Flavia closed her eyes against the water’s sting as the torrent carried her through the Cloaca Maxima. Clamping her lips, she tried not to swallow sewer water. The current became stronger as the tunnel reached its end, sucking Flavia into a whirlpool, before expelling her into the Tiber. Light pressed against her eyelids, and the rush of the river sent her under.
She resurfaced, gasping for air, arms flailing, struggling to stay afloat. A world of smoke and cinders swirled around her. Debris littered the water: remnants of boats, loose papers, orange peels, clothing, broken furniture. Flavia grabbed onto a charred beam. Clinging to the wood, she let the river carry her. Bobbing amongst the wreckage, she passed through an archway of the Pons Sublicus and narrowly avoided crashing into the stone bridge.
Her stomach cramped and her teeth chattered, but the cold water numbed her wounds. Or perhaps her pain was numbed by her sheer will. Having escaped Popaea’s torture chamber, she was determined to survive.
The river’s current carried her beyond the Servian Walls, beyond the scorched city. Tents of refugees lined the riverbanks. A row of brightly painted caravans displayed a sign advertising pantomimes.
Flavia let go of the beam and found the strength to swim.
* * * * *
“Coming here is madness,” Justinus said.
“Not madness, necessity.” Elissa held out her hand to him and their fingers interlocked.
“You aren’t supposed to touch a man.”
“That was before I died.”
The floodplain of the Campus Martius lay outside the Servian Wall and ran along the river. Tents crammed every patch of earth and a mob of displaced people trampled the field, churning the grass into mud. To appease rising panic in the city Nero had opened storehouses of corn and set up tents providing meals and shelter.
“Flavia must be here somewhere,” Elissa said.
Through the crowd Elissa saw Mother Amelia doling out food to the hungry. The high vestal looked up from a steaming pot, her mouth dropping in surprise. Wiping greasy hands on her apron, she hurried to Elissa.
“How can it be?” Fingers trembling she touched Elissa’s face.
Elissa glanced at Justinus, thought of all her prayers. “I had a lot of help.”
Mother Amelia turned to Justinus. “Why did you bring her here, young man? If Nero learns she is alive—”
“Exactly who I want to see,” Elissa said. “Do you know where I can find him?”
“Let’s go where we can talk, my dears.”
Mother Amelia led them across the crowded field to a tent. “Come in,” she said. “It’s not much, but it serves.” She motioned to cushions strewn on the tent’s floor. “Sit. Make yourselves comfortable.” Settling herself beside Elissa she asked, “What are your intentions now?”
“First, I must speak to Nero.”
The furrows in Mother Amelia’s brow deepened. “My dear, perhaps it’s best to let him think you’re dead.”
Justinus placed his arm around Elissa’s shoulders. “Let’s leave Rome,” he said. “Start a new life.”
“Not until I see him.”
Mother Amelia shook her head. “What’s past is past, Elissa. You can’t change fate. The gods have given you a gift. A future. Officially you don’t exist, and your sacred vows have been annulled. This is your chance for a new beginning—as if you’d been reborn.”
Justinus lifted Elissa’s chin. “Marry me,” he said.
Love shone in his eyes, and hope. Could it be possible that something good could be born of misery? Elissa thought of Marcus burning on the pyre, of Flavia’s stolen innocence. She rubbed her scarred palm, remembering.
“I can’t marry you,” she said.
“Why not?”
Finally she faced the truth. The nausea. The absence of her monthly flow.
“I just can’t.”
“For the gods’ sake, Elissa,” Mother Amelia sounded exasperated. “This is your chance for happiness.”
“There’s the matter of,” Elissa hesitated, “a child.”
“What child?” Justinus asked.
“Mine.”
Justinus stared at her, and so did Mother Amelia.
“Now you understand why I have to see Nero, and why I can’t marry you, Justinus.”
His face darkened, but Elissa wasn’t sure if she saw rage or sorrow in his eyes. “You think,” his voice broke. “Do you really think I’d blame you for what Nero did? Marry me, Elissa. We’ll move to the countryside, far away from here, and raise the baby as our own.”
She stared at him in wonder. She’d always known he was good, but he was better than she’d dreamed. She trusted him as she trusted no one else. She knew she could rely on him. And he could rely on her. Might happiness be possible?
“Will we grow apples out in the country?”
Justinus laughed. “We’ll grow orchards of them. Whatever you want, Elissa.”
“Yes,” she said, tears of joy filling her eyes. “Of course, I’ll marry you.”
“Good.” Mother Amelia clapped her hands. “Then it’s settled. Somewhere in here, I have wine. This calls for celebration.”
As Justinus bent to kiss her, Elissa said, “Now I must go.”
“Go where?” Justinus asked.
Elissa knew she could disappear and leave no trace. But she wanted retribution. She wanted to see Nero’s face when she told him—everything. She owed that much to Marcus, owed it to herself.
She turned to Mother Amelia. “Please take me to the princeps now.”
* * * * *
Mother Amelia pushed open the heavy doors of the basilica dedicated to Agrippina, and Elissa followed. Nero had opened public buildings to victims of the fire, and survivors lay on pallets strewn across the marble floor. Overworked physicians ran back and forth between their patients, applying cold compresses to their burns, dabbing wounds with honey to ease the pain and stay infection.
“This way,” Mother Amelia said.
They walked along a hallway lined with patients. Some called out for blessings, some were crying, others slept.
“By the power vested in me,” Mother Amelia said softly. “Vulcan, god of fire, may Rome’s suffering end.”
Elissa called on Jesus, prayed for strength to face Nero, prayed for courage to speak the truth. From the corner of her eye, she saw Marcus watching. Others lurked behind him.
Two sentries stood before a doorway.
“Young men,” Mother Amelia said, although the older of the two rivaled the age of Elissa’s father. “We’ve come to see the princeps.”
“No visitors,” the older sentry said. His eyes focused on a greasy stain smeared down the front of Mother Amelia’s apron.
“I’m not a visitor.” She revealed her medallion. “I am the Vestal Maxima.” Straightening her spine, Mother Amelia seemed to grow as the guards diminished.
They bowed, allowing her to pass.
Mother Amelia knocked on the door.
“I said no visitors!” Nero’s voice pierced Elissa like a knife.
She could leave now, run. Like all of Rome, Nero would assume her dead. Her vision clouded, and she resisted fainting. The air stirred and she shivered. They crept in at the edges, slipping through the shadows. Pleading, crying, begging to be heard. Marcus, Agrippina, countless lemures. She moved through the dead, toward Nero’s voice.
“I said—”
His face blanched when he saw her.
Nero sat on a folding stool, behind a makeshift desk covered with scrolls and sheets of papyrus. Dark circles rimmed his eyes and his cheeks were sunken. Instead of a toga or flowing robes of silk, he wore a simple tunic. He set down his stylus, pushed away the wax tablet on which he’d been writing, and stood.
“As you see,” Elissa said, “I have risen from the dead.”
He ran his tongue over his lips, riffled through a stack of papyrus, his hands trembling. “Official documents,” he muttered, “the history of Rome, all lost.”
“Where is Flavia?”
“I don’t know.”
She gazed into his frightened eyes, and she believed him.
“I bring you a message,” she said, “from Agrippina.”
Papers fluttered to the floor, and Nero stooped to gather them. “How is my mother?”
“
Our
mother.”
Nero looked up, papers flying from his hands. He stood slowly, leaned toward Elissa, his hands pressing into the desk. “You?”
“Me.”
“What proof do you have?”
Mother Amelia stepped forward. “I am a witness,” she said, “and the Vestal Maxima’s word is still sacrosanct, even in Rome. I promised Agrippina I would keep her daughter’s birth a secret, but now that Elissa is officially dead, the vow of secrecy has been annulled.”
Nero swallowed. “Go on.”
“Twenty-two years ago, after Agrippina’s exile from Rome and the death of your father, your mother married Passienus Crispus.”
“My mother had been banished by her brother, Caligula.” Nero looked distant, as if trying to remember. “We didn’t live in Rome. She and Crispus were married for three years. I must have been about four years old.”
“They quarreled,” Mother Amelia said. “And Crispus began to travel, leaving Agrippina alone for months. To amuse herself, she took lovers—some of them aristocrats. When Crispus returned from Asia he found your mother—”
“With child,” Elissa said.
“I remember,” Nero said, “Crispus died quite suddenly.”
“Quite conveniently,” said Elissa.
“Soon after his death, Agrippina gave birth to a daughter. Agrippina wanted to return to Rome and could not afford another scandal, so she kept her daughter’s birth a secret.”
Nero’s face had drained of color. He leaned over the desk toward Elissa. “What of your mother? Constantina?”
“My adoptive mother,” Elissa said. “Honoratus and Agrippina had an affair and I was the result.”
Nero’s voice shook when he spoke, “If what you say is true, why claim your heritage at this late date? Do you hope to overthrow me? Seize the throne? Officially you’re dead. What can you hope to gain?”
“Retribution.”
Elissa didn’t see him draw the sica. Nero leapt over the desk, papers scattering in his wake, and held the knife to her throat—the curved blade an evil smile. “You force me to kill you twice.”
The blade felt cold and razor sharp.
“Let her go,” Mother Amelia said.
“I should kill both of you.”
“Yes,” Elissa said, “both of us—your sister and your unborn child.”
“My unborn child?”
“Rome burns and from union unholy the sister will bring forth a son. Remember the prophecy?”
The blade wavered in his hand.
“Release her,” Mother Amelia said.
Shaking violently, Nero withdrew the sica. “A child?” Like a drunkard, he staggered backward and sank onto his stool. “You bear my son?”
“Your child grows in my womb. The prophecy calls for a son.”
“And I nearly killed him.”
“Murder runs in the family.”
“My son.” Joy flooded Nero’s face as the idea took hold. “Heir to the throne. The perfect bloodline, descended on both sides from Julius Caesar.” He clapped his hands. “I shall name him Apollo, for he will be a god. From Rome’s ashes he will rise like the phoenix.” Throwing back his head, he laughed.
“Not your son. Mine.”
Nero’s laughter ended abruptly. “Don’t threaten me. If necessary, I’ll hold you captive until my son is born.”
“I plan to bear my son in peace.”
Nero started toward her.
Elissa grabbed the sica. Fierce as any lioness, she brandished the blade. “Call the guards and you will die.”
Nero appeared shrunken, dwarfed by his piles of papers—remnants of his burning empire. How had she ever thought him powerful?
“Before all of Rome, you claimed you never bedded me. Before the Collegiate of Pontiffs you accused me of infidelity. Resurrect me from the dead, and I will be your nemesis. All of Rome will learn your vulgar secrets and know you for a liar. Claim this child and you will be despised.”
Still holding the blade, she flung open the door, nearly toppling the sentries.
“Make way for the Vestal Maxima,” she said.
The guards bowed, allowing them to pass.
“Stop her!” Nero shouted.
Fog crept through the basilica, copious and clammy. Through the mist, the dead were watching, their eyes bright as stars. Elissa heard them whisper, felt their touch, as she walked along the vestibule.
“I’ll claim the gods have raised you from the dead,” Nero called. “The priests will pronounce you a goddess.”
“Cleopatra to your Antony?”
“Elissa needs none of your proclamations,” Mother Amelia said. “She is a vestal virgin in the truest sense.”
“Come back, Elissa! Together, we’ll become immortal.” Nero’s voice drifted through clouds of fog, as if from a distant world.
The sica slipped from Elissa’s hand. She felt no hate for her half-brother, only pity. His vision afforded him no light, no hope.
Hope.
She felt a spark take hold, felt it kindling the flame she’d kept buried in her heart.
Darkness cannot persist within the light of a happy soul.
She walked out into the evening. The mist parted, and a sunlit path opened before her. A breeze brought the scent of roses, and she swore she heard Marcus laughing.
Justinus waited for her beside a fountain.
Light shimmered in the spray of water, and sparks swirled through the air. The setting sun stained the sky red-orange, cast everything it touched in bronze. He might have been a statue, a hero or a god. But he was human. A beating heart, a thinking mind.
Love burned in his eyes as Elissa approached.
And in that flame she saw her own divinity.
THE END
Thanks to my writers’ group for all the support over the years: Blake Crouch, Terry Junttonen, Shannon Richardson, Haz Saïd, Dinah Swan, Adam Watson and Douglas Walker. Great thanks and appreciation to my amazing teachers and mentors: Elizabeth Engstrom, Tess Gerritsen, Terry Brooks, John Saul, Karen Joy Fowler, Craig Lesley and Dorothy Allison—to name a few of many. Thanks to John Tullius for creating the Maui Writers’ Retreat, which I was fortunate to attend a number of times, as well as the magical Maui tour to Rome. And thanks to Eldon Thompson (fellow traveler to Rome) for his continuous encouragement, and to my fellow retreater, Tory Hartmann. Thanks to my beta readers: Blake Crouch, Terry Junttonen, Haz Saïd, Leah Morgan and Carol Stoner. Many thanks to Jeroen ten Berg for designing the beautiful cover. Thanks to Terry Roy for her exquisite formatting. And last, but not least, thanks to all the great writers and readers on Kindle Boards.