Goddess
Chapter 2

Keeping to the shadows, Gaius grabs my arm andslowly guides me out the temple door into the night. He soundlessly eases itshut. Then he leans against it, shaking, and presses the heel of his handfirmly onto a spot on his forehead. I’ve seen him do this before. He must getheadaches there.

Though the night is warm, the chill runningthrough me gives me goosebumps. What did I see? Could it have been real? Doesthe flame, the unquenchable holy flame, actually just burn atop a huge bucketof ordinary lamp oil?

“Gaius,” I say tentatively. He doesn’t respond.“Gaius, was that—?”

“Stopit,” he cuts me off with a sharp gesture. “Go home, Olivia, please go. Get outof here.” His voice has a frightened edge I’ve never heard before.

“But…,” I start to protest, but his expressiontells me this is not the time. In a daze, I turn and wander back through thegrove, running straight into the occasional tree branch. Instead of going to myroom in the House of Vestals, my feet replace another familiar path. I startheading toward my original home, my father’s farm, where I lived until I becamea Virgin at ten years old. It’s only a half-hour walk from the temple, and I gothere often on my free afternoons.

As I walk, I force myself to think about what Ihave seen, to process the implications. The sacred flame is a hoax. How stupidI am. How stupid we Vestals must look to the pontiffs and flamens and whoeverelse knows about this deception. My face grows hot remembering all the prayersI’ve offered, all the sacrifices I’ve made to a glorified lamp. But how fardoes this really go? If the flame is a hoax, what else is fake? I don’t want tobelieve it. I can’t accept it. There must be a mistake.

I decide to forget about the whole issueimmediately and push it from my mind. Maybe there’s a logical explanation.Maybe it was a backup system to make the sacred flame look larger, hotter orsomething. Cosmetic. Whatever. The point is, having faith means not jumping toconclusions. I don’t need another crack in my spiritual foundation so soonafter I’ve healed from the last one.

On my way, I pull the pins out of my hair in anattempt to get it down. Vestals wear an elaborately braided hairstyle everyday. It’s made up of seven individual braids and takes at least forty-fiveminutes to create even by the most practiced hands. And it makes your head acheterribly. I fight the impulse to toss the pins into the woods as I walk.

When I reach the edge of our fields, I stop togaze at them, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm my racing mind. Theyoung stalks are silvery in the moonlight, and when they flutter in the breeze,the effect is lovely. Ceres will be kindto us this year, I think. That is, ifshe even exists…I check myself. These thoughts aren’t helping.

I see the flicker of lights from the house upahead. It’s late, but my family should still be up for another hour or so. Iwalk through the vestibule, pausing in the atrium to leave an offering to thehousehold gods, and into the colonnaded garden where my mother sits next to asmall outdoor hearth. “Olivia!” she says in astonishment when she sees me.“What’s going on? What happened?”

At first I think her alarm is related to myunexpected arrival, but belatedly I realize that I look like I’ve been rollingdown a hill. My hair’s half down, my clothes are disheveled, and I’m ankle-deepin dust from the road.

“Nothing,” I say. “I just…needed the walk.”

“Sit down here,” she says, pulling over a chair.She grabs her brush from a side table and starts working on what’s left of mybraids. We sit in silence, and I can hear the men in the next room laughingloudly. It sounds like my father and oldest brother, talking business withtheir friend and frequent guest, the local shopkeeper. I can hear the laughterbut I can’t make out the words. Too bad, because I need a distraction. Despitemy best efforts, the memory I’ve been suppressing for the last half hour won’tbe ignored.

I was twelve when I had my first crisis offaith. In the two years after we arrived in the city, Lucia, Marta, and I livedin what seemed like a very large, very happy family. The older girls intraining were all lovely, kind, and affectionate, and not just to us. Thingswere more relaxed back then, and they were always taking us on afternoon tripsand day visits to the beach with the city boys or even boys from the academies.The Vestalis Maxima at that time was a jolly person herself who never reallytried to put a stop to it; maybe she even lived a little bit just by watchingthem play. And the Pontifex Maximus then couldn’t even see past his eyeglasses.Marta, Lucia, and I spent many instructive, giggly hours spying on activitiesthat probably weren’t described in the Virgin handbook.

Accidents happened, of course. Once, one of thegirls was sent away for an extended period for her health, and returned withjoyous tidings that Venus had blessed her aging mother with a new baby. Butmost of the girls never allowed things to go that far.

There was a lovely girl in the order namedFlavia, and we adored her. She had black hair and pink cheeks, and laughterthat rang out like a bell. Once, when a certain pontiff had come to inspect thetemple, someone said something very funny to her. Her laughter carried all theway from the grove to the temple steps, and I saw it catch his ear. Then I sawhim look very closely at her. Then he descended the stairs and went to talk.

This pontiff’s name was Florinus Festus, and hewas not a pious man. He watched Flavia and eventually gathered enough evidenceto prove her little transgressions, though she was still a virgin. He thenthreatened her with execution unless she gave into his desires. He had, hesaid, enough evidence to damn her—or to at least lead a jury into doing so—andshe believed him.

The punishment for a Vestal who loses hervirginity, no matter the cause, is to be blinded by a hot poker and buriedalive. That law had only been invoked twice, both times early in the history ofthe order, and nobody took it seriously. But suddenly, for Flavia, it becamevery real. The Vestalis Maxima was aware of his blackmailing, but there was nothingshe could do.

The situation became even more dangerous whenVenus “blessed” Flavia with a pregnancy. She has never been my favoritegoddess.

Florinus Festus’s wife was no fool. She paid hisvery own spies an incredible sum to collect the evidence of his long-termaffair, which is how she discovered Flavia’s condition. Childless herself, shewas enraged by the pregnancy, and demanded Flavia be charged with the crime offornication.

The charge meant certain death for Flavia. Notonly was there a mountain of evidence that Florinus had been sleeping with her,Flavia was by this time visibly pregnant. But there might still have beenleniency for her, if we could have testified that she was coerced. In everyother legal situation, a Vestal’s testimony is ironclad truth and cannot becontradicted; our state religion holds that Vestals are incapable of lying. Butin a fornication trial, we have almost no rights at all. Fornication is theonly crime for which one Vestal cannot testify in another’s defense.

At twelve I fully believed that no Vestal wouldever even consider bearing false witness at a trial. But on the day Flavia wasbrought before the pontiffs, bound in chains and begging for mercy, I learnedthat I would say anything to preventwhat was about to come. We all watched it, were forced to watch it, even attwelve years old. The executioner put out each of her eyes in turn as shestruggled and screamed in terrible pain. The poker cauterized the wounds, soshe had no chance of bleeding to death. She was then marched, in a procession,to her tomb. In a mockery of her fate, food and water were placed in anunderground cave and she was sealed in, to suffocate, starve, or die of thirstif she failed to die of infection.

Vesta let this happen. She let her beautifuldaughter die. Her religion even says that such a thing must occur, as though it’s justice.

“Mother…do you remember the trial of Flavia?” Iask.

“Yes,” she says, “but I don’t like to think ofit. Let’s not.”

Sometimesit feels like for the last four years I’ve been thinking of nothing else.

***

Mother makes my father drive me home at midnightwith his donkey and farm cart, and he doesn’t ask too many questions about myunusual nighttime visit. Fortunately, there’s moonlight. As we ride up to theentrance of the House of Vestals, I feel like a ten-year-old girl again, and Ilean my head on his shoulder. I just want him to tell me that everything’sfine, and tuck me into bed, like a child. Instead he drops me at the door ofthe House of Vestals with an affectionate goodbye.

The next morning I wake Marta early.

“Wake up, please,” I say. “I need you. My hair’scome down.”

With an irritable sigh, she stretches and looksat me, bleary-eyed.

“You’re not kidding. It’s down. Did you spendhalf the night combing it out? And now you need me to do it from scratch? ForVesta’s sake. Fine.”

I’m quiet as Marta works on recreating thecomplicated hairstyle. Each pin stings. At one point, she pauses. “Your hairlooks so beautiful,” she says. “I love to see it combed out.” This is a rarecompliment. Marta likes the color of my hair, brown with hints of gold thatcome out in the sun. She’s dark haired, and of course Lucia’s blond. Even inhair color, our trio doesn’t match.

“What’s wrong with you?” she suddenly asks me.“What’s up?”

“Nothing,” I say. Nothing you can help me with, I add silently.

Thesecond she’s done, I’m up out of the chair and on my way. I need answers, andthere’s only one person I can talk to. As I surface from the undergroundpassageway into the Regia, I’m relieved to see he’s on duty again today. He’ssitting on his chair outside Sextus’s office, but instead of his usual carelesssprawl, he’s got his head in his hands.

“Gaius,” I say.

As soon as he realizes I’m there, he has me bythe elbow, dragging me down the hall and into a storeroom dimly lit by only afew rays of sunshine. The dust motes swirl around us as he shuts the door.

“I can’t believe you came here,” he saystestily.

“We need to talk,” I say. “I need to understandmore about what happened—”

But he cuts me off.

“No. We do not. We absolutely do not need totalk. Let’s never talk again,” he says and turns to leave. Then, as though hecan’t help himself, he continues, getting more agitated by the second. “Whatwere you thinking, Olivia? Why did you do it? If you needed to get in there sobadly, why didn’t you just ask me? I could have gone for you, I could have evencleared it with Sextus!”

“I don’t know, Gaius,” I say calmly. “Why did Ileave the wheat in the oven? Why didn’t you do your job and stop me from goingin? Why does anything happen? The point is, it did, and now I need to know—”

“No,” he says, “you don’t need to knowanything.” He puts both hands on my shoulders and bends forward to meet myeyes, as though talking to a child. “Use your head, Olivia. There are a dozenexplanations for what you saw. Think some up. Pick your favorite, and go livehappily ever after.” He turns me toward the door and gently attempts to guideme out.

But I resist. “I can’t! This is my entire lifewe’re talking about! How can I pray to that flame and take myself seriouslynow?”

“Unh,” he moans, leaning back against the wall.“Why me?”

His hand is on his forehead again. As I look athim, I realize how scared he is for both of us. He’s right; it is totally recklessfor me to be asking these questions. But we’re alone in the closet. Surely it’ssafe here. There is a long pause while I work out what to say.

“Gaius,” I say, “I have to know the truth.”

“I will tell you the truth, Olivia” he says, closinghis eyes as he pinches the space between his brows. “The truth is you arehurting my brain.”

Sensing this is going nowhere, I leave him inthe closet.

***

By the time I’ve returned to my room, I’vecycled through so many emotions that I’m exhausted. I’ve just flopped on my bedwhen Lucia bounces in. “Market day!” she trills.

“Oh my goddess, I forgot,” I sigh from the bed.“I can’t believe Cerealia is next week.”

“Yes, and somehow, the Vestal Virgins are responsible for planning a feast of Ceres,” saysMarta. “Tell the cult of Ceres to worship their goddess, and we’ll worshipours.”

I raise my head. “Suddenly you seem veryinterested in worshipping Vesta,” I say, smiling in spite of myself.

“Come on guys, it will be fun,” says Luciaencouragingly. “It’s a big deal for Olivia to plan her very own minor feast!And if it goes well, she might get an even bigger event to plan next year!”

“Goddess forbid,” I say, horrified.

“Andremind me why I am doing this?” Marta gripes as she finishes dressing. “Itdoesn’t take three girls to make a trip to the market.”

“Lavinia said I could use you as my assistants,”I remind her. “And, if at all possible, I intend not to screw this up. Andbecause of your deep love and affection for me, you are going to save me frominevitable failure.”

“And it will be fun!” chimes Lucia, bouncingaround the room. “I love to shop!”

“And you love to flirt,” interjects Marta. “AndI better not see any of that going on today, because I will literally drag youout of the market by your hair.”

Lucia ignores this. “Ooh, guess what,” she says.“I forgot that we’re meeting Mother for lunch in the city! Won’t that be fun?”

“Um, of course we can stop to eat with yourmother,” I say, unsure if I’ve been asked or told whether we’re going to meetSilva Maximianus for lunch. Lucia’s mother is as flighty and silly as she is,and lunchtimes tend to dissolve into gossipfests and giggles. I rather enjoythem when Marta’s not around, but when Marta does come she sits there lookingsour and radiating disapproval and then giggling makes me self-conscious. Luciaand Silva are miraculously unaffected by Marta’s fun-spoiling powers.

After a quick breakfast, we set off from theHouse of Vestals into the city. I enjoy the market as much as Lucia does, but Igo for the atmosphere rather than the shopping. It’s always loud and colorful,a whirl of spices and staples. But the sensory overload that usually thrills meseems oppressive today.

“Are you okay, Olivia?” Lucia asks when shenotices my frown.

“I, uh…I can’t remember what stall we’resupposed to visit next,” I say.

Marta sighs. “Okay, what have we already done?”she asks, snatching the list from my hands.

“Ooh, look!” Lucia exclaims. “A fashion stall!”Marta and I both make a wild grab for her arm, but she’s gone. “Just look atthis gorgeous fabric,” she coos as we catch up to her.

Marta has already had enough. “Lucia, every dayfor the last six years you have gotten up, put on your wedding gown as thoughit’s the happiest day of your life, and enjoyed another wonderful day as abride of the state. And you will do it again every single day for the nexttwenty four years. You don’t need any more clothes. Let’s go,” she insists.

As Vestal Virgins, we wear the same bridaloutfit and hairstyle each day, with no variations. The gown is made from asingle piece of white cloth woven on a special loom, and cinched at the waistby a woven belt tied in an elaborate decorative knot. We wear it because we aretechnically married to our country until our thirty years are up. But in keepingwith her sense of total entitlement, Lucia continues to buy shiny things thatwe have absolutely no reason or opportunity to use, and not just for herself.

“Lucia, I love the gifts you’ve given us, but wedon’t need them,” I say, trying once more to call her attention from thefabrics. “Save your father’s money.”

“Oh, I have plenty of money, Daddy always givesme more when I ask,” she says, tying a gauzy scarf around my neck to admire theeffect. “This is lovely on you, Olivia. It brings out the green in your eyes.”But I remove it and hang it firmly on the rack.

Marta and I are forced to linger by the fabricstall as Lucia browses, unmoved by our pleas. She can’t resist holding everypiece of fabric across herself and hearing her beauty praised by the stallvendor. I can’t help watching her as we wait, because she’s irresistiblylovely. Every single pattern looks stunning on her, but then she seems tobeautify anything she wears. A small crowd actually gathers to make suggestionsand vote on their favorites.

“You know, I sometimes wonder if someone willbuy her out,” I remark to Marta.

“If anyone would be willing to pay for a Virgin,she’s the one they’d buy, for sure,” Marta agrees.

There is one way that a Virgin can be releasedfrom her contract: she must be purchased. A strange way to end a “marriage,” Ihave always thought, but apparently that “bride of the state” metaphor goesonly so far. Vestals can only be bought by a man who intends to marry herimmediately, and he must pay an exorbitant sum, over a million sesterces. Thecost is so high that it’s basically impossible.

“On the other hand, even if a man were richenough to buy her, he could never afford her wardrobe budget,” Marta adds.

“Mm,” I respond. I’m no longer paying attention.For the first time, the idea of being released from Virginhood has captured myimagination.

I remember how astonished the older Vestals werewhen Lucia was delivered to the Temple of Vesta. I can’t believe it,Flaviahad said to the others when she thought Marta and I weren’t listening. Lucia Maximianus is rich, gorgeous, thedaughter of the most influential man in Polonia… and now she’s a celibate wardof the state. I was ten years old, and didn’t understand Flavia’s surprise.At the time, I thought worshiping Vesta was a woman’s highest calling. But forthe first time, Lucia’s dedication to the Virgins strikes me as a terriblewaste.

At lunch, I can’t seem to muster much enthusiasmfor fun or gossip. The morning’s shopping distracted me for a while, butdespite Gaius’s warnings, the problem of the lamp oil has returned with doubleintensity. I catch Marta observing me narrowly. “Did I do your hair too tight,or what?” she says.

As we prepare to leave the city, I stop. “Onemore thing,” I tell the girls. “I need to pray.”

Marta looks as though she’s going to object, butwhen she sees my expression she quietly follows me. My friends wait as I kneelin front of the Polonian Triad, a group of three sculptures depicting Mars,Jupiter, and Minerva.

“Oh holy triad,” I speak in a low voice. “If you’re real, please give me asign.”

But nothing happens. I wind up kneeling insilence. The picture of devotion, Ithink bitterly.

Eventually I give up on prayer, and laden downwith (Lucia’s) shopping bags, we stagger home to rest and recoup. Luciaflounces to her room and begins to organize her new things.

“I’m going out,” I tell Marta, hoping for sometime to myself.

“I’m coming with you,” she says. I’m too tiredto resist, so I let her follow me to the temple steps. We often come here toenjoy the sunshine and the view, and to have some time away from the otherVestals.

“It’s so beautiful,” I say, staring out into thedistance. “I love being near the ocean.”

Per religious requirement, the Temple of Vestais located right on the eastern edge of the city to symbolize the relationshipbetween fire and the sun. This means we have an uninterrupted view of thesacred grove, some rolling hills, and beyond that, the sea. Polonia is thecapital city of Parcae, our state, and it couldn’t be situated on a morebeautiful location. Actually the location was chosen for military reasons,something about it being easier to defend a city on a cove rather than oneexposed to the open sea.

“Ladies!” I hear someone call while ascendingthe temple steps.

“Oh gods, he’s back,” I say. Cassius again. I’mreally not in the mood.

“How are you this fine day, Olivia? Marta?”Cassius settles in beside us and makes himself comfortable. “Having a bit of acrisis of faith, or so I’ve heard.”

“What?” I say, sitting bolt upright.

Marta does the same. “I knew something was upwith you,” she says. “What’s going on? Beloved Vesta didn’t answer one of yourmany prayers? You’re still short.”

I don’t respond. I simply stare at Cassius,terrified.

“Ha! You didn’t tell Marta?” Cassius barks withlaughter. “Gaius severely underestimated you. He thought Lucia would be in onit as well.”

“In on what?”Marta asks. “You have to tell me now.”

My heart is in my stomach. I don’t understandwhat’s happening, but I guess I have Gaius’s tacit permission, or at leastacquiescence, or perhaps just his expectation, for me to share this with myclosest friend.

I glance around us. The temple is deserted. Awind has picked up, making it hard for sound to carry. I lean my head as closeto hers as it can go and still look natural. And I speak in a whisper.

“Marta,” I say, “what I am about to tell youcould lead to your death.”

“Lay it on me,” she says.

***

At Cassius’s suggestion, the three of us take awalk in the grove, where I fill Marta in on the events of last night. She stopswalking and makes me repeat myself several times when I get to the part aboutSextus Tacitus and the lamp oil. I can see it’s a shock to her. Despite herlack of almost any outward sign of faith, I know Marta was devoted to Vesta.

“What do we do now?” she asks.

“That’s why I’m here, to help you understand,”Cassius interjects.

“Gaius sent you?” I ask.

“Well, yes, Gaius asked me to smooth thingsover. He knows we have a relationship,” Cassius says.

“Excuse me.” Marta butts in. “A relationship?Does that mean us thinking you are a huge pain in the ass?”

Cassius ignores this. “Most of the guys at theacademies know you on sight, and they see us chatting. They know we’refriendly. Like you’re my little…pets,” he says.

“Ohmigods,” I say. Marta gags. We look at eachother in disgust. If this wasn’t such a life-or-death situation, I think Martamight try to land a punch. But as satisfying as that would be, she’s not in aposition to be making enemies now.

“Let’s get right down to it, ladies,” saysCassius. “Yes, the flame is fake, just like its supposed creator. Vesta is nota real goddess.”