Brides of Rome

by Debra May Macleod

  “You’re a harpy when your stomach’s empty, Medousa. Here—I don’t care who sees it—eat this dormouse.”

  “Did you see the way she was rubbing her belly? Gods! She acts like she’s carrying a demigod son of Zeus!” Medousa swallowed a mouthful of meat, and her shoulders relaxed. “If not the Tarpeian Rock, Priestess, at least order a public beating? I shall speak with the magistrate—”

  “You will do no such thing,” said Pomponia.

  “Are you sparing her the punishment, or are you sparing her husband the embarrassment?”

  “It would be a debasement to respond to the sad trilling of a common housewife, Medousa. Her life is punishment enough. Think of it! Always subordinate, always doing what you’re told.”

  “Yes, how awful,” quipped Medousa.

  “You could have it worse. Now come help me find this new fresco Lady Octavia was telling me to look at . . . some garden scene with blue birds. She said I’d know it when I saw it. We aren’t staying long. I told Tuccia and Caecilia I would be back in time for them to make the races.”

  Pomponia wandered through Octavian’s house, easily greeting friends, engaging in snippets of small talk with senators and their wives, and accepting pious nods and smiles from those few people she didn’t personally know.

  As always, Medousa walked several paces behind, seeming to disappear when Pomponia was in conversation and then reappearing to once again trail duteously behind her mistress.

  The Vestal liked occasions like this. She was free to socialize with friends old and new without the responsibility of ceremony or duty. It was pleasant to be a guest, rather than having to fret over every detail of a ritual while at the same time trying to ignore the itch of the woolen infula under her formal veil and the restrictiveness of her layered clothing. A simple white veil and dress, like the ones she now wore, were much more liberating.

  “Ah, this must be it.” Pomponia smiled as she found the fresco she sought. It was suitably situated in a serene, private alcove of Octavian’s house. The fresco depicted the garden of the Vestal courtyard.

  In the painting, white rosebushes surrounded one of the courtyard’s rectangular pools, in the center of which stood a marble statue of Vesta. The goddess tipped a bowl of orange flames which cascaded down to magically transform into the turquoise water that filled the pool. Inside the pool, ten or twelve blue birds splashed happily and shook the water from their feathers.

  Pomponia’s nose almost touched the wall as she inspected the intricate details of the fresco. “It’s beautiful,” she said to Medousa, who stood at her shoulder.

  “If such things please you.” A man’s voice. It wasn’t Medousa who stood beside her, it was Quintus.

  Her stomach dropped, and she quickly looked at him. As ever, his expression was impossible to read. Anger? Disapproval? Her brow furrowed in confusion and at the unease of his closeness.

  His toga was ivory colored with an embroidered stripe: an expensive, upper-class touch. He was freshly shaven and smelled slightly of oil—no doubt having just come from the baths that morning—and Pomponia’s eyes once again fell on the silver ring he wore, the one with the Vesta intaglio.

  “You and I once saw another creature splashing in that pool,” he said.

  “What creature was that?”

  “The groom.”

  Pomponia bit her lip to stifle a laugh. Quintus cocked his head and looked at her curiously, and it occurred to Pomponia for the first time that perhaps she was as much a mystery to him as he was to her.

  She allowed herself an indulgent look at his face: his dark hair and eyes, hardened complexion, the scar on his ear that extended into his hairline. He seemed to be studying her the same way—her chestnut hair, hazel eyes, and soft features.

  “I hear that Caesar has granted you the office of the quaestorship,” she said, trying to sound mostly indifferent. “Congratulations, Magistrate.”

  “He did so when my father retired.”

  “Well, I’m sure you deserved the posting.”

  Quintus gazed at her coolly, eyebrows raised. “I never thought otherwise.”

  Pomponia stiffened. “Well, no man can think of everything.”

  An awkward silence.

  “I’ve been watching your temple, Priestess,” Quintus said cautiously. “The improvements that Caesar has made are . . . acceptable.”

  “Acceptable?” said Pomponia. “Yes, Magistrate, the improvements are acceptable. But tell me, what about the construction of the new Temple of Mars? I regret that my duties have kept me from visiting Caesar’s new forum in the last while. Do you find the construction to be . . . acceptable?”

  Quintus looked at her, and Pomponia held his gaze. I cannot tell if he wants to smile at me or strike me, she thought.

  The priest of Mars and the priestess of Vesta stared at each other in the quiet alcove. Although they had known each other since they were children, this was the first time they had shared a truly private moment as adults, a moment where no other eyes were upon them.

  Pomponia felt the familiar flutter in her stomach, the flutter she had started to feel whenever Quintus was near. In a nervous gesture, she raised a hand to smooth the side of her veil, and when she did, the sleeve of her dress fell to reveal the gold bracelet Quintus’s wife had given her years earlier, when she had demanded his release from the Carcer.

  Quintus’s eyes fell on the bracelet, and before Pomponia could react, he reached out his hand and grasped her wrist tightly. Pomponia heard herself gasp and pulled her hand back, but Quintus held it firmly, his grip so tight that it hurt.

  “You will let go of me at once,” she spat. “Or I’ll have you thrown down the same black hole I had you pulled out of.”

  His grip around her wrist loosened, but then his hand slipped up under her sleeve to clutch the bare skin of her upper arm. His face wore an angry, almost pained expression that betrayed the struggle he was having with his own restraint—wanting to hold her but knowing he should let go—and his nostrils flared with every deep, deliberate breath.

  “Quintus, you’re hurting me.”

  In an instant his face softened, and he pulled her toward him, his one hand still clutching her upper arm, his other moving up to hold the back of her neck. Pomponia felt the fullness of his warm lips press against hers. His fingers clutched the fabric of the veil behind her neck, and he brought her lips even closer to his. His tongue slipped into her mouth, his hot breath mixing with hers.

  The wave of her body’s reaction flooded over her, washing away the sense of outrage, of violent indignation, that she had felt only moments earlier. Instead, her heart pounded, and she surrendered herself to his mouth, his tongue, his force.

  “Pomponia,” he said breathily. “What do you think of me?”

  She swallowed. “I think you’re a savage in a good toga who has to control every situation and who delights in telling me what to do.”

  He smiled, and his face opened up as Pomponia had never seen it. “You have me there,” he said. “Tell me that I’m the only man you’ll ever love. Swear it on the Altar of Juno.”

  Was this love ? Pomponia opened her mouth but nothing came out.

  Quintus moved his hand under her veil to feel her hair. His fingers slid up the back of her neck, caressing her scalp, and a shudder ran through her.

  And then they were apart. From out of nowhere, Medousa stepped between them. She turned to Quintus and pushed him with both her hands, causing him to stumble backward. Her beautiful face showed none of its usual sarcasm or removed amusement. Rather, sheer terror filled her eyes.

  At the same moment, a shout echoed off the frescoed walls of the alcove.

  “Damn you to Hades!” Quintus’s wife Valeria was standing at the entrance to the alcove, her lips quivering with rage, and her eyes wildly glaring with shock and spite. She pointed at her husband a
nd the Vestal. “Incestum! ”

  * * *

  Although they were in a private alcove of Octavian’s expansive house, three or four wedding guests heard the shout and quickly came to investigate. An outburst like that could only mean one thing: some very good gossip was about to be had.

  The first to arrive was Caesar himself. “Are you well, Lady Valeria?” he asked Quintus’s wife. His eyes were cool, but his face had the faintest trace of a grimace. Octavian was not a man who approved of such unseemly behavior on the part of a well-bred Roman matron.

  Valeria dropped her jaw open and shook her head, still pointing to her husband and the Vestal. Her whole body wobbled. “My husband,” she slurred, “and that . . . that woman . . .”

  She muttered something inaudible, pointed her chin at Pomponia, and then shouted directly at Quintus. “I knew it! You told me I was mad, but I knew it! Every time there is a crisis, where are you? Certainly not at home protecting your wife and daughters! Oh no, you’re at the Temple of Vesta, rushing to her rescue. You have a sickness, Quintus, a sickness and a perversion in your heart. Every day you pass by the temple, every day you stand outside the House of the Vestals and stare at the portico as if Venus herself stood there naked for you!” She swallowed hard as the wine came up her throat. “I tell you, it’s a sickness and a perversion! And you are a faithless husband!”

  “Oh, let off, you drunken fool,” said Marc Antony, himself slopping wine from his cup and slurring his words. The hypocrisy wasn’t lost on those around him, and they burst into laughter, as did he. “Jupiter only knows what your dog of a husband has been sniffing after, but there’s no way he’s wolf enough to catch a Vestal.”

  “You are wrong. He—”

  “It is you who are wrong,” said Medousa. “I’m the one he loves and has loved for years.” She bore her eyes into Valeria with the fury of a Gorgon. “And who can blame him, with a wife like you? It is no wonder he thinks of me first. It is no wonder he comes to me every day. What husband would want to come home to you?”

  Valeria blinked stupidly. “No, you’re not . . .” She shook her head feebly.

  “Ah, the smoke clears,” said Antony. He pursed his lips and looked at Medousa, nodding in approval. “Quintus, I commend you on your choice of mistresses. You are a true connoisseur, sir.” He took a stumbling step toward Medousa, his hand outstretched to touch her auburn hair. “But how did such a creature escape my notice?” Suddenly, he turned to Octavian and slapped him hard on the chest. “Attat! Vulcan’s red-hot cock, my boy, you’re right! I do have to be more aware of things!”

  At that, he let out a good-natured guffaw and turned on his heel, heading back toward the party in the music-filled triclinium. The few guests who had gathered to watch the scene unfold followed him. The gossip wasn’t that good after all. Just a drunken wife driven mad with jealousy over the beauty of her husband’s bed slave. Amusing. Not scandalous.

  Only Octavian remained in the alcove. Medousa looked at him and then turned to the dumbstruck Pomponia. “I submit myself to your mercy, Domina,” she said. “My indiscretion is unforgivable.”

  “Caesar, the fault is mine,” said Quintus, “for allowing my wife to attend today. The physician says her humors are unbalanced and I should be keeping her confined. Her behavior will be punished. I apologize for the disruption.”

  “Not at all,” Octavian replied. “It would not be a wedding party without some kind of scuffle. Send her home and stay, Quintus. There will be more dramatic tussles to come as the evening proceeds.”

  Quintus smiled graciously. “Thank you, Caesar. I will do that.” He turned to Pomponia. “Priestess, I apologize to you as well. Please excuse me.”

  Without another word or glance at Pomponia or Medousa, Quintus placed his hand on his stricken wife’s back and escorted her away.

  Octavian stepped closer to Pomponia. “Shall I have Lady Valeria executed? It could be done quietly, if you prefer. We could dispense with the public scourging and just have her killed—”

  “No,” interrupted Pomponia, struggling to keep her composure and marveling that no one seemed to hear the thumping of her heart in her chest. “It is already forgotten, and Quintus and I have been colleagues for too long. His wife is unwell . . . and I am not blameless . . .”

  “Forgive me, Domina,” Medousa blurted out. Her eyes were moist with what Octavian took to be shame but what Pomponia knew was fear. “I should never have put you in this position. I begged you to let me see him, and you allowed it out of your love for me. I am sorry.”

  Pomponia took Medousa’s hands in her own. There was so much she wanted to say. It is I who am sorry, Medousa. I am sorry that my weakness and my foolishness forced you to do this. You are the best friend I have in the world.

  But there was nothing she could say. For the sake of her own life, the life of Quintus, and the esteem of the Vestal order itself, she had to go along with the fiction Medousa had created.

  Octavian tugged absently at his toga, adjusting a fold. “Your slave has exploited the affection you have for her,” he said to the Vestal. “It’s always bad business to give them too long a chain. I have made the mistake myself, Priestess, especially with those slaves I’ve known since I was a child. However, I can always use educated Greek slaves in my household. You can leave her here. She will be treated well enough.”

  “Yes,” said Pomponia. There was no other way. She was lucky enough to have dodged Valeria’s arrow of accusation once. Suspicion was bound to follow if she, a priestess of Vesta, knowingly retained a slave who had engaged in indecorous behavior. The Temple of Vesta and the House of the Vestals were enduring symbols of purity. Medousa could no longer be associated with them. “Thank you for accommodating us, Caesar. I am certain she will serve you well.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  Before she could say goodbye to Medousa, before she could speak with her in private about what had just happened or how her life now belonged to Caesar, one of Octavian’s house slaves quietly ushered Medousa away. Caesar was not known for his sentimentality. And slaves were not people. They were property.

  Pomponia regained her poise. She had never felt such a flood of conflicting emotions before. The arousal from Quintus’s closeness and her desire to be close to him again, the shock and terror of Valeria’s accusation followed by the quick relief that no one had taken her seriously, the guilt over Medousa’s sacrifice and the sadness of losing her lifelong friend and companion—all of these feelings swirled in the pit of her stomach. Yet she calmed them, calling upon the grace of Vesta and her years of Vestal training—years spent learning how to remain dignified and clear-headed in all situations, from banquets to barbarian invasions.

  A familiar voice, although one she hadn’t heard for a long time, filtered into her ears.

  “Julius had a new slave girl in his bed every market day. You didn’t see me making a scene of it on the Rostra, did you? I swear, Priestess Pomponia, the Roman matron just isn’t what she used to be.”

  It was Lady Calpurnia, Julius Caesar’s widow. She had watched the drama unfold from the safety of the shadows. Always seeing, but never being seen. Such was her talent. More than that, it was how she had survived life with the dictator.

  “My divine father had his vices,” Octavian said to her. “How fortunate for him that his wife conducted herself with decorum and dignity at all times. I wish my wife, Scribonia, would follow your example, Calpurnia.”

  Pomponia said nothing. Caesar had quietly wed the wealthy Scribonia years earlier. But like so many patrician marriages, it was loveless and held together by politics rather than passion. They rarely saw each other, with Scribonia choosing to live in the country and only visiting Rome on the most necessary of occasions. The only time Pomponia had met her was when she had briefly returned to Rome for the funeral of Octavian’s mother.

  “Scribonia is dutiful enough, Caesar,�
�� said Calpurnia. “And she serves her purpose, does she not? She had a large dowry and has given you a healthy daughter.”

  “Yes, I was able to get close enough to her for that, thank Juno,” said Octavian, “but I would divorce her today if you would have me, Calpurnia.”

  Calpurnia laughed. “I have had enough Caesars. But wouldn’t the scandal be divine?”

  “And useful,” grinned Octavian. “It would distract the people from blaming me for the grain shortage.”

  Pomponia compelled herself to join the conversation. “I have heard that Sextus Pompey’s naval forces are blockading the shipments.”

  “That is so,” Octavian replied. “He uses the empty stomachs of his countrymen to barter for power. His great father would be ashamed. Antony and I will offer him some token posting to keep him happy.”

  “What about Queen Cleopatra?” asked Pomponia. “Is she still sending grain from Egypt?”

  “Yes, for now. But there is nothing reliable about that woman.”

  “You can rely on one thing,” said Calpurnia. “Cleopatra will not be pleased to hear of Antony’s marriage to Octavia. I pray to the gods the marriage will strengthen your alliance with Antony, but it may mean even less grain in Roman bellies until the general returns to Alexandria.”

  “Stability in Rome is a priority,” said Octavian. “A hungry Roman is better than a dead Roman.”

  He was about to say something else, when the bulky form of General Agrippa approached, nodded politely at Calpurnia and Pomponia, and then discreetly whispered in Octavian’s ear.

  Octavian pressed his lips together, irritated. “Please excuse me, ladies. It appears that a couple of senators are coming to fisticuffs over some disbursements I made in the Subura.”

  “Of course, Caesar,” said Pomponia.

  “Fisticuffs,” Calpurnia sniffed. “May blessed Concordia protect you, Caesar. Senators may show their fists, but they hide their daggers.”

  Octavian kissed her on the cheek. “You and I know that all too well,” he said as he parted.