“Nero has declared a vendetta against our family. He intends to destroy the House of Rubrius.”
“Nonsense. The princeps has shown generosity,” Honoratus said. “His family and ours have always been aligned.”
“You were on good terms with his mother, weren’t you, Dear?” Constantina held her hands over the brazier and Elissa saw they trembled.
“I knew the Empress Agrippina, yes—that was a long time ago. My dear, be careful not to burn yourself. That brazier is hot.”
Constantina paid no attention to her husband’s warning. “To console us in our grief,” she said, “the princeps has bequeathed our family twenty talents of gold.”
“Blood-money to buy your silence,” Elissa said.
“In many ways you’re still a child,” Honoratus said, “but one day you’ll understand—”
“I’m an adult, Pater.”
“And there are things you don’t know about, things—”
“Husband,” Constantina said. “This is not the time or place.”
Elissa glanced from her mother to her father. They were hiding something. “Not the time or place for what?”
“For argument,” Honoratus muttered, twisting his citizen’s ring around his finger. “I will not flee Rome. Duty demands that I remain.”
“But, Pater, your estate may be the next Nero claims.”
Constantina dabbed her eyes with a linen handkerchief. “Perhaps we should consider moving to the countryside.”
“Nonsense, Constantina!”
“I agree with Elissa,” Justinus said. “Your family would be safer in the countryside.”
“Enough! I won’t leave Rome for any reason.”
The gens of Rubrius had sprung from plebian roots, and Elissa’s father was proud of their hard won nobility, proud of his afinity with the descendants of Julius Caesar. But pride clouded his reason.
“Pater, hear me out,” Elissa pleaded. “Nero will stop at nothing.” She glanced toward Flavia who leaned against a pillar, listening.
Her father’s gaze followed. “What are you suggesting?”
“Not suggesting, stating.”
Honoratus turned to his youngest daughter. “To bed, Flavia, and take your mother with you.”
A pall of silence descended on the atrium. Despite the oil lamps, shadows scored the chamber. Elissa sensed the presence of her brother, felt his lemur hovering beside her, urging her to speak.
“We must stand up for truth, Pater.”
“She’s right,” Justinus said. “Nero will stop at nothing.”
“If only it were possible to stop him,” Angerona said.
Honoratus gazed through the open ceiling at the deepening sky as if hoping for divine intervention. “By Jupiter,” he finally said, “I will tolerate no talk of treason in this house. Rome is a great empire, the greatest of all time. We’ve built roads and aqueducts, erected monuments to honor the gods, civilized the world. We must stand unified.”
Elissa pointed to the urn. “He killed Marcus.”
“My son committed suicide.”
“Lie to me, if you want, but don’t lie to yourself, Pater.”
Her father’s sturdy frame seemed to shrink, and he sounded weary, “If Marcus was a traitor, his death was merited.”
“You condone your own son’s murder?” Elissa felt sick, not only to her stomach, but deep within her soul.
“What can I do?” her father said. “If we go against the state, chaos will rule.”
“Chaos
does
rule! His name is Nero.”
“Nero can’t be trusted,” Justinus said. “Rome’s citizens must find a way to overcome his tyranny.”
“What way?” Honoratus sputtered. “The way of treachery?”
“Perhaps the way of Jesus.”
Angerona stared at Justinus with disbelief. “The Jewish zealot?”
Elissa said nothing. She’d heard Justinus speak of this prophet, Jesus of Nazareth, before. Heard him speak of, “The Way.” Rome was tolerant of all religions, even Jews and devotees of Jesus, but what Justinus proposed was blasphemous. The family of Rubrius, a respected gens, could not follow an upstart sect that refused to sacrifice to Roman gods.
Her father’s face flushed red as beetroot. “Do I understand,” he said to Justinus, “you suggest we follow superstitious wanderers? Paupers, slaves, and wayward Jews who bow down to a criminal?”
“Followers of Jesus believe in one almighty God,” Justinus said quietly. “We believe, Jesus, his son, died for our salvation.”
“Outcasts of society! I’ve always thought of you as a son, part of this family. And now, as a father, I’m warning you—”
Spurius returned, bearing a tray of goblets, and talking abruptly ceased. Spurious uncorked a flagon and poured wine.
Elissa glanced from her father to Justinus. In many ways they were alike—stubborn, courageous. She admired Justinus for speaking his mind and standing up to her father. He feared no one. Not even Nero.
Honoratus drank from his goblet in awkward silence.
After a few minutes, Elissa said, “It’s warm in here.”
“I feel cold,” Angerona said. “In any case, we need to leave. Soon it will be dusk, and we’ll be late for the evening ritual.”
“I’ll escort you,” Justinus said.
“My slaves will light your way with torches,” Honoratus offered, his civility returned. “The streets of Rome are dangerous.”
Not as dangerous as Nero’s court, Elissa thought. She glanced at Justinus. Not as dangerous as her own heart. Clutching the book of poetry, she said, “Goodnight, Pater.”
“Goodnight, Daughter. Pray for your brother’s safe passage and offer sacrifice.”
“I will, Pater.”
What good was offering sacrifice, she wondered, to gods whose power faded in the presence of a tyrant? And what sacrifice would that tyrant demand of her family? Once she’d thought of her father as invincible, a hero among mortal men, but now he appeared as tired as a defeated gladiator. He would remain in Rome, not out of courage, but exhaustion, endangering his life and the lives of his family.
Flavia lay on her sleeping couch, staring at the ceiling, blue sky and wisps of painted clouds. But she imagined thunderheads rumbling in the distance, bolts of lightning striking her father’s domus, setting the heavy beams ablaze. Her fingers touched the plaster wall, solid and invincible.
A breeze clattered the shutters of the window, disturbing her turtledoves—secure within their cage. Fellow prisoners. Romulus and Remus had been a gift from Marcus in celebration of her fourteenth birthday. The birds flitted from perch to perch, restless and unsettled, as if they knew the fate that had befallen him.
She focused on a painted cloud, told herself she wouldn’t cry. Not for a traitor.
Marcus had been ten when she was born, four years older than Elissa, and he hadn’t had much use for a baby sister. But Flavia had thought the world of him. He filled the house with friends and laughter, sang songs and told stories. When Marcus was at home, loneliness did not exist.
Unlike now.
Her vision blurred, and a tear fell on the bedcover staining it a darker shade of white. Elissa had left home when Flavia was too young to remember—they were almost strangers. In truth, Marcus had been her only sibling.
Romulus and Remus pecked at their cage.
Flavia tossed aside the coverlet, got up, and peered at the birds through iron bars. Romulus, the larger dove, fluffed his gray feathers.
“Go to sleep,” she said, draping a black cloth over the cage.
The room felt close. She threw open the shutters, resting her elbows on the sill, breathing cool night air. Through tangled branches of the fig tree, she peered down at the courtyard. Moonlight spilled onto paving stones catching a small creature, probably a mouse, as it scurried to the colonnaded walkway. Crickets chirred halfheartedly, bidding their short lives farewell. She breathed in the scent of moldering leaves and fallen apples. Music drifted on a breeze from the twisting lanes of the Subura far below, and she caught the smell of frying onions.
The doorway’s curtain rustled. She hurried back to bed, drew the coverlet over her head, and pretended to sleep.
“Still awake?” her mother said.
Flavia burrowed deeper. Her nose tingled, and she fought the urge to sneeze. She yawned, but the sneeze erupted—not just once, but three loud bursts.
The coverlet was drawn away, and Flavia stared at her mother’s face—worry lines tugged at Constantina’s mouth. She placed an icy palm against Flavia’s forehead. “You feel feverish.”
“I’m fine, Mater.”
“Why is the window open?”
“This room is stuffy.”
Constantina pulled the shutters closed. “You’ll catch your death.”
“We all die. What difference does it make if it’s now or later?” Flavia kicked aside the coverlet. “Was Marcus really a traitor?”
“Go to sleep, child.”
Constantina alighted on the edge of the sleeping couch, her face pinched and tired. Usually, she kept her hair pulled back, every plait neatly secured, but now a silvery strand fell across her forehead.
“Tell me,” Flavia said. “Did Nero really murder Marcus? Elissa told Pater—”
“Eavesdropping is unbecoming in a girl.”
“Is it becoming in a man?”
“Don’t twist my words.” Constantina stood, drew the coverlet around Flavia’s chin. “Close your eyes and go to sleep.”
“If I don’t listen to what others say, how will I learn the truth? No one tells me anything. Was my brother murdered or did he commit suicide?”
Doubt flickered over Constantina’s face, and for a moment Flavia thought her mother’s barricade of platitudes might crack. But taking a deep breath, Constantina fortified herself. “Things will appear different in the morning,” she said, tucking in the coverlet. “You’re too young to concern yourself with the world of men.”
“I’m old enough to wed.”
“And some day soon you will.”
“Who?”
“We’ll leave that for your father to determine.”
“Not Egnatius!”
Constantina picked up a cushion from the floor. “Why is your chamber such a mess?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
Constantina sighed. “Your cousin is quite suitable.”
“He’s a pompous idiot. And he’s done worse than eavesdropping. One night he sneaked into my room.”
The cushion fell from Constantina’s hands.
“He what?”
“When Marcus gave that dinner party, Egnatius thought I was asleep, but—”
“He must have lost his way.”
“No, Mater. He knew exactly where he was. He slid his hands beneath my bedcovers— ”
“You must have been dreaming.”
“—pushed up my tunica, and forced his fingers between my thighs, insisting, as my future husband, it’s his right. He said if I told anyone, he’d claim he’d ruined me.”
Constantina sank onto the bed. “If this is true—”
“It’s true, Mater. I swear on Venus.”
Constantina touched Flavia’s cheek, gazed at her with frightened eyes. “Say nothing of this to your father.”
“Now do you understand why I despise Egnatius?”
“Say nothing to anyone,” Constantina rubbed her temples as if hoping to erase what Flavia had told her. “Reputations are so easily destroyed.”
“Why should I care about his reputation?”
“Not his, yours.”
“Mine? I didn’t do anything. That isn’t fair!”
“Lower your voice, Flavia. It’s time you learned life isn’t always fair, and you must make the best of it.”
“The best of it?”
With lips as cool as melted snow, Constantina kissed Flavia’s forehead. Straightening her robe, she headed for the door.
“Did you marry for love, Mater?”
Constantina paused, her expression troubled. “Your father is a good man, a fine husband—”
“But do you love him? Passionately? Would you die for him?”
“Enough, Flavia.”
“I won’t marry Egnatius. Ever. Not in a hundred, hundred years.”
Constantina’s tone was hard as granite, “As the daughter of a senator, and a member of one of Rome’s leading families, it’s your duty to set an example and abide by your father’s authority.”
“If I can’t marry for love, I won’t marry at all.”
“You will marry whom your father chooses. I expect you to serve your husband well and run an efficient household.” Her voice softened. “At your age I was frightened too.”
Flavia pushed off the coverlet, threw it on the floor. “This room is stifling.”
“When you’re older you will understand.”
“Understand that I’m a slave to men?”
“Goodnight, daughter.” Constantina snuffed the lamp.
Flavia stared into darkness.
Why did her father have the final say over everything? He might be paterfamilias, but even he couldn’t force her to marry stupid Egnatius.
Slipping her hand between her thighs, her fingers sought the place Egnatius had pillaged. His touch had left her dry and raw, but her fingers brought liquid shivers. She breathed the scent of her own musk, closed her eyes, squeezing them, till she saw stars—a whole universe. There had to be more in this world besides marriage, childbearing and drudgery. She thought of Elissa: powerful, respected, yet doomed to live a loveless life.
Swearing on the gods, Venus in particular, Flavia vowed her life would be different. She would be an actress and perform in pantomimes. She would be famous and travel to distant lands. She would be pursued by countless men.
Her fingers rubbed harder, faster.
She would be the envy of every woman in the empire.
Her back arched, and waves of heat rippled through her thighs, her groin, building into lightning bolts, until she thought she’d split in half. She moaned.
A gurgle rose from her throat and she began to giggle—at first the sound a girl would make, then deepening into the robust laughter of a woman.
Spent, she lay on the tussled linens and stared at painted clouds.
The doves cooed.
Weak-kneed, Flavia crawled from her bed, and lifted the cover of the cage.
Romulus and Remus cocked their heads.
“I will die,” she swore to them, “before I marry Egnatius.”
VII days after the Nones of October
Year IX, reign of Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus
Dear Gallus Justinus,
Today, on Fontinalia, I should be weaving garlands to honor the god of springs and fountains. But I feel no cause to celebrate. On this day, nine years ago, Nero claimed the throne. And, since that day, the Tiber flows with blood.
Elissa dipped her stylus into the ink pot.
Today I meet with Nero in his guise as Pontifex Maximus, high priest of the collegiate. An abomination. Proof that, if the gods exist, they have lost their potency.
If the god you follow offers greater strength, please pray for me.
Elissa Rubria Honoria
With a heavy hand she blotted the papyrus.
* * * * *
“We mustn’t keep the Pontifex Maximus waiting,” Mother Amelia called over her shoulder. She walked briskly toward the Regia, official residence of the Collegiate of Pontiffs.
Elissa trailed after her, measuring each step, attempting to appear composed.
The Regia stood across from the House of Vestals, a small palace built by King Numa, bordering the forum. Sentries stood vigil at the gates. She glanced at the marble pilasters inscribed with the Fasti—records of Rome’s history—a history now tainted by the tyranny of Nero.
Dragging her feet, Elissa followed Mother Amelia past the sacred spring, wishing she had come to collect holy water, wishing she had come for any reason other than to meet with Nero.
Guards escorted them up granite steps flanked on either side by columns.
At the door the Major Flamine, high priest of the pontiffs, greeted them and led them through the vestibule. It wasn’t often that a vestal was summoned by the Pontifex Maximus. Marking the solemnity of the occasion, the high priest wore his sacramental robes—the purple-trimmed toga praetexta.
He led them to a tablinum where high-backed chairs stood beside low marble tables and shuttered windows overlooked the Via Sacra.
“Refreshment?” he asked.
Before Mother Amelia or Elissa could answer, he snapped his fingers and two servants appeared. One of them offered a tray of sweets to the priestesses while the other poured pomegranate juice into jewel-studded goblets.
Elissa took a goblet, but didn’t drink.
If she must see Nero, she was anxious to be done with it.
Mother Amelia settled onto a cushioned chair. She sipped her pomegranate juice, dabbed her lips, and helped herself to a date stuffed with pistachios.
“I’ll inform the Pontifex Maximus of your arrival,” the high priest said and left the room.
Elissa ran her tongue over her gums, worrying the double incisor.
“Stop fidgeting, Elissa. Sit. Have a sweet.”
Elissa remained standing. She gazed around the room. The walls were frescoed with exquisite murals. One panel depicted the twins, Romulus and Remus, suckling the she-wolf. Another panel showed the brothers fighting; a third showed Romulus victorious and crowned as king. Rome had been founded on the blood of brothers, and Nero held to the tradition.
She wandered to a window. The shutters had been drawn, muting sounds of the street. Through the slats she saw a man, shaggy haired and bearded, hawking bits of cloth.
“How simple life would be if I were a rag-picker.”
“Thank the gods you’re not.” Mother Amelia perused the tray of sweets and selected a honey cake encrusted with poppy seeds. “Try not to be willful when you see the Pontifex Maximus. Practice obedience.”
The mention of Nero made Elissa cringe. She stared at the rag-picker, envious.
The high priest returned. “The Pontifex Maximus will see you now.”
Mother Amelia smiled, a poppy seed caught in her teeth.
“Not you, Mother,” the high priest said. “The Pontifex Maximus requests a private interview with Priestess Elissa.”
The high priest closed the door against Mother Amelia’s protests and escorted Elissa out into the vestibule. They walked along a white marble corridor.
“Where is the library?” Elissa asked.
The high priest nodded toward an ornate double door.
“Is that where the Sibylline Oracles are housed? I’d like to see them.”
“Women are not permitted to view The Book of Fates,” the priest said, curtly.
“But women wrote the books.”
“The Sibyls merely spoke the prophecies. Priests of Apollo translated them to hexameter.”
Elissa glanced at the door and wondered if they kept it locked.
“Come along,” the priest said. “The Pontifex Maximus awaits you.” At the far end of the corridor he paused before a door, raised his hand and knocked three times.
“Enter,” a voice called from within.
Through a smoky haze of frankincense, Elissa stared in wonder. The chamber was large, at least twenty paces from one end to the other, but it was dimly lit and choked by clutter. Armaments covered the walls: swords, double-headed axes, javelins—not the kind of decoration expected in a sanctuary. Through a high window, the only window in the room, light fell upon a statue of Anubis, the jackal-headed god of the Egyptians, guide to the underworld.
The door shut behind her.
“I come here to contemplate,” said a disembodied voice.
Elissa squinted, trying to decipher who spoke. Beneath the window, Nero sat on an alabaster throne unmoving as a statue. He wore the white toga of the Pontifex Maximus, folds of fine cotton falling with arranged perfection. His curls were crowned with gilded laurel leaves like a Greek Olympian. In one hand he held the eagle-headed scepter, symbol of the empire, in the other hand he held a lyre.
“Apollo welcomes you, Lord of the sun and music’s muse.”
Elissa stared, unsure of how she should respond.
“Bow, when We address you,” Nero said. “And repeat these words: Oh, Great One, how insignificant am I in the glory of Your presence.”
Had he gone completely mad?
“Speak!” He pounded his scepter, startling cobwebs from the ceiling.
“Oh, Great One—” Elissa stammered unable to complete the sentence.
“How insignificant am I—” Nero prompted.
“In the…something...of your presence.”
“Glory! Glory! Glory of My presence!” Nero pounded his scepter, so hard even the floor trembled. “You are disobedient and must be punished.”
“How am I disobedient?”
“Silence!”
Nero hurled the scepter at the wall, narrowly missing Elissa. It clattered to the floor.
She edged toward the door.
“We’ve frightened you.” Nero leaned back in his throne, his face composed and almost pleasant.
“Why have you summoned me?”
“As We said, you’re disobedient. And We believe you doubt Our power.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“I? There is no you. There’s only me. I
am
The Roman Empire. The Pontifex Maximus, your king, your ruler. Your very thoughts are mine. Do you understand?”
“I…yes.”
“We thought you might.” Nero smiled.
Elissa bit her lip, angry at herself for agreeing, but what recourse did she have?
“I’m waiting for your apology,” Nero said.
“Apology for what?”
“You have insulted Us. Your emperor. Your god.”
“How?”
“You said that I can’t sing, but I intend to prove you wrong.” Nero picked up his lyre, cleared his throat and ran a scale.
Was this her punishment?
“I will sing a song, made popular by Menecrates, the famous citharode. Do you know him?” He didn’t wait for an answer. With a strum of his lyre, he broke into the song. His voice was shrill. Midway through, the words escaped him.
When the ordeal finally ended, Elissa clapped half-heartedly.
Nero’s face lit up. “So you agree that We have talent.”
She nodded. It took every bit of her resolve not to rip the lyre from his hands and smash it over his diadem. She imagined the satisfying sound of splintering wood, the pop of catgut strings.
He continued strumming, and when he spoke he sounded cheerful, “Now We will perform a ballad—I composed the lyrics.”
“Then maybe you’ll remember them,” Elissa muttered.
“What?”
“I said your voice rivals Apollo.”
Elissa warned herself she must tread carefully. Nero’s moods were changeable as mercury.
He chuckled. “You’re a goddess among women, Elissa. Enchanting. Have I mentioned you remind me of my mother?”
He struck a melancholy chord. His ballad was heartfelt, if not masterful, a tribute to an unnamed queen who seduced her son then murdered his stepfather to secure the throne. Overcome by guilt, the queen had taken her own life.
“Lovely,” Elissa said, afraid his mood might change again. “I should go.”
“One more.” He dove into a bawdy tune.
Elissa swallowed, her mouth parched. She glanced at the closed door, regretting her decision to forgo the pomegranate juice. Studying the walls of armaments, she tried to imagine which weapon would produce the gravest injury.
The music, although Elissa wouldn’t call it that, came to a halt.
“You’re not listening,” Nero said.
Her eyes snapped to him. “When will this interview end?”
“I want you to summon that whore I call my mother from the dead.”
“What?”
“Bring the she-wolf here right now.”
“I can’t—”
“Can, can, can, you cunt!” Nero stood up from his throne. “Do these words mean anything to you: Rome burns and from union unholy the sister will bring forth a son?”
Elissa’s throat felt raw, and when she spoke her voice sounded strangled, “The Sibylline Prophecy.”
“I found the hexameter tucked inside my mother’s diary.”
“It means nothing to me.”
“It meant something to the whore.” Nero leaned close to Elissa. “I think she spawned a bastard whose bloodline rivals mine. I believe I have a long-lost sibling.”
“If Agrippina bore another child, surely all of Rome would know.”
“She spent ten years in exile far away from Rome. Ten years in obscurity. But that chimera wouldn’t last a week without a snake to plug her hole. The prophecy speaks of unholy union, ‘the sister will bring forth a son.’ What if my mother, sister of Gaius Caligula, conceived a child with him? Gaius banished her for ten years—why?” Nero’s eyes glittered as if he’d eaten opium. “I’ll tell you why. To keep her and his bastard safe from enemies! What if she bore his son, but before the child could be named heir to the throne, Caligula was murdered?”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
Everybody knew Caligula had bedded each of his three sisters—Agrippina, Livilla, and his beloved Drusilla.
“Not just possible, but probable. Like me, my uncle longed for an heir. If you remember, he was a most expectant father, so anxious for Drusilla’s bastard to be born he plucked the infant from her womb.”
“By disemboweling her.”
“Unfortunate.”
“For the mother and the child.”
“But not for my long lost brother. I’m his only rival.”
Elissa measured her words, “If this long-lost brother does exist, surely he would have laid claim to the throne by now.”
“Did I ask for your opinion?” Spittle flew from Nero’s mouth. “My queen is barren. Since the death of our daughter, Poppaea’s womb has been a desert. She’s dry as dirt, at least with me. Why should my bastard brother risk his life by declaring his existence, claiming he’s the rightful heir, when he need only bide his time until my death? What if it’s
he
who masterminds my assassination?”
Elissa eyed him warily.
“Help me.” Hands open like a supplicant, he approached her. “Conjure up the stinking whore. She knows the truth.”
“I—” Elissa’s voice caught in her throat.
“Do it!”
He moved toward her, pushing her against the wall, the heat of his body causing her to sweat, his breathing, rapid and uneven, rasping in her ear. Reaching above her head, he removed a knife from his collection. A pearl handled secespita, the narrow blade designed for sacrifice.
Elissa opened her mouth to scream.
“Don’t.” Nero pointed the secespita at her throat. “Your brother plotted with my long-lost brother, didn’t he?”
Elissa shook her head, her eyes focused on the knife.
“I could kill you now,” Nero said. “But I have other plans for you.” He drew the blade over his palm then took her hand in his, gently as a lover, and drew the blade again.
Blood beaded in her hand.
Pressing his palm against hers, he said, “My great-grandfather worshiped an Egyptian queen, dark and powerful like you. Be Cleopatra to my Antony.”
He’s madder than Caligula, Elissa thought.
“I’ll make you immortal. Declare you a goddess, and together we’ll conceive the heir to Rome.”
She tore out of his grasp, ran to the door and flung it open. Blood dripping from her hand, she bolted down the corridor.
End of Part One