Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome Read online

  “Not so fast,” Nero said. “We need to talk.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “I want to hear about the plot to murder me.”

  “What plot?”

  “Perhaps you’re in on it. Marcus was, and I suspect Elissa.” Nero held up his hand, displaying red marks. “She bit me like an animal. By rights, she should be punished. No, my friend, you’re not leaving yet.”

  Turning from Justinus, Nero ordered slaves to light the lamps and serve more wine.

  Shadows jumped along the walls and flickered over Nero’s face. Elissa couldn’t bear to look at him. Eyes closed, she floated down the River Styx, descending into Hades. The dead surrounded her.

  Remember us, they whispered.

  Sosianus, beaten with hooked whips for reciting a poem insulting to Nero; Octavia, Nero’s first wife, wrongly accused of adultery then put to death; Britannicus, half-brother of Nero and true heir to the empire, sodomized and poisoned. And his mother, Agrippina—when drowning failed, she had been bludgeoned.

  Remember us!

  Some called Elissa’s ability to see lemures-to hear them and to speak to them-a gift. Supplicants came to the temple, seeking contact with lost souls, hoping for a moment of connection. But, to Elissa, the gift often seemed like a curse. The dead gave no warning, arriving when they chose.

  Mist rose from the river as she drifted. On the far bank the shade of Agrippina beckoned. The queen called out, her voice high-pitched as winter’s wind, “You hold the key, Elissa—the key to truth.”

  Angry voices dragged Elissa back into the chamber. Nero and Justinus were arguing.

  “You’ve gone too far, Ahenobarbus,” Justinus shouted.

  “How dare you call me by that name?”

  “It’s your name by birth. Or have you forgotten? Forgotten your humanity?” As he spoke, it seemed to Elissa that Justinus grew taller. “What happened to the young man who despised violence,” he said, his voice gaining strength. “The man who lost himself in scholarly pursuits. The hope of the empire.”

  “I might ask the same of you. You’re an old man at twenty-four. Remember how we ran wild in the streets—you, me, and Lucan? Disrupting taverns, playing havoc in the brothels. Do you deny it?”

  “That was a long time ago. I’ve grown up since then.”

  “You’ve grown old.”

  “And wiser.”

  “Time takes its toll on all of us.” Nero placed his hand over his heart, his face a tragic mask. “I should have been a poet. My lyric verse exceeds Lucan’s. Some claim it rivals Virgil’s. But destiny demands I play the role of emperor.”

  “I pity you,” Elissa said.

  “What?” Nero turned to her. “Did you say something, Elissa? You look tired. Worn. But just last week I noticed your sister—”

  “I pity you.”

  “You pity me?”

  Justinus caught Nero by his arm. “Hear me as your friend. Once you had high ideals, but now you act like a tyrant. Horse races and debauchery are all you think about. You ignore your official duties, and—”

  “—waste your time pretending you can sing,” Elissa finished.

  The slaves gasped, so did Angerona.

  The light died in Nero’s eyes. Like a cat, he had been toying with his prey, but now he moved in for the kill. He grabbed Elissa, drew her to his chest, holding her so tight she thought her ribs would crack. “I will sing a tune you never wished to hear, belt out notes to shatter glass, trill arias to pierce your heart. Sing with me, Elissa, or I will have you here and now. Sing for your virginity.”

  Slaves held onto Justinus, but with a roar he broke from them and dove at Nero.

  Breaking free, Elissa ran to Angerona.

  Justinus pinned Nero to the floor and locked his fingers around Nero’s throat.

  “My voice,” Nero gasped.

  Slaves surrounded the two men and shrieked for help.

  The chamber door flew open, and Tigellinus burst into the room. Sica in hand, he rushed at Justinus. He yanked him off Nero, dragged him to his feet, and pressed the blade against his heart. Sentries appeared in the doorway, their swords drawn.

  “Shall I kill him?”

  “Not yet.” Nero rubbed his neck. “I wouldn’t want to mess the rugs.”

  “Release him,” Elissa said. “I command you.” Fog drifted through the chamber, cold and damp. She heard Nero shouting, as if from a distance, his words meaningless. Behind him, through the mist, she saw Agrippina. “Release Justinus, or I will call upon your mother.”

  “My mother.” Nero laughed. “You’ll have to raise her from the dead.”

  “The dead walk among us and between us. Your mother is here now.”

  Nero glanced at Angerona.

  “It’s true,” she said. “The dead speak to Elissa, and she speaks to them.”

  “I have no belief in apparitions, shades, lemures.”

  Elissa’s smile was born of grief. How clearly she saw through him, this little man, this frightened boy. “Is that why you fear visiting your mother’s tomb?”

  Nero’s face paled.

  “I’ll let her sleep,” Elissa said, “if you release Justinus.”

  Nero motioned to Tigellinus. “Let him go.”

  “But Caesar—”

  “Release him.”

  Despite her triumph, Elissa felt defeated. No conjuring the dead would bring Marcus back to life.

  “Take care, Ahenobarbus,” Justinus said, “I fear for your mortal soul.”

  “My mortal soul.” Nero snorted. “This conversation has become tiring.” He swept out of the room followed by Tigellinus, the sentries, and the slaves—their footsteps fading as they clambered up the stairs.

  Angerona squeezed Elissa’s hand. “This time you escaped, but next time you may not. In future, you must appease Nero.”

  “Is that your tactic?”

  “I do what’s necessary. And I’d do anything to save my family. Use cunning, Elissa. Or Nero will destroy all of us. Remember my father.”

  “Of course. You’re right. We must tread lightly.”

  Elissa kissed Angerona’s cheek. Nero had forced Angerona’s father to slit his veins. Weakened by a steam-bath and loss of blood, fluid had filled his lungs until he’d suffocated. The official decree had been suicide.

  “Nero won’t stop at Marcus,” Justinus said. “He’ll go after your father, even your mother and sister. You must convince your family to flee Rome.”

  “Listen to him,” Angerona said. “Nero stops at nothing. None of us are safe. And now we’d better fly or the House of Vestals will be locked up for the night.” She squeezed Elissa’s hand again. “Besides, you sorely need to bathe.”

  It was only later, when, exhausted and dazed, Elissa prepared to soak in a steaming tub, she remembered the letter she’d written to Justinus. She searched her clothes, but it was missing.

  CHAPTER VII

  I day after the Kalends of October

  Year IX, reign of Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus

  Dear Gallus Justinus,

  Last night I dreamt of skulls, cracked and yellowed, lining a long corridor—warm stickiness dripped from the ceiling, and the joists were human femurs, flesh clinging to the bones.

  Elissa read what she had written. The man would think her mad. She tore the page in half, began again.

  Dear Gallus Justinus,

  I’m delighted to hear your apple trees are thriving. Ground fish bones should enhance your crop—

  “Elissa?”

  She glanced toward the doorway. “Coming.”

  The curtain opened, revealing Angerona.

  “Entering unannounced has become your habit,” Elissa said. She blew on the page, willing the ink to dry before Angerona had a chance to read the words.

  “The Vestal Maxima requests your presence.”

  “Why?”

  “She said you’re to come at once.”

  Thoughts raced around Elissa’s head lik
e chariots. The missing letter flashed through her mind. She’d prayed it had been swept under a table, tossed into a fire, but someone must have found the damning words. Nero? Tigellinus?

  “Tell Mother Amelia I’ll be there shortly.”

  Angerona peered over Elissa’s shoulder. “What are you writing?”

  Elissa folded the papyrus, hiding what she’d written. “Just a note to a friend of my family.”

  “Gallus Justinus?”

  “No.” Elissa wasn’t certain why she lied.

  Taking care to hide her nervousness, she wiped her stylus, recapped the inkpot, and drew off her leather writing glove. She needed time to think, time to make a plan. She needed time she didn’t have.

  * * * * *

  “Are you listening?”

  Elissa nodded.

  Honeycombs of scrolls lined the library from floor to ceiling. Usually she reveled in the scent of parchment, but today the smell was suffocating. She often turned to books for comfort—Virgil for solace, Aristotle for wisdom, Sappho for oblivion. But now their words floated through her thoughts like dust.

  “Did you hear what I just said?”

  Elissa hadn’t, but she answered, “Yes, Mother Amelia.”

  The Vestal Maxima sat behind her marble desk, feet planted together like an Egyptian statue, her spine straight as a pharaoh’s scepter, proud as a goddess with the power to show mercy or wield punishment. Her hands, knotted from years of scribing documents, rested on the ivory arms of her curule chair. She might have retired ten years ago, at the age of thirty-seven, but like most vestals, she chose to retain her position as one of the most influential women in the empire. Coils of snowy wool wrapped around her forehead like a turban, securing the shoulder-length suffibulum that veiled her graying hair. Her eyes remained sharp, and now they focused on Elissa.

  “You’ve broken my trust.”

  Elissa bit her inner cheek, preparing her rebuttal regarding her letter to Justinus.

  “Your family has suffered a great loss,” the high vestal said. “But even death does not allow a priestess to neglect protocol and run off unescorted to the Circus Maximus.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother Amelia. But Marcus—” she choked on her brother’s name.

  “A tragedy, but no excuse.” Mother Amelia shook her head. “You not only endangered your own life, but you compromised the reputation of the order. Give me one good reason why you shouldn’t be interrogated by the Collegiate of Pontiffs.”

  Elissa dug her teeth deep into her cheek, biting so hard she tasted blood. Willing away tears, she studied the carpet, the intricate design of birds and flowers, sapphire blues, ruby reds. Her gaze came to rest on the clawed foot of the massive desk, and she felt the weight of her circumstance.

  “Nero summoned me,” she said, her voice wavering.

  “So you decided to go to him alone, without seeking my permission?”

  “There was no time.”

  “And, despite breaking rules, despite risking your well-being, did your actions save your brother?”

  “No.” A tear rolled down Elissa’s face.

  “If you had come to me, if I had intervened, perhaps—” Mother Amelia sighed.

  “Thank the gods you’re safe. Who knows what might have happened if I hadn’t sent Angerona after you.” The high vestal shifted in her chair. Lips straining against her teeth, she said, more to herself than to Elissa, “Though why she deemed it necessary to include Gallus Justinus, I don’t understand.”

  “She hoped Justinus might convince Nero to spare my brother.”

  “Your brother committed suicide.”

  “He did not!”

  “Don’t raise your voice.” Mother Amelia removed a stylus from a bronze pot of pens and tapped it on the desk.

  A pale vein ran through the green marble, a stream meandering through a verdant field of stone, as pure as the River of Forgetfulness. But Elissa would not forget.

  “Suicide is the official decree,” Mother Amelia said. “And it’s your duty, Elissa, to concede—”

  “Nero murdered Marcus.”

  The high vestal stopped tapping the stylus. “I know you think me harsh,” she said, “but there’s much that you don’t understand.”

  “Such as?”

  “Things I can’t discuss right now. I’m speaking to you as a mother, as one who cares for you. In the future you should be more prudent. Show restraint.” She resumed tapping. “You were in the arena at your brother’s death?”

  “At Nero’s command.”

  “Beast,” Mother Amelia spoke softly. Despite her stern expression, moisture glistened in her eyes.

  “He made me watch my brother die.”

  Swiping at her eyes, Elissa refused to cry. Crying meant triumph for Nero, and she would not be defeated.

  Mother Amelia reached into a cubbyhole within her desk.

  Elissa held her breath, expecting the worst.

  The high vestal’s hand emerged, not with the missing letter, but with a bowl of candied nuts. She offered it to Elissa.

  “No thank you.”

  “I hope you’ve purified yourself,” Mother Amelia said. “Bathed your body, burned your robes, thrown salt. The taint of death mustn’t touch this sacred ground.”

  “Yes.”

  “Rules are necessary, especially in times of tribulation.” Mother Amelia selected an almond from the bowl. Sucking on the sweet, she said, “It’s not always possible to distinguish right from wrong. That’s why we must obey the rules laid down by the Collegiate of Pontiffs and the Pontifex Maximus.”

  “Nero isn’t fit to call himself Pontifex Maximus.”

  “Elissa—”

  “He says rules are made for common people.”

  “Nevertheless, we are bound by oath to obey him.” Mother Amelia rubbed her brow, dislodging the coils of wool and setting her suffibulum askew. “We must follow protocol.”

  Elissa stopped herself from saying something rash. Mother Amelia might look as if her spine were made of iron, but she lacked the backbone to stand up to Nero. In reality, she was spineless as a sea cucumber.

  “You’re a good girl, Elissa. Gifted in many ways. But you’re headstrong to the point of stubbornness.” Mother Amelia popped a walnut into her mouth. “You must learn to deny yourself. Practice obedience.”

  “I would like to see my parents.”

  “Of course. I’ll arrange for lictors and the—”

  “Thank you.” Without waiting for dismissal, Elissa headed for the doorway.

  “One thing more, Elissa.”

  She paused, her hand on the curtain.

  “After your family’s ten days of mourning, you’re to meet in private with the Pontifex Maximus.”

  “Why? Does Nero plan to torture me?”

  Mother Amelia reached for another nut, then thought better of it and pushed the bowl away.

  “You’ve heard of the Sibylline Oracles?”

  “Prophesies made by the Sibyls of Delphi centuries ago, scribed in Greek hexameter. I’ve heard of them,” Elissa said, “but I’ve never seen the scrolls.”

  “They’re kept within the library at the Regia, secured by the Collegiate of Pontiffs. ‘Beginning with the generation first of mortal men down to the last, I’ll prophesy each thing, what erst has been, and what is now—’”

  “—and what shall yet befall the world through the impiety of man,” Elissa completed the famous sentence. “The opening of Book One.”

  Mother Amelia handed Elissa a scrap of vellum, curled like a leaf and no bigger than her little finger. “Do these words mean anything to you?”

  Elissa squinted at the tiny writing.

  Rome burns and

  From union

  Unholy

  The sister

  Will bring forth

  A son

  The same words the strange woman at the circus had spoken. Remembering the old woman made Elissa shiver.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked.


  Mother Amelia’s eyes probed hers. “You understand that sorcery is an offense?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ve never dabbled in the dark arts, never bent another to your will?”

  Elissa thought of Justinus. She often knew exactly what he was thinking, sensed what he felt. And sometimes, by her will, she seemed to influence his actions. Might love be a kind of magic?

  “Answer me, Elissa.”

  “I’ve never practiced sorcery.”

  “Nero is convinced you have.”

  “If I were a sorceress I’d transform Nero into a donkey. Better yet, a worm, and make him dinner for an eel.”

  “He wants you to decipher the meaning of the Sybils’ words.”

  “Nero gave this to you?” Elissa dropped the scrap of vellum on the desk as if it were infected with the plague.

  “Meditate on the hexameter,” Mother Amelia said. “Perhaps its meaning will come to you.”

  Elissa turned to leave.

  “You would be wise to keep the contents of this conversation close, Elissa. Say nothing to anyone. Not even Angerona. There have been rumors-”

  “Rumors?”

  “Be careful whom you trust, that’s all.”

  “Yes, Mother Amelia.”

  Elissa escaped through the curtain. She felt exhausted. She wanted to sleep, to die and find her way to Marcus. Most of all, she wanted nothing to do with the Sibylline Oracles and even less to do with Nero.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Relieved to be free of the House of Vestals, the confinement of its walls and rigid rules, Elissa and Angerona sat within the covered coach usually reserved for state occasions. Drawn by four white geldings and preceded by two lictors carrying sacred axes—the only weapons allowed within the city walls—the small procession evoked curiosity.

  Elissa peered out of the coach’s window, taking in the merchants and the beggars, the men of state flanked by bodyguards, the school boys—some of them about her age—gathered along the wide avenue of the Via Sacra to watch the vestals pass. She followed the progress of four slaves bearing the weight of a litter, and through fluttering curtains she glimpsed a wealthy prostitute. She imagined herself, pampered and perfumed, her body draped with silk and jewels, carried through the streets of Rome to meet her lover, to meet Justinus. And she wondered what would ensue.