Elissa moved toward the open door, peered into the chamber.
Light fell through a high window, illuminating the jewel tone colors of a Persian carpet, one of many strewn across the alabaster floor. Along muraled walls, slaves stood in attendance, their eyes widening at her appearance. At the far end of the chamber Nero reclined on a couch, his curls buoyed by silk cushions, his robe bunched around his gut. He grimaced.
Whether in pleasure or pain, Elissa wasn’t certain.
A concubine knelt before him, yellow hair streaming over Nero’s lap.
Elissa stood, overcome by shock, rooted by curiosity. Of course, she had seen paintings, heard whispered tales of lust, but her imagination had not come close—
Nero glanced at her, and tried to sit. The concubine’s head bobbed frantically and Nero fell back on his cushions. “I told Tigellinus not yet.”
“I’ve come about my brother.”
Nero cuffed the concubine. “Hurry up and finish.”
The concubine complied and Nero gasped.
The head of yellow curls turned toward Elissa. A grin split the bearded face.
Eyes wide, Elissa backed toward the door.
“No need to leave.” Amusement played on Nero’s face. “Corrupting a vestal virgin, whatever would my mother say? Thank Jupiter she’s dead.”
“Rome is better off without Agrippina,” the whore said.
Nero slapped the concubine, and he yelped. “Now, fetch my robe like a good bitch.”
The whore jumped to his feet and retrieved the garment.
“Excuse me, Priestess Elissa," Nero said. “I wasn’t expecting you just yet.” He draped himself in shimmering brocade and cocked an eyebrow. “Elisssaaah,” he said, opening his mouth so wide she stared into the cavity. “Your name is most unusual. Phoenician, I believe.”
“I took the name of my great-grandmother. She came from Athens.”
“A daughter of Apollo. How divine.” Nero resettled on the couch and two slaves fluffed the cushions behind his neck. “Your name refers to Elysium, dwelling place of happy souls. Are you a happy soul, Elissa?”
“I want you to pardon my brother.”
“The traitor?”
“After all my family has done for you—”
“Nothing lately.”
“—you treat my brother like a common criminal.”
The whore poured rose-scented oil into his palms, reached for Nero’s foot.
“Not now.” Nero kicked him.
Elissa wanted to escape, but forced herself to forge ahead. “By my authority as a vestal virgin,” she said, “I demand that you—”
“Demand?”
Nero squinted at her through the emerald monocle he wore around his neck, a polished stone as large as an apricot. He sniffed and made a face.
“What’s that unpleasant smell?”
“I came by foot. A wagon splashed—”
“Douse yourself.” He tossed the flask of scented oil to her. “How old are you, Elissa? Nineteen, maybe twenty? Vestals are known for their perfection, but your nose is too long, your eyes too wide, your lips too narrow, and your complexion freckled.”
“From working in the garden.”
“I’ve watched you. My palace affords me a fine view of the House of Vestals, of the courtyard and the gardens.”
“I’d better go.”
“What of your dear brother? Forgotten already?”
The question stopped her.
Nero crooked his finger. “Come closer.” She took a step toward him. “Open your mouth.”
“Why?”
“Because I tell you to.”
She clamped her lips shut.
“You’re a she-wolf like my mother. Like her, you bear the double fangs—the mark of Fortuna.”
“You flatter me.”
She-wolf was another name for whore. Elissa ran her tongue over her gums and felt the deformity, the sharp point of a second incisor above her right canine. The tooth was an embarrassment. More so, the comparison to Agrippina. In order to gain power, Nero’s mother had bedded scores of men including her brother, Caligula. Many of the men she coupled with died suspiciously. Her second husband lived only long enough to change his will in Agrippina’s favor; the third—her doddering uncle, Claudius—died swiftly after naming Nero heir to the empire.
“Women should be savored like fine wine,” Nero said. “I prefer full-bodied red to insipid white. My mother was dark and spicy, begging to be drunk. Like you.”
He grabbed Elissa’s wrist.
“Remove your hand,” she said.
“Forbidden fruit is so enticing.”
“Remove it.”
“Rules are made for commoners. That’s what Uncle Gaius always said.”
Before wise men murdered him. If Nero considered Gaius Caligula a fine example of a princeps, Rome was headed for disaster.
Nero tightened his grip and Elissa flinched. He drew her down onto the couch, so close to him that she could taste the mint leaves on his breath.
“What is the life of Marcus worth?” he said.
“Let me go or I’ll report you to—”
“Is that a threat?”
“No man may touch a vestal.”
“No mortal man.” Nero snapped his fingers at the whore. “Tell Tigellinus to call off the lions. Tell him I will spare Marcus Rubrius from fighting, in honor of his sister. Go now, all of you.”
The whore and the slaves backed out of the room.
“Thank you, Caesar,” Elissa said. Worry lifted from her heart. She wanted to dance, to shout.
Nero pulled her back onto the cushions. “Not you, Elissa.”
“My brother—”
“Is tiresome. But everyone has their price.” Nero plucked a fig from a bowl of fruit, shoved it in his mouth.
Elissa thought of a stuffed pig, imagined Nero, plump and pink, roasting on a spit. She said, “Your clemency is legend, Caesar.”
“You put me in a quandary Elissa. Lately, I’ve been puzzling, what does it mean for a vestal virgin to be sacrosanct? I concede vestals must remain pure in order to uphold the purity of the sacred fire for the good of the empire. They must be held in reverence, untouched by any man, but surely not untouched by gods.”
He selected a plum. His fingers—elegantly manicured, more like a woman’s than a man’s—pressed the fruit between her lips.
She spat it on the floor.
“Don’t care for plums?” Nero sighed. “I find it close in here, don’t you? Allow me to remove this rag.” He pushed aside her palla, exposing her hair. “Your best feature. Blacker than obsidian.”
Gooseflesh rose along Elissa’s arms as he drew the palla from her shoulders, allowing the shawl to slip onto the floor. Within the bodice of her stola, she felt the page of the letter, felt the heat of her words. It gave her strength to know she’d written the truth—words only a friend would understand.
Nero loosened the fillet of white ribbons that held her curls in place.
“You no longer wear the shorn locks of a novice.”
“I’m fully consecrated.”
He lifted her chin.
She gazed into his face—eyes cold as the winter sea, lips well-formed yet cruel. If not for his petulant expression, he might be handsome.
“I take after my father,” he said. “Bronze curls, gray eyes, a classic nose.”
“I notice the resemblance.” Elissa couldn’t help but smile.
Dometius had been a swindler and a cheat. Once, when driving his coach through a sleepy village, he’d whipped up his horses and trampled a small boy for sport. Upon seeing his newborn son, Dometius had stated that, like him, Nero was destined to be loathsome.
“You find me amusing?” Nero asked.
“Not in the least.”
“You lack humility.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Did the Vestal Maxima grant you permission to visit me alone?”
“I came at your request.”
“You came because you wanted to.”
His stare unsettled her.
“You’re shivering.” He handed her the palla.
She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders, drew the wool over her head. “I must go.”
“Not yet.”
Nero poured wine into a chalice, added water and a pearl. He handed her the cup. “Seawater lends the tang of salt, the pearl a hint of mystery. Did you really believe I’d throw your brother to the beasts? My dearest friend.”
She sipped the blood-red liquid, imagining the lions, torn from their home in Africa, starving as they paced their cells. The wine tasted brackish.
“Does your brother plan to have me assassinated?”
Nearly choking on the wine, Elissa sputtered, “No.”
“Perhaps I have been misinformed.”
Nero headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To see your brother.” Nero’s mouth twisted in a smile. His eyes cut through her like a blade. “Please join me.”
* * * * *
Elissa peeked through curtains, into the arena. Nero stood beside her, observing the spectacle through the green twilight of his monocle.
The door opened behind them. Hoping to see Marcus, Elissa turned.
Tigellinus entered. A snarl tugged at his upper lip, distorting the scar.
“Is my brother coming?”
“Soon.”
Elissa gazed through the window. Slaves were dragging firewood across the sand. They lay down kindling, crisscrossing branches, stacking logs to build a pyre.
Mimes circled the arena, holding up placards:
THE DEATH OF HERCULES
“A play is to be performed?” Elissa glanced at Nero.
He nodded. “A reenactment. I’m sure it will prove amusing.”
“I adore theater.”
“Excellent. I offer this performance as a gift to you. It will be memorable, I promise.” Nero ran his fingers through his waves of hair. The signet ring that had once belonged to Julius Caesar glistened on his hand. “Tigellinus,” he said, “Is everything in order?”
The prefect gave a thumbs-up sign.
The clash of cymbals, followed by a drum-roll, announced the beginning of the theatrical. Elissa parted the curtains to gain a better view. Armed guards led an elephant across the sand, the largest animal she’d ever seen. When they reached the imperial box, they paused.
“The pachyderm represents Nessus the centaur,” Nero said. “I chose the beast myself. See how the tusks are serrated and filed to points? I think it will provide more drama than a common horse. Don’t you agree Elissa?”
“The poor beast seems docile.”
“Not for long.”
Elissa glanced at Nero then the elephant. With one thrust those tusks could gore a man, and the trunk might fling him to his death. The armored guards encircled the beast, goading it with javelins, scorching its hide with glowing irons. The elephant stamped its mammoth feet and kicked up dust. With a battle-cry, the men raised their javelins and let them sail.
The great beast reared and bellowed.
Elissa turned her face away and said, “This is horrible.”
“You’re missing the best part.” Nero grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at the arena. A man, wearing only a loincloth, was being rolled around the arena in a small two-wheeled cart, his back strapped to a plank, his arms and legs fettered with iron chains.
From the front row to the bleachers the mob stamped their feet and yelled, “Hercules! Hercules! Hercules!”
Aristocrats, seated closest to the action, leaned forward on their padded benches. A well known Equestrian stumbled toward the railing, teetered over, and splashed into the moat. Arms thrashing, he showered onlookers with muck. Others, equally as drunk, dove in after him.
The prisoner rolled toward the Imperial box and the cart stopped. A mask depicting Hercules hid his face, yet he seemed familiar. His build, the tilt of his head, the flaxen curls—the same color as Flavia’s.
“Bastard!” Elissa turned to Nero, raised her hand to slap his face.
He caught her wrist and wrenched her arm behind her back. She tried to scream, but he clamped his hand over her mouth. Tigellinus closed the curtain so there would be no witnesses.
“Your brother is a natural.” Nero pulled Elissa’s arm until she winced. “And I’ve saved a special role for you: Deianira—the wife of Hercules who kills her husband by mistake. I’m sure you’ll play her to perfection.”
He nodded at Tigellinus and he retrieved a gilded box. The prefect lifted the lid.
A garment lay inside, a shirt of linen.
“Designed by Locusta,” Nero said.
Elissa felt sick.
Locusta was a sorceress, notorious for lethal recipes. Stews seasoned with Fool’s Parsley, rabbits that had feasted on Belladonna, sweet Physic nuts from Africa that left a deadly aftertaste.
Elissa shook her head, trying to free herself from Nero. She couldn’t talk, could barely breathe.
“As Deianira,” Nero said, “you will present this robe to your beloved Hercules.”
Elissa bit Nero’s palm until she tasted salt.
“Bitch! The she-wolf’s bitten me.”
Elissa ran for door. Before she reached it, Tigellinus had drawn his dagger.
“No need for violence,” Nero said, “just yet.” He sucked his wounded palm. “You will cooperate, Elissa Rubria Honoria, or I’ll eat your whole family for dinner starting with your little sister.”
“Flavia is just a child.”
“Your choice. Play the part or sacrifice your sister. Either way your brother dies.”
The lanista undid the fetters, and iron clattered to the ground.
Legs numb from the bindings, Marcus stumbled from the cart.
Through the slits of his mask he saw a behemoth, tusks sharpened to deadly points and serrated, so they might saw a man in half. Fear shot through his legs, making it difficult to stand.
The lanista thrust a length of rope at him, handed him a dagger, and said, “Here you go, Hercules.”
The rope was no longer than a forearm and, against an elephant’s hide, the dagger would do no more damage than a needle. Goaded by hot irons, the beast raised its trunk and trumpeted. The blast sent Marcus reeling back. The elephant raised its tree-stump of a foot, and Marcus imagined his skull splintering beneath the weight.
He thanked the gods that his family wasn’t present to witness his desecration. The arrest and sentencing had happened so quickly, he wondered if they even knew.
The elephant lowered its tusks, preparing to charge. The serrated ivory, glistening in the sunlight, made the snap of a shark’s jaws seem inviting.
Marcus ripped off his mask, prepared to meet his executioner. In one hand he gripped the rope, in the other the dagger.
The elephant raised its head, stopped pawing the sand and stood still, calmly regarding Marcus—its eyes surprisingly intelligent. Marcus could have sworn that he saw tears. He let the rope slip from his hand.
“Coward,” the lanista called from a safe distance. “Hercules stood up to Nessus.”
“I refuse to fight.”
“I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Armed with a branding iron and a shield, the lanista charged.
Marcus lunged at him, his dagger aimed for the lanista’s chest. But the shield deflected him. The dagger flew into the air and landed somewhere in the sand.
The lanista jabbed the poker at the elephant, searing the beast’s underbelly.
The elephant roared. Its trunk, swinging wildly, knocked the iron from the lanista’s hand. The trunk swung again, slamming the lanista to the ground. The trunk snaked around his body, picked him up as if he were a sack of barley, and raised him high into the air. A stain bloomed down the front of lanista’s tunic as he swung back and forth, screaming for help. The crowd cheered as he plummeted.
“Kill the beast,” he called out in a rasping voice.
The elephant lowered its tusks, eyes focused on its enemy.
The lanista stumbled to his feet, sandals slipping in the sand as he staggered toward the moat, his face a mask of terror. Before he reached the water, a tusk ripped through his gut and his screams shot through the amphitheater.
The crowd pushed and shoved, scrambling over benches, surging toward the moat, to gain a better view.
With a fling of its massive head, the elephant tossed the lanista as if he were a broken doll. He somersaulted toward the moat, clawing at the air, shrieking as he crashed into the water. His shrieking stopped, but now the mob was screaming. The corpse floated to the surface, pink foam bubbling from the gash.
Gladiators fell upon the elephant, stabbing it with javelins, hacking at its hide with swords.
Marcus looked around the arena, saw his fellow countrymen, the cream of the empire, shouting, cheering, reveling in the bath of blood. His gaze fell on a boy who sat beside his father, eating honey cake. Their eyes met—the boy’s expression mildly curious as if viewing a puppet show. Popping the last bite of cake into his mouth, he licked his fingers.
Through a haze of dusty sand, Marcus stumbled toward the exit. If he could make it to the archway, make it to the corridor that ran beneath the stalls, the dim light of the passageway might serve as protection.
A hand clamped his shoulder.
“Your performance isn’t over yet.”
Tigellinus dragged him back to the arena.
A girl ran toward him, her hair in disarray, her face distraught.
“Elissa?”
His sister always had more bravery than sense. This past year she’d become a woman, the type to turn men’s heads. Until that moment Marcus had managed to feign courage, but now his voice faltered, “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I had to come.” Her eyes darted toward Tigellinus. He grasped Marcus by the shoulder, in the other hand he held a gilded box.
“And our parents?”
“I don’t think they know.”
Tigellinus forced the box into Elissa’s hands. “Give Hercules his gift.”
She let the box fall to the sand, and Marcus stooped to pick it up.
“Don’t touch it,” Elissa said.
“What is it?”
Tigellinus handed the box to Marcus. Crafted of bronze and painted with gold leaf, the box felt leaden.
“A gift from the emperor,” Tigellinus said. “Open it, if your care for your family.”
Marcus lifted the lid, expecting a nest of vipers. “It’s a robe.” The tunic was made of the finest linen, pale as moonlight. A robe fit for a hero.
“The robe of Hercules,” Tigellinus said.
Marcus knew the story well. His eyes met Elissa’s. “And you’re to play Deianira.”
“Don’t put it on, I beg you.”
“And risk our family?” Marcus saw despair in his sister’s eyes, and knew no way to comfort her. “It’s a gift from Nero, self-declared god of Rome. We mortals don’t possess the power to change the storyline, Elissa.”
“It’s my fault. I could have stopped him. I could have given myself—”
Marcus touched his sister’s lips. “Save that for the one you love.” Her face blanched. “Your heart shines in your eyes, little sister. There are few people I trust, but you are one, and Justinus another. Now let’s see how this story ends.”
He lifted the tunic from the box, displaying the robe so even spectators on the highest benches could see its splendor. The people looked like colored dots set against the sky—so small, so insignificant, in the grand scheme of things. Blood rushed through his arms as he raised the robe over his head, turning slowly in a circle, taking in the whole arena. The sun warmed his back, and heat flooded his body, transforming him, just for this moment, into a hero.
“Hercules,” the mob shouted. “Hercules! Hercules!”
Ignoring his sister’s protests, Marcus drew the robe over his head. It fit to perfection. The fabric, smooth and silken, embraced his skin. He felt a prickling sensation, and then a sting. As poison seeped into his pores, the people in the bleachers blurred. A drilling noise shot through his ears and shards of light split his vision. Better to stare directly at the sun, even at the cost of being blinded, than remain shrouded in lies. “I’m paying for the privilege of speaking truth,” he tried to shout, even as his throat was closing.
The crowd yelled and stamped their feet, standing on the benches, climbing on each others’ shoulders. The world spun crazily, a swirling collage of color, a cacophony of sound. Marcus stumbled.
Elissa reached for him, but Tigellinus lowered his sword separating her from her brother. “For the gods’ sake,” she shouted, “for the sake of our parents, take off the robe.”
Sweat poured down her brother’s face and his eyes shined unnaturally. She stood by helplessly as the heat from his body warmed the fabric, releasing Locusta’s venom. His face deepened to scarlet. Welts erupted on his arms and legs, pustules the size of grapes. With a moan, he fell to his knees. Scooping up sand, he rubbed the grit against his skin until the sores oozed blood.
Risking the sword of Tigellinus, Elissa lunged at Marcus. She clawed the robe tearing fabric from her brother’s body, but the cloth adhered to his skin and came away with strips of flesh.
“Hercules,” the crowd roared. “Hercules! Hercules!”
“Call for a physician,” she yelled at Tigellinus. “There must be an antidote.”
Marcus lifted his face toward the sun, his pupils dilated, bile gurgling from his lips. He clutched his throat, his body trembling, digging his fingernails into his skin—scratching, ripping.
“Lean on me,” Elissa said, gathering him into her arms.
“I’m cold,” he whispered as he fell against her warmth, curling into a fetal position.
She wrapped him in her palla, rocked him like a child.
The mob’s chant grew deafening.
“Let him go,” Tigellinus said, his voice almost gentle. “Your brother dies a hero.”
Guards entered the arena, carrying a bier.
Elissa held onto Marcus as they lifted him, but finally she had to let him go. He no longer struggled. The guards set the bier on their shoulders and carried him toward the center of arena where the pyre waited. Carefully, they climbed the scaffolding. Ten feet above the ground, they placed Marcus on the pyre, upright so the crowd could watch him burn.
“A torch,” Tigellinus ordered.
The amphitheater grew quiet.
Elissa raised her arms to speak, all eyes focused on her—a woman in a filthy robe, an unknown actor who played the part of Deianira so convincingly. She shouted, “I, Elissa Rubria Honoria, vestal virgin, priestess of the sacred flame—”
A rumbling sound ran through the mob.
“—declare my brother, Marcus, is not a traitor. He planned to restore the Republic, put an end to tyranny, injustice—” Her voice broke with a sob.
“I know Marcus,” someone shouted from the crowd. “He’s a man of learning.”
“A man of honor,” called another.
“A hero.”
“Hercules!”
“Marcus Rubrius Honoratus! Marcus Rubrius Honoratus!” the crowd chanted—a conclamatio as at a proper funeral.
Drums rolled and trumpets blasted, and all eyes turned to the imperial box.
Nero stood on the balcony, resplendent in spangled robes. Crowned by a golden diadem, he looked like a god. He raised his hand, and the chanting ceased.
“Marcus Rubrius Honoratus has been found guilty of treason,” Nero said, in the booming voice of a trained actor. “He plotted to assassinate me, Princeps of The Roman Empire. Those who would have him live are traitors to the state.”
“My brother is innocent!” Elissa’s protests were drowned by booing. How easily the mob turned.
“Shall the traitor live or die?” Nero gave the death sign, and the mob mimicked him. “The vote of the people stands.”
With a torch, Tigellinus ignited the pyre.
Wind raced across the arena, acting as a bellows. Elissa’s screams were swallowed by the roar of the crowd, the roar of flames, her brother’s howls. She couldn’t watch. She listened to the crack of fire, fed by her brother’s bones, fueled by Nero. The princeps stood above crowd, watching from his balcony.
A gust of wind sent sparks swirling toward the indifferent heavens. If Marcus could be murdered, the gods were powerless. And if the gods were powerless, who would mete out justice?
“Pay to the dead what to the dead is due,” Elissa said aloud.
And vengeance was due Marcus.
She moved toward the inferno, heat scalding her eyes, singeing her hair. Had not the gods appointed her a vestal virgin—keeper of the sacred flame, symbol of Rome’s purity? If the gods refused to act, she would.
She smeared her face with sand and ash.
Nero must receive retribution, and she would deliver it.