Free Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome by Suzanne Tyrpak Page B

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.”

CHAPTER X
     
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,