Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome (20 page)

“Followers of Jesus,” Elissa said.

Flavia’s mouth dropped open. “Better and better. I’m sure the Vestal Maxima will want to know how you spend your afternoons.”

“Let’s go, Flavia.” Elissa grabbed her sister then turned to Paul. “Blessings on your journey.”

With Flavia in tow, she headed for the door. Hand on the latch, she glanced at Justinus and saw the pained expression in his eyes. Her heart rushed toward his—two flames burning in the dark.

Don’t go,
his eyes pleaded.

But fate had carved her path.

She opened the door and led her sister out to the street. Fog settled in every crevice, thick and heavy, making it impossible to see beyond several feet. Dragging her sister along the alley, Elissa hoped she would find her way through the labyrinth.

“Paul is a man of God,” she said, “respected throughout the empire. You should be ashamed of your behavior.”

“
I
should be ashamed? You’re the one who sneaks out for assignations with your lover.
You
should be ashamed, not me.”

Elissa slapped her sister with all the force of her frustration.

Flavia’s green eyes glistened. “That was a mistake,” she said. “I plan to tell the Vestal Maxima what you’ve been up to, tell her you’ve been meeting Justinus, tell her that you’ve turned against the Roman gods and become a follower of Jesus. Angerona will be happy to corroborate.”

“While you’re speaking to the Vestal Maxima, please mention you’ve been bedding Nero, so you and I can die together.”

Flavia laughed, tears rolling down her face, her mouth a grimace. “You still don’t understand, do you Elissa? He plans to marry me.”

“Marry you?”

“He said I’m Cleopatra to his Antony.”

Elissa stared at her sister, so young, so innocent. So stupid.

“He called me Cleopatra too.”

Flavia’s nostrils flared. “Liar!”

“Flavia—”

She couldn’t stop her. Flavia ran along the street disappearing in the fog. Despair enveloped Elissa. Ghosts flickered in the shadows.

The restless dead.

The displaced souls.

And she was one of them.

Cloaked by fog, the House of Vestals had become invisible, and as Elissa walked along the Via Sacra she imagined the white-washed walls had vanished. Not just for the moment, but forever, leaving a void in which she could create a different destiny. She imagined running back to Justinus, leaving Rome, beginning a new life. Raising a family. Her daydream dissolved as the mist parted. Dragging her feet, she passed through the gates of the House of Vestals and, her heart weighted with sorrow, she approached the massive doors.

They opened all too readily.

Thais was at her post, eyes bleary from a recent nap. “Priestess Elissa,” she said, her sleepy face surprised. “In this weather you are walking?”

“Family emergency.”

“Today no letters,” Thais said, her voice conspiratorial. “I think maybe tomorrow.”

Pressing a coin into her palm, Elissa slipped past the slave.

Sparrows flitted through the atrium; no other sound disturbed the sanctuary. In preparation for the nightlong vigil of Lemuria, the vestals had retired to their cubicles to spend the evening in rest and contemplation. No lamps would be lit, no torches set aflame, until the midnight hour of Intempesta when pathways opened to the underworld. For three alternating nights, rituals would be held—on the ninth, eleventh, and thirteenth of May. Odd days were luckier than even, and luck was needed when consorting with the dead. But Elissa would need more than luck to deal with Nero—and more than luck to deal with her sister.

She recited the prayer Justinus had taught her. “Divine creator of the stars in heaven, of mighty oceans and verdant earth—” She reached the stairway leading to the dormitory, heard the creak of lead pipes, a breeze whistling through the rafters, nothing else. She climbed the steps. “Your name is sacred on my tongue. Now and for eternity may your will be done.” She made it past the servants’ quarters and entered the dormitory. The shutters had been closed against the rain, and dim shapes melded into one another.

“Give us this day our share of bread,” she whispered. “And forgive us our wrongful deeds—”

She approached her sister’s cubicle, touched the doorway’s curtain and withdrew her hand. “Flavia,” she called softly. “Are you in there?”

No answer. She heard movement inside the room, rustling.

“May I enter?”

“No.”

She slid open the curtain. Flavia’s eyes were bloodshot from crying, her nose red. “You’re safely back,” Elissa said.

“Good observation.”

“We need to talk.”

“You’re ruining my life.”

“I’m trying to save your—”

“Don’t.” Flavia wiped her nose.

“Have you seen the Vestal Maxima?”

“Not yet.” Her green eyes narrowed, calculating as a cat’s. “There’s only one way you’ll stop me from talking—”

“What?”

“Tonight, make certain the auspices are in my favor. I want to travel with Nero to Alexandria.”

“I can’t do that—”

“You’d better.”

The curtain slapped Elissa’s face.

Defeated, she returned to her cubicle. The cedar chest was open, clothes scattered everywhere. The wash basin lay on the floor where she had dropped it. She didn’t remember leaving her room in such a state of disarray, but she had been distracted by the thought of seeing Justinus. She had left the shutters open, and a storm wind must have swept through the room. The coverlet had slipped from her sleeping couch, exposing the cushions she had placed there. She straightened the coverlet and rearranged the cushions.

Sitting on the bed, she kicked off her damp slippers. She lay down, closed her eyes, and let her thoughts drift. Her sister understood so little of the world. She might think she held the upper hand with Nero, but there was no winning when it came to tyranny. Poor Flavia.

Elissa turned onto her side and faced the wall. She traced her forefinger along a crack in the plaster. No matter what Paul said, she saw no good in Nero. She dreaded seeing him tonight.

She thought of Justinus, the opposite of Nero—kind and compassionate. She felt his arms encircling her, felt his lips on hers and felt her resolve slipping.

“Deliver me from evil,” she whispered and prayed Jesus was listening.

* * * * *

Clouds blotted out the moon, making the night blacker than Elissa’s mood. She followed Angerona up the seven steps leading to the temple, climbing slowly, as if condemned to meet her executioner. At the doors each vestal dipped her fingertips into an urn of water drawn from the sacred spring. Elissa sprinkled herself liberally.

The solemn faces of her fellow priestesses flickered in the light of torches as they took their places. Mother Amelia stood beside the stone altar where a bleating lamb, newly separated from its mother, stood tethered. Marcia, having drunk copious amounts of wine at dinner, hiccupped loudly, and Cornelia giggled. Angerona’s sullen stare followed Elissa.

Flavia refused to meet Elissa’s gaze.

In silence, they waited for the Pontifex Maximus.

Sap popped in the cedar branches as they burned.

A rush of footsteps, made all heads turn toward the entryway. The temple’s double-doors opened and guards appeared, followed by the Pontifex Maximus. The doors swung shut behind him, leaving the guards outside. Nero had outdone himself and wore a toga of spun gold. His face had been gilded with gold leaf, and a gem-encrusted diadem crowned his curls.

Apparently, he still hoped to impress his mother, Elissa thought. She glanced at Flavia. Her sister stood transfixed, eyes riveted to Nero.

Mother Amelia nodded and the priestesses bowed in deference to the Pontifex Maximus.

Nero raised his hands in supplication—just a show, Elissa mused. He was far too arrogant to revere any god. “Tonight I play the role of Pluto, Lord of the Underworld,” he said, annunciating every syllable. “Elissa Rubria Honoria has the honor of playing my consort Persephone.”

She did not return his smile.

Flavia looked sour.

“Tonight,” Nero said, ignoring the sisters’ reactions, “we journey into other realms. We invoke the hungry ghosts and lay wandering souls to rest.”

“So be it,” said the priestesses.

Except for Elissa.

She had no intention of putting souls to rest. Quite the opposite. If Nero ordained her to play Queen of the Underworld—holder of the keys to the fields of Elysium and the fires of Tartarus—she would make sure he regretted it.

He played the role of paterfamilias to perfection, spitting black beans around the room for the lemures to feast upon.

“Tonight,” he proclaimed, “we seek blessings from those who’ve walked this earth before. And we make amends—”

Amends to those he’d raped, and wronged, and murdered.

Thunder announced more rain. It battered the temple’s roof, and wind brought moisture through the latticework. Damp seeped into Elissa’s bones, into the deepest recess of her being. She sensed lemures rising from the underworld. Tendrils of mist snaked through the temple and set the torches sputtering.

The vestals continued the invocation—repeating after Nero, mindless litany. A form took shape within the mist. Eyes peered at Elissa. A voice spoke, so quietly it might have been a dream, “The fourteenth book.”

She stared into a face of shifting shadows.

“Agrippina.” She hadn’t meant to speak the name aloud.

Nero paused mid-sentence. “What did you say?”

“The dead have arrived.”

Angerona snorted. “Where?”

Marcia barked another hiccup, Cornelia clung to Mother Amelia, and Flavia’s green eyes bore into Elissa.

Nero’s face grew pale. “My mother?”

“Yes.”

Agrippina’s wraith drifted toward Elissa. Plumes of mist issued from her mouth, and frozen teardrops sparkled in her eyes. The queen breathed her essence into Elissa’s heart.

“I’m cold,” Cornelia said.

The girl clung to Marcia, shivering. The other vestals shivered too. Their frightened eyes stared at Elissa.

“Where is she?” Nero asked.

“Standing beside you.”

The dead queen breathed crystals of ice. Suspended in the air, they shimmered.

“Mater,” Nero said, his eyes wide. “Are you really here?”

Elissa nodded. “She wants to know why you have summoned her.”

“I have a question.”

“Ask.”

“Did you bear another child? Do I have a sibling?”

The answer coursed through Elissa’s veins, cold as newly melted snow. Her lips moved slowly as if frozen, and when she spoke the voice was Agrippina’s, “Yes, I bore another child—a child who will avenge my murder.”

Nero’s face grew paler. “How?”

“My child will be your nemesis.”

“What is his name?”

Nero’s voice echoed in Elissa’s ears. Frost clouded her vision, and when she spoke her tongue felt like an icicle. “He,” Agrippina said, “does not exist.”

Nero’s voice grew shrill, “Tell me his name!”

“The answer stands before you, but you’re blind to the truth.”

“Show yourself, Mater. Show yourself to me!” Nero grabbed a torch and brandished the flames.

Elissa drew back from the heat. The dead queen’s tendrils loosened, and Elissa breathed more easily. In the torchlight, she saw Nero watching her, as did the priestesses, none more avidly than Flavia. Who was she to disappoint her audience? She would do as Angerona had advised and play the role of Nero’s mother. Yes! She would give him Agrippina.

Throwing back her shoulders and straightening her spine, Elissa spoke in a commanding voice, “Look at me. I am your mother. Do you see me?”

“Yes,” his voice sounded like a child’s.

“I know what you’ve done.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Silence!”

Tears ran from Nero’s eyes. “Please forgive, Mater,” he said, sobbing.

“I forgive you under one condition.”

“I’ll do anything you—”

“Promise me—”

“What Mater?”

“Do not, under any circumstance, travel to Egypt.”

Flavia squeaked in protest.

“Go to Egypt and your reward will be derision. Go to Egypt and a cobra will strangle you, eagles will pluck out your eyes, and you will become impotent.”

Elissa feasted on Nero’s expression, and prepared to bite again.

“I’m warning you—” Flavia said. She tried to charge Elissa, but Mother Amelia held her back.

Elissa raised her voice, drowning out her sister, “Go to Egypt, and you will not return. The earth will quake with revulsion, a wall of water will rise from the sea, fire will rain from the heavens. Go to Egypt, and you will be destroyed!”

Nero stood before her, trembling. Elissa thought he might faint.

“One thing more,” she said. “If you value your life, your throne, your empire—have nothing more to do with her.” She pointed at her sister.

“Don’t listen,” Flavia shouted. “Can’t you see she’s not your mother?”

Nero remained mesmerized. Placing his hand over his heart, he said, “I promise, Mater. I swear to all the gods and to The Roman Empire.”

“Good,” Elissa said. “You are forgiven.”

Nero fell to his knees, kissed Elissa’s hem.

Flavia broke free from Mother Amelia and threw herself onto Elissa, pummeling her with fists and feet. “I hate you!” she shrieked.

Mother Amelia and Marcia wrenched her off and dragged her toward the door.

Elissa remained undeterred. Ignoring her sister’s protests, she raised Nero to his feet and placed the sacramental knife into his hands, the same pearl-handled secespita he had used to slash their palms. “Seal your promise with the sacrifice.”

“And you will reveal my rival’s identity?”

“I will.”

As one in a trance, Nero cut the lamb’s tether.

Elissa sprinkled the animal with salt and flour then poured red wine over its head. She held the lamb over the altar’s granite basin. “With this sacrifice I feed the hungry ghosts,” she said, “that Rome may thrive.”

She nodded to Nero.

He raised the secespita, but his hand trembled.

“Why so nervous?” Elissa said. “You found it easy to sacrifice your mother.”

The blade fell from Nero’s hand, clattered on the stone.

“Pick it up,” Elissa said.

He shook his head.

“Make the sacrifice and seal your promise,” Elissa’s voice was harsh. “As your mother, I order you!”

The slender blade glinted in the firelight. Nero wrapped his fist around the pearl handle, raised the knife. But instead of slitting the lamb’s throat, he stabbed wildly at its gut. The shrieking animal tried to escape, but Nero threw himself on top of it, wrestling the lamb, driving the blade deep into its belly. Entrails spilled into the altar’s troth soaking both of them in gore.

Marcia screamed. Cornelia wailed.

Finally the lamb stopped bleating. Its dead eyes stared into Elissa’s.

Nero stumbled to his feet, his white robe stained red.

“Tell me the name of my rival,” he said.

“Ahenobarbus.”

“That’s my name.”

“And you are your worst enemy.”

Nero advanced toward Elissa, the secespita dripping blood. “I want the name!”

“I know no name. I only want you to seal the promise. Swear before the gods that you won’t touch Flavia.”

Nero aimed the knife at Elissa’s heart.

“Would you kill me as you killed your mother?” She splashed him with sacred water.

Nero shook his head as if waking from a dream.

“Elissa,” he murmured.

“Put down the blade,” Mother Amelia said.

Elissa’s eyes stayed focused on the secespita as she reached into the bloody troth, scooped the lamb’s liver into her palm, and held it out to Nero. “See how it quivers? Even the gods tremble for you. They tremble for Rome’s future.”

“The gods will do my bidding.”

An icy blast shot through the temple’s doors, ripped around the room extinguishing the torches, and chilled Elissa to her marrow. Smoke billowed from the fire and sparks swirled toward the ceiling. The wind threw Nero forward. He clutched the cauldron, and glowing coals rained down on him.

He staggered toward Elissa, pointing. “You’re a sorceress,” he said. “A practitioner of black magic.”

“An adulteress,” Flavia shouted. Escaping Mother Amelia and Marcia, she ran to Nero. “I’ve seen her with Gallus Justinus.”