Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome (27 page)

Dawn crept across the forum, its purplish light darker than usual, as if a storm were brewing. Wrists bound, head shaved, dressed in a simple tunica, Elissa looked out at the crowd gathered to witness her demise. Haruspices had examined the sacrificial entrails, the position of the stars had been consulted, and the Collegiate of Pontiffs declared the omens favorable for her funeral. Throughout the piazza, myrrh smoldered in copper braziers. Praetorian guards surrounded the Temple of Vesta, and Tigellinus stood at the bottom of the seven steps like the hound of Hades.

All night, Elissa had prayed to Jesus. Only he, who died so cruelly, could understand the injustice of her circumstance. Welts scored her back, inflamed and festering, a reminder of the beatings she’d received from the Pontifex Maximus.

“Your palanquin awaits you.” With a gentle hand, Mother Amelia guided Elissa.

The litter—made of solemn alder wood, black curtains rippling in the breeze—had been especially prepared for the occasion. Priests, rather than slaves, had been assigned to carry Elissa through the streets to the Field of Iniquity.

“Daughter,” a voice called.

Elissa turned, slowly, as if submerged in water. Her reality had shifted, and she felt like an observer in these final moments of her life, detached and mildly curious.

Constantina wore mourning rags, her haggard face smeared with ashes. Breaking from a cluster of family, she walked toward Elissa, arms outstretched. Her embrace was fierce, and Elissa lacked the strength to respond. She felt like one already dead, a shade among the living.

“Forgive me,” Constantina said.

“For what, Mater?” A lump formed in Elissa’s throat. Calling Constantina mater seemed fraudulent, but Constantina was the only mother she had ever known.

“I wish you had married; I wish I’d refused the priests when they took you from our home; I wish you’d led a normal life—”

“Don’t blame yourself for fate, Mater.”

“I blame the gods.”

“I’m the one who should be sorry. My existence must have caused you pain.” Tears welled in Elissa’s eyes. “I know all you’ve done for me.”

Constantina touched Elissa’s cheek, lightly as a butterfly. “Then know you have never caused me pain, sweet daughter.”

Honoratus stood nearby. Fighting to remain stoic, his face reflected no emotion, but the depth of his anguish was apparent in his eyes.

“My little girl,” he said.

“Pater—” Her voice choked with tears.

Honoratus kissed her forehead, took her hands in his, and said, “I know you’re innocent.”

Tears spilled from Elissa’s eyes. She felt like she was five years old.

“There’s something I must tell you,” Honoratus said. “Something you have a right to know. Something I thought politic to keep a secret—”

“I know, Pater. I
know.
”

“Who told you?”

“That’s not important.”

“My little girl. Where do you get your stubbornness?” Honoratus squeezed her hands.

The wind picked up, sweeping dust into their eyes. Or so Elissa told herself when she saw her father cry. She glanced toward her wailing aunts, the solemn faces of her uncles. Egnatius must have come to gloat. He stood apart from the family. The household slaves were in attendance. Spurius loudly blew his nose. The vestals, dressed in their whitest robes, hovered like apparitions.

Marcia approached. “Forgive me,” she said.

Elissa touched her round face. “There is nothing to forgive.”

“I’ll pray for you,” Marcia managed to say, before bursting into tears.

Cornelia clutched her rag doll. “I’ll miss you, ’Lissa,” she said, her pink lips trembling.

Elissa knelt, peered into Cornelia’s eyes. “I’ll miss you too. Take good care of Lucia.”

“She wants to go with you.” Cornelia held out the doll.

Elissa shook her head. “It’s dark where I’m going. Lucia would be afraid. She needs to stay with you. You’re her mother, aren’t you?”

Cornelia nodded, her relief apparent.

Before Angerona had the chance to speak, Elissa turned away.

“Where’s Flavia?” she asked Mother Amelia.

The Vestal Maxima glanced at Tigellinus. “No one seems to know. She must have gone to Antium with Nero and Poppaea.”

The lump in Elissa’s throat became painful. “Please tell my sister I forgive her.”

“Of course, my dear.”

Elissa surveyed the crowd, hoping to see Justinus yet praying he would stay away. Praying he was safe. The crowd had increased in number and, though the mob was strangely quiet, she sensed their anticipation.

She heard Constantina weeping.

The song of birds.

Felt the rush of wind.

“The time has come,” Mother Amelia said.

Tigellinus stepped forward. He bound Elissa’s wrists, tightening the rope until it cut. A mournful wail emanated from the gathered people, not only for Elissa, but for Rome.

The blindfold made her world go black.

“This way, my dear.” Mother Amelia touched her shoulder.

Elissa climbed into the palanquin, her body still aching from Nero’s rod and whip. But fury overtook her pain.

She was on the verge of protesting, on the verge of claiming innocence, about to shout that Nero, not she, should be punished, when a gag was stuffed into her mouth. Leather straps bound her to the litter and a pall was drawn over her body. On the count of three, the priests lifted the palanquin and the procession began.

Ululations reverberated through the forum.

Bound and gagged, there was no use in struggling. Elissa lay still. Breathing. Feeling blood course through her veins. Lights flickered beneath her eyelids.

Jesus had carried his own cross.

What was her life compared to his?

A small sacrifice.

She told herself that soon she would see Marcus. He would be waiting by the River Styx, ready to receive her. She heard the rush of water, smelled the river’s fecund scent. Was there any difference between birth and death?

The litter bounced along. They must have left the forum. From the crowd’s rowdy noise, Elissa surmised they’d reached the Fauces Suburae, an artery that ran past the maze of the Subura. The litter bounced on.

She heard the curtains luffing. Smelled smoke too caustic to be incense. Somewhere outside the city wall farmers must be burning fallow fields.

“Fire,” someone shouted.

“Where?”

“The Circus Maximus.”

“The brigades will soon appease it.”

“It’s spreading fast. Wind carries the flames.”

Tigellinus barked out orders, and Elissa heard the stamp of horse’s hooves as men were dispatched. She listened to the fire brigade’s distant clanging and sensed the city’s rising panic.

“Let’s go,” Tigellinus shouted. “This procession doesn’t have to take all day.”

Smoke stung Elissa’s nostrils. Beneath the blindfold, her eyes watered. She heard people coughing. The palanquin tipped precariously as they climbed Viminal Hill. The procession traveled northeast to the far end of the city. Just inside the Colline Gate they came to a halt. The litter and Elissa were lowered to the ground.

Mother Amelia pronounced an invocation. Whether it was long or short Elissa couldn’t tell. Her heart thumped louder than a drum. Acutely aware of each inhale, each exhale, she filled her lungs with acrid air. Prayers were said and hymns were sung. Finally the leather straps were loosened, the gag and blindfold removed.

Light blinded her.

“I pray the next world will be better,” Mother Amelia said.

She draped a veil over Elissa’s face and helped her from the palanquin. Even here, on a hill above the city, smoke was evident. Through the veil Elissa saw a hazy sun. Black clouds choked the western horizon, too dark for a summer thunderstorm.

“Rome burns,” she said softly. “And from union unholy the sister will bring forth a son.”

“The tomb is prepared,” Tigellinus announced.

Mother Amelia led Elissa away from her weeping parents and walked her through the Field of Iniquity. Removing Elissa’s veil she mumbled a final prayer.

Elissa faced a mound of dirt. Guards stood at the entryway, where they would remain until her death was certain.

Darkness cannot prevail within the light of a happy soul.

For an instant the phrase made sense. But when she peered into the gaping hole, the dark pit she was to enter, she felt terror.

“My Lord,” she whispered. “Why have you forsaken me?”

Tears streamed down Mother Amelia’s face as she handed Elissa an oil lamp. In light of day the flame seemed weak.

“I will pray for you,” she said.

“Pray for Rome.”

Elissa glanced at the sky, gray with smoke, yet infinitely brighter than the tomb. Holding up the lamp, she steadied her foot on the first rung of the ladder and began her descent.

The crypt was windowless. The air smelled of earth. She ran her hand along the wall and felt the porous tufa bricks cut from volcanic stone and, in between the bricks, smooth mortar. She set the lamp on a small table that also held a loaf of bread, a jug of milk, a ration of olive oil.

A rock tumbled through the hole as the ladder was withdrawn. More rocks followed as a slab of stone thumped into place, sealing her inside the tomb, plunging her into darkness more profound than Hades.

The oil lamp sputtered. How many days could she survive? How many hours?

Recently, workmen, excavating a new road, had uncovered a coffin. Inside they found a woman, her face contorted in a silent scream, her fingers worn to bone from clawing.

Elissa breathed in dust and tasted dirt.

She strained to hear sounds from outside the tomb. Surely birds were still singing, her mother weeping, mourners wailing.

Down here, silence ruled.

She walked the tomb’s length and counted ten paces. The width was identical and the height seemed about the same. She thought of lions in their cages.

Thought of Marcus.

Thought of Jesus. He had risen from the dead.

Hours must have passed.

Reclaiming the lamp, she lifted the light toward the ceiling. Without a ladder, she couldn’t reach the slab of stone.

Her gaze fell on the three-legged table.

She removed the provisions, taking care not to spill the precious oil. Dragging the table across the room, she positioned it under the opening. She hiked up her tunica and climbed onto the table. It wobbled, nearly threw her off. Regaining her balance, she stood on tip-toe. Her fingertips brushed against the ceiling, but offered her no leverage. The stone slab didn’t budge.

She climbed down from the table, dizzy and nauseated. Lately she had not felt well, especially in the mornings, and she found eating repulsive. But now hunger tugged at her. She took a sip of milk, already warm and slightly curdled, then glanced around the crypt.

A straw pallet lay on the floor. She grabbed hold of a corner and heaved the pallet onto the table. A few more inches of elevation allowed her to press her palms against the ceiling. The slab blocking the opening was heavier than she’d imagined. She bent her knees and, gathering her strength, pushed upward. The stone shifted slightly, allowing in a breath of air. With a thud the slab fell back into place. Again, she tried to move the stone, with similar results. She continued trying, until sweat streamed down her face and she felt breathless, sick to her stomach.

Was it her imagination, or had the air become thinner?

Exhausted, she climbed down from the table and threw the pallet on the floor.

She tried to think. Tried to conceive how she might lever the stone, dig her way out, tunnel through the earth to freedom.

She yawned.

Maybe if she rested, not for long, just to regain her strength. She sank onto the pallet. Gathering her knees into her chest, she leaned against the cold stone wall, rocking like a child. A song drifted through her memory.

A lullaby.

Her wrists and ankles still ached from Tigellinus’s bindings, her arms were sore from pushing at the slab of stone. The sour milk unsettled her stomach.

And the oil lamp grew dimmer.

Flavia twitched.

Pain stabbed her gut, her spine stretched to the breaking point as she dangled from the ceiling. She gagged at her own stench.

Memories slipped through her mind, and she grabbed hold of one…spinning with her mother—the green scent of flax, the tug of thread, the whirring spindle.

A firebrand poked at her womb, forcing her back to consciousness.

Suspended between this world and the next, she swung back and forth. Vibrations rattled through her arms as if the ceiling trembled. But how could that be possible? She must be dreaming, lost in yet another nightmare.

The ceiling shook, the joists creaked and timbers groaned. She imagined the walls shifting. Imagined a door opening at her command, like the story Marcus had once told her about a magic treasure-trove. The walls rumbled. The shift was unmistakable. Dirt rained from the concrete ceiling. A chip of plaster jabbed her eye. She blinked, trying to dislodge the shard.

The shackles slipped and loosened. With a crack the iron bolt gave way, and she fell to the floor. The boom of rupturing concrete followed as the ceiling collapsed. A hailstorm of wood and sand and stone pelted her. It grew into an avalanche, burying her until she couldn’t move.

Stunned, she lay beneath the weight of wreckage.

Thought she must be dead.

She tasted the paste of plaster, the grit of sand.

Something heavy pressed against her shoulders. She tried to arch her back and the pressure shifted, bringing a new flurry of stones and dirt. But she’d gained more space in which she could maneuver. Sucking in dust, she wriggled her hands out of the leather straps. Blood pulsed through her fingers and brought back feeling. Pain. She pushed herself onto her battered hands and knees, managing to crawl a short distance.

If she hoped to survive, she’d have to surface.

Closing her eyes, she heaved her shoulders through an ocean of debris, kept shoving upward through rocks and plaster. Clawing with broken fingernails, she swam through rubble, fighting her way to the surface. Dust clogged her nostrils, made her cough. She gulped air. Acrid, smoky. Breathed the stink of excrement.

Wiping sand from her eyes, she studied her surroundings.

Light, dancing with particles of dirt, filtered through a hole, high above a mountain of ruptured wood and concrete. Any attempt to scale the pile would cause a landslide. All that remained of the chamber was a narrow passage. And, at the end of the passage: hope.

Crumbling walls revealed a tunnel. The sewer. It ran beneath the palace, met the Cloaca Maxima at the forum and emptied into the Tiber.

Weakened by pain and thirst, Flavia knew she couldn’t last much longer. But determination gave her strength. The ceiling sloped down at an angle, grew progressively lower as she crawled toward the sewer’s opening. Lying on her sore belly, she wriggled like a snake. She made slow progress, and the stench was overwhelming. Vomit gurgled in her throat.

A rat’s eyes gleamed as she approached the tunnel, and she wanted to scream. But her lips were pressed into the dirt and she could barely breathe.

She wished she were home, back at her parents’ domus, back in her old life.

But wishes were only granted in tales told to children.