The Raven and the Rose (7 page)

Septimus put his hand on Marcus’ shoulder. “What is wrong? Is there something I can do to help?”

Marcus looked at him. “Perhaps there is.”

Septimus waited.

“Do you know the upcoming schedule of the Vestal Virgins?” Marcus asked.

“The schedule of the Vestal Virgins?” Septimus repeated stupidly, staring at him.

“Yes, when they perform the sacrifices, when they travel to the sacred spring for water, you know what I mean. Your father is the Senate counsel to the Vestals, isn’t he? Can you get the information for me?”

“Why in the name of Jove do you want to know?” Septimus demanded.

“I am interested.”

“So it would seem. What, may I ask, is responsible for this new devotion to the goddess Vesta?”

Marcus was silent.

“Did you meet a woman while observing public sacrifice at the temple?” Septimus inquired. Then his expression changed. “Marcus, you must be joking. Not one of the virgins!”

“Yes. I saw her when I went to the Aedes with Caesar to change his will.”

Septimus merely stared at him in amazement.

“Don’t look at me that way. I want to see her again. Will you help me?”

“Corvus, you are deranged. Put her out of your mind. The idea is impossible.”
 

“I haven’t done anything. I just want to observe her from a distance.”

“To what purpose? To torment yourself? There is no future in it, my friend. If you defile a Vestal, SHE will be buried alive for breaking her vows and even your illustrious army career will not save YOU. I don’t care how many successful campaigns you have seen or how many times you have received the laurel or carried the bay leaf in a triumph, the Senate and the magistrates will give you a life sentence to the mines in Numidia! And you will be expected to throw yourself on your sword, unable to bear the shame of it.”

“You’re getting a bit ahead of things, Septimus. I want to have another look at her, that’s all.”
 

“And moon around the temple like a lovesick schoolboy? That will undoubtedly enhance your glorious reputation.”

“Watching a public sacrifice will hardly be making a spectacle of myself. There is always a crowd at such events and I will be one of many.”

Septimus shook his head. “I don’t like it, Marcus.”

“Can you do it?”

Septimus shrugged.
 

“Well?”

“A copy of the Vestals’ schedule is on my father’s desk. He gets it every term to co-ordinate the Senate sessions with their events.”
 

“May I see it?”

Septimus stared into the distance and sighed.

“Septimus?”

The tribune shook his head and said, “I know I will be sorry I ever got involved in this.”

“I only need to see it briefly.”

Septimus held his finger under Marcus’ nose. “I have to put it back before dinner is over, I don’t want him to miss it.”

Marcus nodded.

“Wait here.”

Marcus stood looking out over the garden for what seemed like a long time before he heard Septimus return. He whirled to see his friend holding a sheet of parchment covered with the careful lettering of a Greek scribe. He snatched it.

“Careful with that!” Septimus hissed.

Marcus held the paper up to the light of a torch burning in a corner of the portico.

“She’s sacrificing tomorrow morning at dawn and going to the spring in five days,” he said.

Septimus peered over his shoulder, matching up the times with the names. “Julia Rosalba Casca?” he whispered.

Marcus handed him the paper.

“You are truly deranged, Marcus. Do you have any idea who she is?”

“The loveliest woman I have ever seen.”

“The most dangerous woman you have ever seen. She’s the younger daughter of the late Tullius Casca and the granddaughter of Decimus Gnaeus Casca, Caesar’s great enemy!”

“I care nothing for politics, Septimus, surely you must know that.”

“You’ll care if it comes to civil war, as it certainly may. Aside from the fact that she’s a Vestal, and untouchable for that reason, she’s allied with the house and family of your mentor’s bitterest rival.”

Marcus said nothing.

Septimus held up his hand. “I will not be a party to this madness.”

“I’m not asking you to be a party to anything. You have done enough just getting me this information.”

“And I should return it before dinner is over,” Marcus said, casting a glance back toward the house. He took a step and then hesitated. “Marcus, be careful. I am not joking, this is serious business.”

“I understand that,” Marcus said.
 

“I don’t think you do. You were not raised in Rome and you don’t know the reverence given to the Vestals or the extreme outrage which follows when one of them is accused of wrongdoing. I saw a Vestal buried alive at the Campus Sceleratus when I was a young boy and, believe me, I have never forgotten it. She was convicted on the testimony of slaves, slaves who can be bribed, who can be tortured until they will say almost anything, but nothing could save her. It was a truly horrible death.”

“I will not put the rosalba in danger,” Marcus said softly. “I just want to see her.”

Both of them heard a sound from inside and Septimus held his finger to his lips, they slipped back into the house through a side door. Marcus smiled and nodded when the slave who had made the noise came out and threw a pan of water into the garden.

Then he went back to his thoughts.

* * *

Julia bent her head as Margo draped the suffibulum, a rectangular piece of white cloth bordered by a purple stripe, over her head and then fastened it on her breast with an ornamented brooch. The servant straightened the veil and then stepped back, nodding her approval.

“You are ready. Go now, and walk quickly. Dawn will be breaking soon.”

Julia left her suite, picking up her temple guard as she walked through the Atrium and then through the altar door of the temple. Inside a crowd had already gathered, even though the first streaks of red were just showing in the sky and it would be several minutes before the light streamed through the rose window in the stuccoed ceiling and slanted onto the altar.

Then the sacrifice could begin.

The salt cakes,
mola salsa
, and wine and oil were already in place near the sacred fire, which burned brightly at the foot of a three times life size statue of the goddess. Julia took her place in front of the altar and bowed her head, waiting for the rays of the sun to fall into place and allow her to begin.

When the moment came, she raised her arms, and a hush fell over the expectant crowd. She began to chant the prayers for the safety of the Roman state as she broke up the cakes and dropped the pieces into the fire, which consumed them immediately. Then she poured wine, followed by oil, onto the fire, stepping back as the flames leaped up and she felt their warmth on her skin. The crowd responded with a murmur of awe.
 

Julia bowed low and continued the prayers until the fire died down again, then sprinkled the altar with spring water, a ceremonial cleansing that was performed at each new moon. At the conclusion of the sacrifice she lay prostrate before the altar and begged Vesta to protect all Roman citizens, wherever in the world they might be, and then rose to turn and face the crowd, a signal that they might then petition the goddess for their personal intentions.

At the front of the group, taller than everyone else and dressed in his full uniform, was the centurion she had seen at the revising of Caesar’s will.

Julia held his gaze for a long moment, her heart beginning to pound, and then deliberately looked away. She forced her gaze to include the whole assembly before she turned back to the altar, bowed, and then exited into the hall which led to the Atrium.

Once there, she leaned against the wall, feeling weak and disoriented.

Why had he come? She had never seen him at a sacrifice before, was it a coincidence or was he there because they had met in the recording room of the Aedes? And if that was so, what did he hope to accomplish by viewing her sacrifice?

He must know that any relationship between them was impossible.

She certainly knew it, and she was still trembling like a cornered hare, so much so that her temple guards were staring at her with concern.
 

She waved them away, then gathered her skirts into her hands and ran all the way back to her room.

Chapter 3

Verrix lounged at the entrance to the stall where Larthia was having her portrait painted, his tall frame blocking the sun.

“Will you tell that barbarian to move?” the artist said testily to Larthia. “I can’t even see what I’m doing.”

“Verrix, stand to one side so that Endymion can take advantage of the light,” Larthia called obediently to her bodyguard.

Verrix took two steps to the left and resumed his watchful pose, his eyes on the street. Endymion mixed two colors on his palette to achieve the shade he wanted and said a low tone, “Where did you pick him up?”
 

Larthia sighed. “My grandfather bought him for me.”

“Why?”

“He’s supposed to be protecting me from Casca’s enemies,” Larthia replied resignedly.

“Well, Jove knows the old man has plenty of those,” Endymion said. He tilted Larthia’s chin up and added, “What did you call him just then?”

“Verrix.”

The Greek rolled his eyes. “Rix, rax, rux, they all have names like that, they’re flooding into Rome from the Gallic colonies every day. Even when they supposedly speak Latin I can’t understand a word they’re saying.”

Larthia laughed. “Who are you to talk? You’re from Crete and have an accent yourself.”

The Greek freedman shrugged. “At least I’m not a slave any more and I have a marketable skill. These people are just a burden on the tax rolls, they work for almost nothing so that Roman citizens suffer.”

Verrix, who could surely hear some of their conversation, maintained a neutral expression as his eyes methodically scanned the street.

“He would make a good model, though,” Endymion added, eyeing the slave judiciously. “He’s perfectly proportioned. I don’t suppose you’d lend him out to me for my sculpture class.”

Larthia shot the artist a sidelong glance. “Endymion, his job is to protect my body, not display his own. You’ll have to find some other unfortunate who will pose for the meager wages you pay.”

“Pity,” Endymion said, daubing paint on his canvas. “I’m going to be as successful as Praxiteles one day and getting a reputation as my model could make him famous.”

“Not everyone wants to be famous,” Larthia replied, her tone muted.

“No?”

“No, Endymion. Some of us just want to be happy.”

Verrix shifted his blue gaze from the bustling street to his mistress’ face, but she was gazing into the distance, maintaining her “model” pose.

“There, I think that should do it,” Endymion said with satisfaction. “We’ll let that set and then if you come back in three days I’m sure I can finish it.”

“May I just have a peek at it?” Larthia asked.

“No. You can’t see it until it’s finished.” Endymion recapped his vials of vegetable tints and dropped his fur tipped brushes into a cup. “But I do think you will be very pleased.”

“Let’s hope the tanners guild will be very pleased. They’re paying for it.”

“Oh yes, that’s right, I’d forgotten. Are you their new patroness?”

“My husband was their patron before he died. I’m continuing the tradition.”

“You don’t sound very happy about it,” Endymion commented, wiping his hands on a cloth and dropping a cover over the painting. The wet paint was protected by a wooden frame which kept the cover from touching it.

“Every guild in Rome is clamoring for my patronage,” Larthia replied, standing and shaking out the skirt of her gown. “It’s not my name they want, but the Sejanus money.”

“They want both, Lady Sejana. Finances and publicity are equally important to ambitious tradesmen.”

“Speaking of finances, don’t forget the discount you promised me for coming to your stall.”

“You’ll get it. Letting the passersby see you sitting here posing is worth far more to me than painting you in the comfort of your parlor.”

 
Larthia nodded wearily, picking up the hem of her diploidion and tossing it over her shoulder. “I will see you in three days, Endymion, first thing in the morning.”

Endymion bowed.

Verrix stepped aside as Larthia moved past him, out of the artist’s stall and into the busy street. Larthia walked a short distance and then stopped to examine a pile of silks displayed on a broad wooden table.

“When did these come in?” she said to the tradesman, a dark eyed Parthian with a curling black beard and a tiered and braided headdress.

“Just this morning, mistress,” he replied in execrable Latin, bowing.