet were hot,” said Tuccia. “Just be thankful it isn’t raining. It’s been good signs all day.”
<
br /> “Give me your foot, Domina,” said Medousa. She began to loosen Pomponia’s sandal straps, but Pomponia slapped her hands away.
“Leave it. It’ll just hurt worse when you tie them back up.” She leaned back on the cushions inside the carriage, wishing it were her own bed, and closed her eyes.
* * *
When Pomponia next opened her eyes, Tuccia was slipping out of the carriage with a determined look on her face. They had arrived at the Circus Maximus. The races had already been underway for hours, and she didn’t want to miss another lap. Tuccia was halfway to the entrance of the stadium, her two guards rushing to keep up with her, before Pomponia had even straightened her veil.
Pomponia exhaled and wondered how Tuccia still had so much energy. They had been up since well before dawn. An energizing thought occurred to her: perhaps Quintus would be at the races as well. She felt a sudden longing to see him again. It was the way his throat moved when he swallowed . . . She swore at herself for succumbing to such thoughts. Yet she understood why she was having them.
Vesta’s priestesses served the goddess during those years when natural desire was at its strongest. At twenty-two years old, Pomponia knew that her body’s instincts would work against her sacred duty. Yet there were regimens that could help. Some Vestals applied camphor oil to their breasts twice daily, using the scent to quell desire. They also ate the berries from the chaste tree at every meal to resist the passions that Venus placed in their hearts. Pomponia decided that she would start such a regimen immediately. Caecilia had already been following one for a year or more.
While sexual indulgence was strictly forbidden—every Vestal knew the horrific punishment for incestum—Vestal priestesses nonetheless enjoyed the distraction of other physical indulgences. The House of the Vestals was as comfortable as any palace or upper-class estate in Rome, with private rooms and the finest of baths, studies, and gardens. Vestals ate the most sumptuous of foods, and their every need was tended to by slaves.
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