Free Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome by Suzanne Tyrpak

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.

CHAPTER IX
     
    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