Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome Read online

  “Look out,” one of the boys shouted, without pausing to offer help.

  “I hear music.” The other motioned for his friend to hurry. “The procession is starting.”

  They bolted down the hill toward the Circus Maximus.

  Stumbling from the flow of waste, Elissa followed. Her slippers, soaked and no longer white, slapped the paving stones.

  Down by the river, the air felt humid, smelled of fish. She saw the boys far ahead, skipping, laughing, as if going to a carnival. Gathering her robes, she clomped along the riverbank, sinking in the mud.

  The fish market, usually a hub of excitement with boats docking to unload their catch and fishmongers arguing with customers, stood empty. Screeching gulls swooped over abandoned tables.

  It seemed as if all of Rome were at the Circus.

  Elissa sought a shortcut through an alleyway, wide enough to accommodate only one donkey. A baker had thrown fermenting bran into the gutter where pigs now feasted. A woman, a toddler secured on her hip, stepped onto an overhanging balcony. The boards groaned, threatening to collapse. Hoisting a bucket over the railing, the woman dumped out slops, and the pigs groveled happily in the rain of excrement. The stench stung Elissa’s nostrils, burned her eyes. Regretting her decision not to come by coach, she hurried on.

  A donkey-cart laden with earthen tiles clattered around the corner, forcing her against a fire-blackened wall. During daylight hours the only carts permitted on Rome’s streets were those bearing construction materials—nothing would deter Nero’s voracious building plans. The cart rattled through the gutter, splashing filth.

  “Watch where you’re going,” Elissa wanted to shout but, accustomed to the hushed confines of the House of Vestals, her voice came out as a whisper.

  She wiped something sticky from her eye.

  Spattered with mire, she might have been a common prostitute. She continued past a fire-gutted tenement. Once painted brilliant yellow, the plaster walls were charred and stained with soot. Amidst scrawling graffiti, a poster announced:

  GLADIATOR GAMES TODAY

  Gathering her skirts, Elissa ran.

  * * * * *

  The lanista’s kick left Marcus gasping.

  Blood trickled down his back, the result of the barbed whip. Marcus gritted his teeth, refusing to acknowledge that he suffered, refusing to give Nero that satisfaction. He felt certain his former friend was watching. Even now he felt Nero’s gaze.

  They had grown up together, raced horses, caroused in taverns, bedded women...known each other. Anguish of the body was nothing compared to Nero’s treachery.

  The lanista’s thugs grabbed Marcus, jerking him onto his feet, forcing him to stand in a small two-wheeled wagon. They tied a plaster mask over his face, bound his back against a plank, fettered his arms and ankles with iron chains.

  His legs felt weak, but Marcus steeled himself.

  “Still some fight in him.” The lanista belched fumes of garlic. “The lions are sure to find the traitor appetizing.”

  Traitor.

  The word stung Marcus more than barbs.

  He was guilty, yes, of loving Nero too much. Guilty of trusting him. He’d committed the crime of speaking bluntly, the crime of speaking truth without anticipation of retaliation. What a fool! Was he a traitor to propose a return to the Republic? A traitor to suggest the government reestablish democracy? A hundred years had passed since Julius Caesar had been proclaimed dictator for life, decreed a god—since that time democracy had become a forgotten concept, and the rights of Roman citizens had dwindled.

  The wagon rolled through a tunnel that ran beneath the spectator stalls. Spine pinned to the plank and unable to turn his head, Marcus stared through the mask’s eyes at his future—the little that remained of it. The wagon hit a rock and the wheels vacillated. A jolt of pain shot through his back. The cart rolled past cage after cage of angry beasts and growling men.

  A fellow prisoner begged for mercy, others called his name. The crack of a whip drew an agonizing scream.

  The cart bumped around a corner, and sunlight poured through an archway.

  Drums rolled and the water organ blared as jugglers and acrobats led the procession into the amphitheater. The archway grew wider, taller, allowing Marcus to see into the arena. The crowd’s roar echoed through the tunnel, pounding in his ears.

  Acrobats were followed by minor fighters: errant slaves, captured fugitives, young men and even women anxious to prove themselves worthy opponents. Marcus wished he might be one of them. They, at least, carried weapons. They engaged in sport and would die with glory. But he, armed only with a length of rope, would face a half-starved lion.

  The crowd’s shouting made thinking impossible. It grew in intensity, filling up the tunnel, drowning all other sound, flooding Marcus like a tidal wave as the gladiators entered the arena. Not long ago he would have led their cheers, rising to his feet, climbing onto his bench, shouting slogans as confetti showered the arena. Gladiators were heroes, heroes to whom Nero awarded palaces and treasure—men who had faced death and survived. They rivaled gods.

  The cart moved forward into the arena’s blinding light.

  Last in the procession were the criminals. Something hard hit Marcus in the chest and exploded with the stink of sulfur. That rotten egg was followed by fish heads, apples, anything the crowd could hurl. His wagon paraded around the arena, wheels sinking in the sand. Where were the philosophers? The artists and intellectuals? Through squinting eyes Marcus peered from his mask, and saw only a bloodthirsty mob. Had justice and democracy become foreign concepts?

  The procession came to a halt before the imperial box, a tiny jewel of a palace overlooking the arena. Marcus scanned the balcony, but saw no sign of Nero. The princeps preferred to watch the games, unobserved, from within his private chambers. Through a peephole. How many times had they sat side-by-side, the best of friends, watching together?

  “Show yourself,” Marcus shouted.

  But Nero was too cowardly to face his former lover.

  * * * * *

  Crimson pennants gashed the sky, announcing the festivities at the Circus Maximus. Elissa held her palla over her nose to stem the stench of the latrines—although, after her tramp through the slums, she didn’t smell much better.

  Outside the arena, merchants hawked their pickled fish and sacks of olives, figurines of gods and goddesses, colored flags for spectators to wave in support of their favorite chariot team. Marcus favored the greens. Elissa elbowed her way through the crowd, unused to the press of humanity, the heat of bodies, the stink of the mob as people shoved and pulled.

  An old woman, a figurine of Venus clutched against her concave chest, smacked into her. From beneath her tattered palla, rheumy eyes peered into Elissa’s.

  “Rome burns,” the woman said, clawing at Elissa’s hand, “and from union unholy the sister will bring forth a son.”

  “Thief!” A merchant stormed from his stall.

  Before he could stop the old woman, she slipped into the crowd.

  The merchant shook his fist and cursed.

  “Let an old woman have her Venus,” Elissa said, attempting to calm him.

  Reaching beneath her palla, she found her money pouch and came up with a silver denarius—ten times the statue’s worth.

  The merchant pocketed the coin, eyeing Elissa with suspicion.

  She hurried toward the amphitheater. Weaving through the crowd, she thought of the old woman—her deranged eyes, her mutterings. Somehow she seemed familiar. At last, Elissa reached the entryway at the far end of the oblong arena opposite the starting gates.

  “No women allowed.” A guard blocked her entry.

  Shifting her palla, Elissa revealed her medallion inscribed with the insignia of Vesta. Unlike other women, vestal virgins were privileged to watch the gladiators and had a designated box just below the emperor’s. The guard studied her medallion, glanced at her ragged clothing. Before he could object, she dropped a coin into his palm.r />
  The procession of gladiators had finished, and the arena had been cleared. Workers set the stage for a wild beast hunt—dragging potted palms onto the sand, erecting backdrops of painted jungle scenes on the central spina. Cages carrying lions, bears, and strange striped cats, rolled through the archways. A trench, ten feet wide, ten feet deep, and filled with stagnant water, separated Elissa from the spectacle. Flies buzzed above the moat, indifferent to the scummy water. Midway along the tiers of benches, Elissa spotted her destination: the imperial box.

  Her step faltered.

  Facing Nero might not be the wisest of decisions, especially without protection. To secure the throne he had poisoned his half-brother, murdered his mother. What would stop him from harming her? Seeking clemency for Marcus might only whet his appetite for cruelty. But within the arena, lions stalked the blood-soaked sand, reminding Elissa why she’d come.

  Wooden steps descended to a torch-lit corridor beneath the spectator stalls. Young toughs huddled in the tunnel, inscribing fresh graffiti on the walls, jeering at Elissa as she passed. She hurried through the corridor. Even October’s chill could not suppress the smell of unwashed bodies, stale wine and urine. She emerged from the tunnel blinking at the sun amid thousands of people.

  “I place my money on Marcus,” she heard someone say.

  “I’ll wager on the lion.”

  Two grubby men sat on a stone bench in a nearby stall. The uglier winked at her.

  She hurried toward the imperial box.

  Praetorian Guards in dress uniform stood at the foot of a marble stairway, breastplates gleaming over short red tunics, heads crowned with tufted helmets.

  A gangly guard, a member of Nero’s private army, stood in Elissa’s path. Peering up at him, she said, “Don’t you recognize me, Celsus?”

  She knew the guard from prior visits, and she had invoked blessings for his family, casting spells for his sick child. But today, dressed in rough cloth instead of white robes, Celsus failed to recognize her.

  “How is your little boy?” she asked. “Has Crispus fully recovered from the fever?”

  “Priestess Elissa Rubria.” The guard’s face flushed, and he bowed with the reverence due a vestal. “Please, forgive me. Crispus is much improved. I thank you for your prayers. Of course you may pass.”

  Elissa hurried up the steps, aware that running was improper for a vestal virgin, but there was no time for propriety.

  She glanced around the balcony, hoping to see Nero.

  Esteemed guests of the princeps sat on ivory curule chairs, their bottoms resting in curved seats, preparing to watch the games in shaded comfort from under a midnight-blue canopy embroidered with silver stars. Tables, laden with bowls of purple grapes and figs, platters of all kinds of breads and ripened cheeses, ran along the perimeter. The scent of spiced meat, cooking on an open flame, wafted toward Elissa. Guests sipped wine from gilded chalices, while flute-girls played. A concubine wandered toward Elissa, trailing silk and jasmine perfume.

  “Have you seen Nero?” Elissa asked.

  The concubine smiled, eyes dreamy with opium, and nodded toward Ofonius Tigellinus.

  Nero’s constant watchdog looked up from his plate of food as Elissa approached. He sat by the stairway which led down to the imperial chambers. The horsehair crest of his helmet, dyed red as blood, and his scarlet toga, denoted his position as Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, Nero’s personal assassin. Though weapons weren’t allowed in Rome, Elissa knew within his robes Tigellinus carried a dagger.

  “Elissa Rubria Honoria,” he said, a sausage poised at his teeth. “What brings you here?”

  As if he didn’t know.

  “Where can I find Nero?”

  “I haven’t seen you at the Circus since the Ludi Romani.” Tigellinus bit into the sausage, squirting fat.

  The Ludi Romani. Fifteen days of brutal games culminating in near riot when Nero showered the stalls with rubies and pearls, laughing as spectators crushed each other in their scramble for the gems.

  “The princeps sent for me,” she said.

  “Hungry?” Tigellinus wolfed another bite.

  “Tell me where he is.”

  Using the battered knuckles of his hand, a hand that had killed scores of men, Tigellinus wiped grease from his mouth. A purplish scar cut through his upper lip and gave him the appearance of a snarling dog. He glanced toward a narrow stairway that led down to Nero’s private quarters.

  “He’s busy.”

  The concubine giggled.

  Tigellinus stuffed the remainder of the sausage into his mouth.

  Attempting to calm her voice, Elissa said, “The princeps requested my presence. Would you defy his wishes?”

  Tigellinus shot her an angry glance, threw his plate against a wall and clambered down the steps.

  Elissa gazed back at the arena, wondering how much time she had before the games commenced.

  The sound of heavy footsteps announced the return of Tigellinus.

  “The princeps will see you shortly—”

  Pushing past him, Elissa hurried down the stairway. She found herself in a small, circular hall. No guests. No guards. Nero’s private sanctuary. An oil lamp smoldered on a granite table. Carved doors surrounded her, closed and heavy. One door stood ajar. Nero’s laugh boomed out from it, ricocheted around the walls.

  CHAPTER III

  Gallus Justinus had no intention of accepting Nero’s invitation to attend the games. As a soldier in Britannia, he’d had his fill of war and had lost his taste for violence. Lost his taste for Nero’s atrocities. With every passing year his childhood friend grew more perverse.

  Within the courtyard of his domus, Justinus examined his apple trees. He breathed in the aroma of ripened fruit, sweet and heavy, the scent of encroaching winter. Shorter days. Long, lonely nights.

  "A visitor has come," Akeem announced.

  The slave stood, shivering, in the doorway leading to the house. He peered into the courtyard, unwilling to step outside. Akeem came from the warmer clime of Alexandria and bore the haughtiness of an Egyptian prince.

  "Master, come inside," he said, his Latin immaculate. "Attending to horticulture is no fitting pastime for a hero—"

  "I think these trees have mites." Bending a branch, Justinus searched the leaves. "I see their evidence."

  "Those gardeners don’t do their job. I will summon them again."

  "Who’s my visitor, Akeem?"

  "That troublemaker, Lucan, back from Greece. The one who calls himself a poet. I will send him on his way."

  "Too late!" Lucan’s thunderous voice was followed by a boom of laughter. His frame filled the doorway. Before Akeem could stop him, he barreled through the threshold. Three strides brought him halfway across the courtyard. With a grip worthy of a bear, he clasped Justinus. "Dear friend, how are you?"

  "Better, now that you’ve turned up."

  "Like weighted dice, you can count on me."

  The poet’s laughter was infectious.

  The two men clamped each other in a hug, and for the first time since his return from Britannia, Justinus felt at home.

  "Have you grown taller?" he asked as he broke away from Lucan. Justinus wasn’t short by any measure, but he felt dwarfed beside the poet.

  "Maybe broader." Lucan patted his stomach. "Greek wine acts as fertilizer. Golden piss they call it, but its taste never slowed my drinking."

  Akeem sniffed.

  "When it came to women," Lucan said, "I found Athens dry. No wonder the Greeks favor boys." He winked at Akeem, and the slave left in a huff. "They let their women wither on the vine, keep them locked away like vestal virgins."

  Justinus turned away from Lucan, forcing himself to think of other topics. He ran his hand over the trunk of a tree and wondered if the soil might benefit from ground fish bones. "It’s a good year for apples," he said. "Despite a few mites, the crop has been abundant."

  "You still have feelings for her, don’t you?"

  "Feelings?
"

  "For Elissa."

  Justinus gazed through the branches at the cool October sun. Past noon. And what had he accomplished? Today or in his life? Not much. Death and destruction was his trade. And what use was a warrior who despised violence? The one person he trusted, the one person who truly understood him was Elissa.

  "I have feelings. Yes."

  A breeze rustled the apples trees. Justinus kicked at a fallen leaf.

  "How long have you been back in Rome?" Lucan asked.

  "Six months."

  "How fares the Druid Queen?"

  "Boudicca died three years ago in battle. As fierce a warrior as any man I’ve ever fought. I can still see her, driving her chariot, red hair streaming to her knees, as she led blue-faced men, shrieking women, even children into war. ’Justice,’ she called out as she faced her death. ’My people fight for justice.’ "

  "As should all of us," Lucan said. "These days Rome is short of justice."

  "Nero takes too much pleasure in the role of king."

  "The role of tyrant, you mean."

  The two friends stood side-by-side, watching leaves swirl to the ground. A nightingale trilled its melancholy song, long past mating season.

  "I feel old," Justinus said.

  "Don’t be absurd, we’re twenty-four and in our prime."

  "I couldn’t stop my men. It was a blood-bath, not a battle." In his mind’s-eye Justinus still heard the battle cries, still smelled the stench of death. "When the Britons advanced, our infantry charged. So did the cavalry. Our lances spared no lives. No women. No children. Not even animals."

  "Another glorious victory for Rome," Lucan said.

  "I wish I could take back that day-"

  "Time heals, they say."

  "Does it?"

  Lucan laughed.

  "According to Horace," Justinus said, "the perfect meal begins with eggs and ends with apples. Green or red?"

  "Who am I to disagree with that illustrious poet? I’ll take red."