Brides of Rome

by Debra May Macleod

  They kept walking along the peristyle until they came to one particular Vestal statue. The deep-brown eyes looked alive enough to blink. A gold necklace hung around the neck. “This is the priestess Tacita,” Pomponia said to Quintina. “Your distant aunt.”

  The girl’s face swelled with so much emotion that Pomponia herself could feel it. Without asking permission, Quintina picked a flower from the garden and placed it at the statue’s feet.

  Quintus’s body tensed at his daughter’s boldness. He had done his best over the years to suppress the girl’s assuming nature, but now the priestess seemed to be encouraging it.

  “Do you know the story of Tacita and the Gaul?” asked Pomponia.

  “Oh yes,” she said proudly. “Father says it is the greatest story in our family history. He tells it all the time.”

  It was the way Quintina looked up at her father. With such familiarity. A sudden image of Quintus formed in Pomponia’s mind: he was in his home, chatting idly with Valeria and telling stories to his children. The children he had created with her in the dark of night and in the warmth of their bed. She could imagine him gripping Valeria’s arm the same way he had once gripped her own.

  It was a world and life she had never known, and it roused within her a mixture of emotions. Sadness. Curiosity. Envy. A longing to know Quintus in a way that was free of the protocol and custom that separated them. In the private, familiar way that Valeria knew him.

  Quintina brought her back into the moment. “If I am accepted into the order will I still be able to see my father and mother?”

  “Yes, of course. You will be able to visit your home quite often, and we have regular visiting days here for families.”

  “Do your parents visit you?”

  “Sadly, no longer. They died when I was very young.”

  “How?”

  “My mother died in childbirth with my brother Pomponius. My father was killed on campaign for Pompey the Great.” Pomponia suddenly wondered whether Quintus remembered the purple flowers he had given her when they were children.

  “How long have you been a Vestal?”

  “I was chosen when I was seven years old, and I have been a Vestal for seventeen years, so . . .” Pomponia pretended to count on her fingers, “I have thirteen years of official service left.”

  Quintina giggled. “Do you want to get married when you’re done or stay a priestess?”

  Pomponia could feel Quintus’s eyes on her. “The Fates have not spun that thread yet.”

  “How many priestesses live here?”

  “There are six Vestal priestesses who are dedicated to tending the sacred flame in the temple and performing public rites and rituals,” said Pomponia, “as well as three older Vestals who are retired but remain with the order. They often help us teach the novices, younger girls like you, how to perform their duties. If you are accepted, you will be one of several girls who are in training.”

  Quintina nodded, as if in approval. “Do the priestesses who train here go to other temples? What about the Temple of Vesta in Tivoli? Or the ones in Africa or the other provinces?”

  “The Vestal order in Rome oversees as much as it can,” said Pomponia. “Our priestesses are often sent to manage temples in other towns or regions, especially during times of change or crisis, but we try to make each temple as independent as possible.”

  “Because you already have enough to do, right?”

  Pomponia laughed. “Yes, that’s right.” The girl had a streak of practicality that was all Quintus. “We have many important duties to attend to here. We must teach the novices, maintain the temple and supplies, collect the spring water, perform daily rites, manage the mill, attend all religious rituals and public events, safeguard important wills and documents, transcribe the pontifical books in the library, consult with Caesar and the Senate, visit with foreign dignitaries, report our accounting and—hmm, what have I forgotten?—oh yes, make sure the sacred fire doesn’t go out!”

  Quintina giggled as the Vestal looked over her shoulder at a smiling, sweet-faced young novice in a white tunica who was waiting patiently to speak.

  “What is it, Sabina?” asked Pomponia.

  “Priestess, can I show her inside the temple?”

  “By all means. But find Nona and have her take you.”

  Quintus watched his daughter excitedly run off with the other girl. “She is too bold for a girl,” he said. “She will be difficult to rule.” He looked squarely at her, as if daring her to disagree.

  His stare made Pomponia suddenly aware of her bare arms. She reached for a palla that lay on a chair in the peristyle, casually placing it over her head and wrapping it around her shoulders, as if she were chilled. “Some women wish to rule themselves,” she said. “Is that really so hard for a man to understand?”

  He took a step closer to her. “And what about you, Lady Pomponia? Do you rule yourself ?”

  Pomponia stepped back. She had felt in control since his arrival, but his sudden boldness and the familiar flutter in her stomach threatened to shatter the facade of her confidence.

  He lowered his voice. “The Regia is empty after dark,” he said. “If I asked you to meet me there alone tonight, would you?”

  Her face flushed. “No.”

  Quintus offered her a patronizing smile. “Then you do not rule yourself at all, Priestess.”

  * * *

  Her eyes were dilated, and her words were slurred. Her movements were slow, deliberate, clumsy. But at least she was quiet. At least her fury and her outbursts had subsided. At least she left him alone most of the time.

  Quintus stood in the triclinium and looked at his wife, who reclined on a couch, draining the last of her wine. He knew the physician’s tonic that he had stirred into her drink would soon usher her to sleep. It couldn’t happen fast enough for him.

  But for the moment, she was resisting it. “Did they cut her hair?” she asked him.

  “Yes.”

  “Who cut it?”

  “The Vestalis Maxima.” He didn’t tell her that Pomponia was now the chief Vestal. Valeria assumed it was still Fabiana. She hadn’t been out of the house in weeks to learn otherwise, and there was no point in telling her. It would only mean a fight.

  “Did she cry?”

  “No.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She was happy.” He let out an irritated sigh. “She hung her hair on the Capillata tree herself.”

  “What else?”

  “The Pontifex claimed her as a bride of Rome, and she said her vows. She was wearing a white tunica and had a veil on. When I saw her afterward, she looked . . . I don’t know . . . like one of them.”

  Valeria tried to take another sip of wine but realized her cup was empty. She let it drop to the floor. “What else?”

  “I don’t know, Valeria,” he barked. “Most of the captio rites happen inside the temple.” He drained his own cup of wine in one swallow. “She’ll be happier there.”

  “You couldn’t care less about your daughter’s happiness,” slurred Valeria. “All you care about is your own advancement and having a good excuse to visit the House of the Vestals.”

  Quintus clenched his fist and rounded on her.

  Valeria jabbed an angry finger at him. “You are sickeningly transparent, Quintus, but do you know what? I am thankful Quintina is at the temple. I am thankful that she will never have to submit to a husband like you. I am thankful . . . I am . . .”

  Her head bobbed and then fell back onto the couch.

  Quintus sat heavily on the couch beside her. Valeria was right. He was transparent. And if he didn’t find a way to force Pomponia from his thoughts, it was only a matter of time until his feelings for her were seen by all.

  He had already withdrawn from almost all of his religious functions to limit his public contact with h
er and had instead immersed himself in his civic and senatorial duties. That would have to continue. He couldn’t risk having so many eyes on him when he was in her presence.

  A female slave slipped quietly into the room. “Domine, should I take Lady Valeria to bed?”

  “No,” said Quintus. “Leave her here.”

  He glanced up at the slave, and she obediently nodded her head in understanding. “Of course, Domine. I will prepare myself and wait for you in your bedchamber.”

  There is always one way to forget, Quintus thought to himself.

  Chapter XII

  Militiae Species Amor Est

  Love is a kind of war.

  —Ovid

  rome, 36–33 bce

  One year later

  “Blessed Luna’s tits,” Livia swore under her breath. Her blood had come yet again. Every month, her cycle was as certain and predictable as the moon’s.

  She had been trying to conceive a child with Octavian for nearly three full years. After all, Caesar needed a son. His nephew Marcellus was already named his heir, but there was no way Livia would let that spoiled brat or Octavia keep that distinction. Yet it was getting harder to cling to hope. It used to be that her husband would ask every month, “Are you with child?” But no more. Now he didn’t even bother to ask. Now he was beginning to realize that his wife’s womb was as barren as salted Carthage.

  The slave named Medousa handed her the menstrual wool to absorb her flow, and Livia pushed it between her legs. The cramps were coming, so she allowed the slave to wind a heated wrap around her middle before falling back on her bed with a pained groan.

  “Medousa, tell me something.”

  “Yes, Domina?”

  “Has Caesar been taking you more lately?”

  “Yes, Domina.”

  “Oh. I thought as much.”

  Medousa placed a pillow under Livia’s head. The two of them had developed a somewhat unique dynamic over the past couple of years, largely due to the fact that Medousa was still considered the property of the Vestalis Maxima Pomponia.

  The ownership issue didn’t really affect day-to-day life. Medousa was a slave in the house of Caesar and was expected to do anything asked of her, which included satisfying Caesar’s sexual needs. Yet the special arrangement did mean that she often escaped the harsher treatment Livia doled out to other house slaves.

  Medousa had discovered early on that Livia was the type of mistress who would beat her slaves halfway to Hades just for the exercise. Caesar, however, frowned on such behavior and often spoke publicly against the excessive abuse of slaves.

  Nonetheless, Livia was known to shred a back or two when he was away.

  Livia yanked a blanket over her legs. “When you are coupling with him,” she asked, “what does he have you do? Is there anything . . . unusual? Anything that might surprise me to know about?”

  Medousa sat on the edge of the bed. It was an informality that would have had any other slave whipped to the white of her spine.

  “The first time he took me, he believed I was a virgin,” she began. “He had a fantasy that I was Rhea Silvia and he was Mars. Lately, he has been having that fantasy again. I use a blood-soaked sponge and when he penetrates me, I act like it hurts and the blood comes. It seems to give him much pleasure, Domina.”

  Livia furrowed her brow, but she wasn’t angry. She was thinking. “Is it just me, Medousa, or does Caesar at times look at his sister with desire?”

  “I have not noticed that, Domina. But he does seem to be drawn to purity and virtue. I think that is why he asks Lady Octavia to dress the way she does. She has so many white stolas in her wardrobe that I sometimes think I’m back at the temple.”

  Livia snorted. The slave had a mouth on her, but at least it was a useful mouth. “Get your cloak, Medousa. I have an errand for you to run.”

  * * *

  The last time Medousa had been to a slave market, she had been the merchandise. This time she was shopping for it. The memories came back all the same.

  The bustle of bodies and the shouts of competing bids. The wooden cages with dirt-covered men, women, and children crouching inside. Some of them stared vacantly past the bars. These were the ones who had been bought and sold before. They knew what was happening. It was just life. All they could do was wait and see what master they’d be serving tonight.

  Others wept, prayed, or trembled with fear. These were the ones who had been torn from their homes in other lands—the spoils of war or piracy—and taken to Rome to be sold as slaves. Families clung to each other as if their embrace could prevent the slave traders from tearing them apart and removing all hope that they would ever see each other again in this life.

  They called out in a chorus of foreign tongues, but they all said the same thing: “Don’t take my child!” “I want my mother!” “Stop! I am not a slave!” “Please have mercy!” “Gods, help me!”

  In her mind, Medousa heard a voice from long ago. I love you, Penelope. Mother loves you. Never forget. No matter what happens, never forget.

  The voice felt like a wound opening. She tried to picture her mother’s face, but nothing formed except the vision of the Medusa pendant she always wore around her neck and a vague image of thick auburn hair.

  She could still see her father’s face, though. Dark, bearded, and strong. He had held himself with dignity and courage until he had seen his wife stripped naked on the auction block, and then he had raged against the chains that bound him like a wild animal in the arena.

  Only Hera knew what had become of them.

  “Medousa, is that you?”

  The voice brought her back. She turned her head and found herself staring into the face of Quintus Vedius Tacitus. He wore a practical yet expensive short-sleeved tunica, belted at the waist, and held a much-used wax tablet in one hand and a stylus in the other. The slave at his side carried an armful of scrolls.

  “Yes, it’s me,” she said flatly. “I didn’t know you were in the slave business.”

  “I’m not. I’m here on official business,” he pointed his chin at the scrolls his slave was holding. “Tax audits of slave traders.”

  “Oh.” She stared at him frostily. “Is there anything else?”

  He averted his eyes uncomfortably and then looked back at her. For a moment, Medousa thought he might offer an apology or at least some kind of acknowledgment of how his sacrilege had separated her from Pomponia. But of course he didn’t. The beastly man had no capacity to think of anyone but himself.

  He shifted uneasily on one foot, and Medousa grinned. She knew he wanted to ask about the high priestess, but she wouldn’t give him the chance.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, and walked past him without looking back. She was on official business too.

  Medousa craned her neck above the crowd until she finally saw what she was looking for: a large wooden sign that advertised Virgo and boasted a rough drawing of a naked woman. A raised platform had been erected under the sign, upon which stood a naked girl perhaps sixteen years old.

  She tried to cross her arms to cover her bare breasts, but the slave trader poked her with a stick, and she lowered them to her sides. He barked something and pointed the stick at her again, and she turned around slowly to show her backside to the bidders.

  “That’s three thousand denarii,” the slave trader shouted. “Do I hear three and a half thousand? It should be more—it should be five or six thousand at least! Look at this girl, such a beauty. And so docile! Just like a little lamb. Speaks Latin well enough. Guaranteed intact and fertile.” He jabbed her with the stick, and she turned back around.

  “Prove it,” yelled a toothless man from the crowd. “Open her legs!”

  The slave trader threw a rock and hit him on the head. “Get out of here you sack of shit, or I’ll call the guards. Serious buyers only! Go to the Subura if y
ou want a free look.”

  “Three and a half thousand denarii,” shouted Medousa.

  “Where is your man, honey?” asked the slave trader.

  “Private buyer,” she replied and held up the heavy purse Livia had given her.

  “Three and a half thousand,” he announced. “Four? Did I mention that this one can read a little?” But the crowd was already breaking up and moving on to cheaper fare. The slave trader shrugged his shoulders. Three and half thousand was still a half thousand more than he had expected. People just weren’t spending these days. The increasingly strained alliance between Caesar and Antony, and the rumors that the granaries were less than full, were bad for business. People didn’t spend money in uncertain times. He tossed the girl a stained tunica and she pulled it over her head.

  Medousa set a few more coins onto the slave trader’s rickety desk to expedite the transaction, and soon the slave girl was obediently trailing behind her along the cobblestone street to Caesar’s house on the Palatine Hill.

  By the time they arrived, night was falling and both of them were dripping with sweat. Medousa led the girl, who said her name was Maia, into the slaves’ bathhouse, where Despina was already waiting, along with the beauty slave, who stood ready with her tray of grooming tools.

  She cropped the girl’s hair, removed her body hair, and scrubbed her clean in the water before dressing her in a white stola and veil.

  “A man is going to penetrate you,” Medousa said to the wide-eyed girl.

  A nod.

  “It will be painful, but do not try to hide your pain. Let him see it. It will not last long, and afterward you will be cared for and fed. Do you have any questions?”

  The girl shook her head just as Livia strode purposefully into the room. She looked the girl up and down as though she were a side of beef. Inspection was necessary, but not necessarily pleasant. “Intact?” she asked Medousa.

  “Yes, Domina. The physician at the market confirmed it.”

  “Good.” She lifted the slave’s stola to look beneath it, dropped it, and then said, “Come with me.”