Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome by Suzanne Tyrpak

proof that the aristocrats had won the competition. Flies buzzed around congealing blood. She hurried past.
    Someone tugged at her stola. Afraid she’d been recognized she prepared an explanation and turned to see a boy disappearing in the crowd. She felt for her money pouch. Gone. Wanting to avoid a scene, she hurried on. But without money to hire a litter, she’d have to walk. She massaged her forehead, felt a headache coming on.
    Smoke billowed from an alleyway, and the greasy smell of burning flesh made her stomach turn. Rome was prone to fires, and fire laws were strict, but during festivals people ignored regulations. Braziers were set out in the street and slabs of spiced mutton, beef, and pork roasted over open flames, reminding her of funeral pyres.
    The throbbing in her temples became a splitting ache.
    A band of bodyguards marched down the center of the street, forcing pedestrians into the gutter. Pressed against the wall, Elissa watched a litter pass, slaves groaning under the weight.
    Usually, she didn’t notice the disparity between rich and poor, but lacking means to ride gave her a new perspective. Head bent, as she trudged along the road leading to the Esquiline, she considered what it must be like to live in poverty, to starve while others feasted, to perform back-breaking labor for a pittance, to suffer illness until life’s drudgery became impossible. By the time she reached her father’s domus pain pressed deep into her skull.
    The day was warm for mid-October. She longed to rest beneath a cedar tree, breathe the scent of pine. Wearily, she climbed the steps, lifted the bronze knocker. Before it fell, the door opened.
    Cerberus leapt through the entryway, jumping up to lick her face.
    “Down, boy,” she scolded, but she returned the Mastiff’s kisses.
    “Thank the gods you’ve come,” Spurius said. The old slave slumped against the doorframe. “Your father is close to dead.”

CHAPTER XII
     
    Elissa stood in the doorway of her father’s bedchamber. Honoratus lay on his sleeping couch, eyes closed and barely breathing. She expected him to push aside the coverlet, abandon his bed and reprimand his family for making such a fuss. “Open the shutters!” he would say. “A man needs to breathe.”
    But he didn’t stir.
    She might call her father tenacious, proud to the point of arrogance, bullheaded, but never, until now, would she have called him frail.
    Constantina sat beside him. “Come, daughter, sit with us,” she said, her voice weary. Her eyes, once green as Flavia’s, appeared clouded. Flavia knelt beside the bed. She seemed to be praying—though Elissa never knew her sister to be pious. Her hair, half loosened from the bone pins securing it in place, fell in pale gold tendrils around her shoulders.
    Elissa bent to kiss her mother.
    Constantina’s hands fluttered in her lap. She clasped them together as if preventing them from taking flight. “Did Justinus send for you?”
    “No,” Elissa answered quickly, her heart jumping at his name. “I came on my own. I need to speak with Pater.”
    Flavia looked up, her face expectant.
    “You have something to say?” Elissa asked her.
    Flavia shook her head.
    “Out of respect for your father, your sister has taken a vow of silence,” Constantina said. “She was with him when he fell ill. One minute he was fine and the next—”
    “What upset him?”
    Flavia shook her head so violently the remainder of her hair came undone. She bowed her head and escaped Elissa’s scrutiny.
    Elissa had no doubt her sister’s silence served a purpose.
    Constantina sighed. “Pray that Justinus returns soon.”
    “Justinus is coming here?” Elissa asked, trying to control her racing heart.
    “With Doctor Karpos,” Constantina said. She poured water from an earthen ewer into an alabaster bowl then sprinkled in a handful of white powder.
    “Feverfew?” Elissa asked. She often used the flowers as a remedy for pain.
    “The last from my