“Rome burns,” Nero’s voice wafted through clouds of incense, “and from union unholy—”
“—the sister will bring forth a son,” Elissa finished.
“The words are useless without meaning,” Nero said.
His chamber appeared smaller than Elissa remembered, more cluttered. Sheets of papyrus, scrolls and tablets, filled every surface amidst a jumble of statues and furniture. His armament collection had expanded, covering the walls. Her gaze alighted on a pugio. The dagger’s hilt was close enough to touch.
Nero sat on his alabaster throne, his fingers caressing the eagle-headed scepter.
“Am I to receive a hearing?” Elissa asked.
“I will be your jury and your judge.”
“My executioner?”
“So you admit you’re guilty?”
“I want a proper inquiry and a physical examination.”
Elissa pulled the door’s handle. It was locked from the outside. The high window above Nero’s throne appeared to be the only other exit. Narrow and barred.
“I want to leave.”
Nero shook his head. “That won’t be possible.”
“Let me out!”
“There’s no use shouting. I’ve asked the guards not to disturb us until we’re finished.”
Turning from the door, she was startled to find Nero standing beside her.
He brushed her cheek with his forefinger, his eyes deader than lumps of gray stone, placed a chalice in her hands, then offered her a plate of honey cakes. “Have one: they’re my favorite.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m not unkind, Elissa. By nature, I’m compassionate. A fault I’ve fought to overcome. I might have held your hearing in the forum, made your shame a public spectacle, but I thought you would prefer a more discreet approach.”
His gaze traveled her body.
“Remove your robe.”
“Remove my robe?”
“For the examination you requested.”
Elissa gripped her cup of wine, her knuckles turning white.
“Physical examination is the Vestal Maxima job,” she said.
“I’ve changed the rules.” Nero’s cool fingers pushed aside her suffibulum.
She tossed the wine into his face.
He barely blinked.
“That was a mistake,” his said. “You force me to punish you.”
Something in Elissa snapped—the rage she held inside, the grief. With a swift upward jerk, she rammed her knee into Nero’s groin. Her wounded ankle screamed, but the pleasure was worth the pain.
With a groan, Nero doubled over and sank to the floor.
That gave Elissa time to grab the pugio. The dagger’s hilt fitted snuggly in her palm, an extension of her hand. She grasped Nero’s mop of curls, yanking his head backward and held the blade against his throat.
“Tell your guards to unlock the door.”
“You think you’ll win so easily?”
She pressed the knife into his skin. “Call them.”
“You’re a tigress. I like that.”
One slash and it would be over. One slash and his evil life would gush out of him.
“Murder is forbidden by the Ten Commandments of the Jews,” Nero said. “Would you go against Jesus?”
“Don’t speak His name. You have no right.”
“No right? I’m Princeps of Rome, ruler of the empire.”
“Princeps, not Almighty God.”
“That’s debatable.”
She pointed the tip of the blade at his larynx. The ribs of cartilage were begging to be pricked.
“Not my vocal cords.” He attempted a smile.
“I’ll spare your precious vocal cords if you will pray with me. Repeat these words, “Almighty God how insignificant am I in the glory of your presence.”
Nero’s lips remained glued.
“Say it.” She nudged the blade against his throat pleased to see his face pale. “Repeat after me: I am a lowly pig, a writhing worm, a wad of dung.”
“Did I ever tell you,” he was careful not to move his neck, “how I took your brother? His buttocks were smooth and well-rounded, just like your sister’s—”
Elissa flicked the knife, and Nero winced. She felt the pop of skin, and watched in awe as the blade drew a drop of blood.
With a bellow Nero grabbed her arm and twisted till she dropped the pugio. Pain raged from her elbow to her wrist, traveling through her torso, down her leg and to her wounded ankle. Nero threw himself on top of her, pinning her onto the floor. Clawing at her chest, he pushed aside her stola, ripped open her tunica, and tore away the strophium that bound her breasts.
“Get off!” She kicked at him with her good leg.
Balling up the triangle of cloth, he stuffed the strophium into her mouth. She tried to spit it out, but he slapped his hand over her lips and lay on top of her. His weight made breathing difficult. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
She wondered if he’d fainted.
Slowly, carefully, she wriggled her twisted ankle out from under him. Freeing an arm, she pulled the gag out of her mouth and sucked in air. She glanced at the locked door, the barred window. If she didn’t escape, surely he would surely kill her.
Her gaze fell on the pugio.
If she could free her other leg, maybe she could reach the dagger.
“Don’t go.”
Nero grabbed her arm, flinging her back to the floor. Her head hit the tiles with so much force that she saw colored lights. He climbed back on top of her, rubbing her face with his, nuzzling her breasts.
“Don’t go, Mater.” His mouth latched onto her nipple.
The spirit of Agrippina rushed through Elissa, filling her with rage, blessing her with courage. She spoke in the dead queen’s voice, “Release me now or suffer the consequence.”
Nero raised his head, stared at her. He appeared confused. “You look different, Mater. Younger.”
“And you look like a crueler version of your father.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Don’t.”
“If you’re really the harpy who grew me in your putrid womb, tell your beloved son the joyful story of his birth.”
Elissa knew the tale, as did every Roman. “You were born, feet first,” she said, “on the Ides of December, and as the midwife placed you on the linen sheet, a ray of sunlight touched your face—”
“Not true, Mater. It rained the day that I was born.”
“Perhaps it was raining,” Elissa hedged. “In any case, your birth was blessed—”
“My father claimed me cursed. And you, dear Mater, foresaw your death by your son’s hand. I merely fulfilled your expectations.”
Nero stumbled to his feet, as did Elissa, although her ankle could barely tolerate her weight. She turned from him, bent down to grab the pugio.
He slammed into her, his weight propelling her against a wall. Iron fingers locked around her wounded ankle and she shrieked. She lay prone on the floor, tears of pain running down her face. Somewhere she had read that when confronted with a rabid beast it was best to remain still. Play dead. Nero kicked her ribs and she tried not to flinch.
He crouched beside her, rolled her onto her back. She kept her eyes closed, heard him panting, felt the moisture of his breath, smelled his sweat. As a child she had played hide and seek, searched for a safe place to hide. She pretended she was hiding now, behind the statue of Venus in her father’s garden.
Nero’s hands wrapped around her throat, and her eyes flew open.
His eyes stared at her.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the pugio lying on the floor. She stretched out her hand, her fingers reaching for the hilt.
“Did you want this?”
The blade glinted as he raised it, came down with a flash of silver, ripping through flesh and bone, pinning her hand to the floor. Pain tore through her palm and lights danced before her eyes. She was falling, hurtling through stars and planets, spiraling from this world to another. She couldn’t stop screaming.
“Like your friend Jesus,” Nero said.
Fists pounded on the door, followed by loud voices.
“Caesar?”
“Go away,” Nero shouted.
“But, Caesar—”
“Leave!”
Elissa slipped in and out of consciousness, felt his hands grabbing her, tried to fight him off. “Justinus,” she whimpered, wishing he could save her from this animal, this beast that thought himself a god.
He forced himself inside of her, tearing deep into her soul.
“The first time always hurts,” he said.
She felt nothing.
She was hiding in the garden, hoping Justinus would find her. But her fate had been decided. There would be no savior.
Not Justinus.
Not Jesus.
Not even an Almighty God could rescue her from Nero.
The door clicked shut. Mercifully, he was gone.
Elissa lay where she had fallen.
She heard the steady drip of a water-clock. The sound of her own breathing. Outside the window, hooves clattered on cobblestones. A woman shouted and a child began to cry.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Elissa wished that when she opened them she would find herself safe within the House of Vestals. Bells would be ringing, calling her to morning ritual.
The smell of him
.
She opened her eyes.
From the high window, dusty rays of sunshine fell across the floor. Her stola lay in a heap, stained and torn. Sliding her undamaged hand down her body, she felt stickiness and gagged.
She moved the fingers of her wounded hand and pain shot to her shoulder. Inch by inch, she rolled onto her side. Her good hand found the pugio and tugged at the hilt. The blade released and blood pulsed from the gash. He’d missed the main artery or she might have bled to death. Finding her strophium, she wrapped the cloth around her throbbing hand.
Her stomach roiled.
Half crawling, half dragging her body, she found a chamber pot.
Someone was knocking on the door.
“Elissa, are you all right?” A voice called.
She vomited into the pot.
The door opened and footsteps rushed toward her.
“What has happened?” Mother Amelia’s eyes widened with comprehension. Her sturdy arms wrapped around Elissa, drawing her close, rocking her like a baby, as Elissa sobbed. The high vestal held Elissa till her tears were spent.
“Rest,” Mother Amelia said, leading Elissa to a couch.
She lay back on the cushioned seat, heard the clink of pottery and splashing.
“He’s gone too far,” Mother Amelia said. “He cannot get away with this.”
The damp cloth felt cool against Elissa’s neck. Water trickled down her back, stinging when it met the welts, the result of his fingernails.
“I’m so ashamed,” she whispered.
“It’s not your fault.”
“I’m no longer suitable for service.”
“Purity is not a garment, not a vestment we can don. A true vestal is pure of heart.”
Pure of heart?
Her heart was poisoned.
Even in attempting murder she had failed. She had disgraced her family in every way. At best, she would be banished, exiled to an island to live out her life in obscurity without even the satisfaction of having killed her enemy. At worst, she would be entombed alive, left to die with only a crust of bread, a jug of water, and shameful memories.
Mother Amelia handed her the cloth. “Clean yourself. A physician will see to your ankle and your hand.”
“And then?”
“We must say nothing for a time. Perhaps Nero will be satisfied and we can avoid a trial.”
“He raped me. You can testify.”
“I didn’t examine you before—” Mother Amelia’s voice faltered. “Before the incident.”
The incident.
Would that be the term used to describe what he had done to her? The incident?
Elissa held out the cloth to Mother Amelia. “My blood is proof of my virginity.”
Mother Amelia shook her head. “All blood looks the same. And he has witnesses, one of them your sister. If I accuse Nero, he will simply claim you’re lying, claim that your virginity was already taken by Gallus Justinus.”
“And if I say nothing?”
“Perhaps we can forget all this.”
Forget?
Elissa felt her life slip away, quietly, without a fight. Truth buried beneath lies.
“I want a trial.”
“There’s something I must tell you.” Mother Amelia straightened her suffibulum. The coils of snowy wool were limp with perspiration, her forehead furrowed. “I should have told you long ago, but your parents wanted to protect you, and I remained silent—”
“What?”
“Sixteen years ago a child was brought to me, no more than three years old. By order of the highest authorities and with utmost secrecy, I was commanded to find the child a home where she’d be raised with love and security—”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“You are that child.”
The high vestal’s words tore through Elissa. The wound Nero’s dagger had inflicted was nothing in comparison. Her mind raged in disbelief. “That can’t be,” she protested. “I take after my father.”
“And your mother.”
“No. My mother is pale, while I am dark. I have nothing of my mother in me.”
“Nothing of Constantina.”
Elissa stared at Mother Amelia. She had sensed the truth for a long time, felt it, but never had she put what she sensed into words—or even thoughts. “Who is my mother?”
“I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”
“Sworn by whom?”
“Your birthmother.”
“Surely she’ll want to meet me, now that I’m grown.”
“I’m sure she would.”
“Introduce us.”
“She’s dead.”
“Dead?”
As quickly as she’d discovered this mother, she’d vanished. An oath to the dead was sacred, and Mother Amelia was bound to never reveal the name.
“And who is my father?”
“Honoratus.”
“Then he knows who my birthmother is, and he must tell me.”
“Your father and Constantina believe you to be the outcome of his unfortunate affair with a peasant girl who died two years after your birth.”
“Constantina knows I’m my father’s bastard?”
“She’s your true mother, Elissa, the woman who raised you. Don’t hurt her more by dredging up the past.”
But, of its own accord, the past came back to haunt Elissa. She remembered the words she’d seen scrawled under the prophecy.
Darkness cannot prevail within the light of a happy soul.
The symbol of the sun. Darkness encircled by light. The eye of truth.
Something stirred within her.
A thought. A memory. A name.
She sensed her dead mother, reaching out to her.
In her mind’s eye she saw a baby, wrapped in swaddling clothes, held within a mother’s arms. “Do I descend from the line of Julius?”
Mother Amelia’s nod was almost imperceptible.
Elissa didn’t want to believe what her gut told her to be true. Though Mother Amelia swore to keep the name a secret, Elissa guessed her birthmother’s identity.
She felt it in her bones. All the pieces fit.
And the despair in Mother Amelia’s eyes confirmed Elissa’s fears.