Vestal

Staring down at the cold stone floor, I believe I’ve found a comfortable distraction from the current confrontation taking place before me. One individual exalts himself, while another bears the humiliation and stands her spiritual ground. No more than an hour ago, the emperor called two of his personal guards to raid the temple and bring this woman (any woman?) Back with them.

For the past six months, I have been torn between extreme pity and rage for our ‘blessed and enlightened’ monarch Gaius. We don’t call him Caligula to his face. That was a nickname his lovely, late mother gave him. Even at the tender age of twenty-two, you don’t call the most powerful (and maniacal) man in the world “little boots”.

When Curliss and his horde brought her in, they had at least done her the dignity of leaving her clothing intact. Typically, they are brought in half or completely naked. When prisoner women are brought in clothed nowadays, the drunks in the gallery (he calls them a ‘jury’, as if this were still a Senate ran democracy) start booing and calling for her to be stripped. He clothes remaining must have been Caligula’s order on account of her vocation.

When asked her name, she spoke in the frightened tones of a human field mouse.

"Afinatia”, she answered.Then the emperor asked her station.

“One of the keepers of The Eternal Chaste Flames of Vestal.”

A smiling, lustful, snarl curved his excellency’s lip.

“So, that would make you a virgin. Correct?”

Snickers from the gallery.

“Yes, your highness.”

“And to whom or what, my dear, have you sworn this sacred oath?”

Although frightened, the priestess didn’t hesitate with her answers. Proanta has been training and raising the Vestal temple sisterhood all of her sixty two years, and here was a perfect example of her influence. The virtuous women are taught to give not an iota on their vows to the goddess of purity.

“To the goddess Vestal, the temple, the sisterhood, and to the flame”, her answer held an underlying contempt. She recognized the look in the monarch’s eyes. Even to those who are naive and young, the look of animalistic, raging, desire was obvious.

“How old are you, girl?”

“Thirteen.”

More snickering and cajoling.

Caligula took this chance to pick at the already bleeding ulcer.

“So, you are sworn to the gods. You should have no problem sacrificing to them, then. Am I right?”

The priestess was becoming confused and her answers were slower.

“No problem, my lord.”

“Solafa perisada liguanis porintalo! Lopintu fromlier astrulanta, Yusefaolo!”

About two months ago, Caligula had begun to believe that he could speak to the gods. This was supposed to be the language that he conversed with to them. Please, now, O Mighty Emperor, please enlighten us to what Jupiter has to say.

He has no clue to how badly he’s embarrassing himself. He had a very traumatic childhood, true as it is, but he has lost all reason. Or so it would seem.

He finished his inane litany and gazed hungrily at the young holy woman once again.

“I am one of them, you know. I was born not of this Earth, but from the womb of Juno. I was brought here to bless the firmament with my smile when quite by accident, she dropped me. Much, of course, to the fortune of this dingy little planet. They have placed magic stockings on my feet so the soles may not be soiled with this inadequate and unworthy ground.”

I wanted to puke. If I had been in the gallery, I surely would have. At least there, I would fit in.

Now I’m staring at the stone floor. I was embarrassed for him. I was embarrassed of him. I was also humiliated and ashamed knowing that I, myself, was one of the men responsible for this spoiled, demented child’s safety. I have spent the last thirty years (since I was fifteen) branded and bonded to the service of Caesar. We all thought that Tiberius was volatile, and we had high expectations from Caligula. We hoped he would live up to his father’s legacy and crush Tiberius for having him murdered. Instead, the young one found solace and apprenticeship with his parent’s murderer. Tiberius died before Caligula could exert his vengeance.

Now, the people of Rome are the target of his tantrum rage.

“So, you see, my dear, your virtue belongs to me. You have sworn so with your own breath.”

The face of the young maiden turned slate and refuting. A single, lone protest escaped her in the form of a frightened, defiant whisper.

“Never.”

The dictator’s overconfident snarl-smile began to fade leaving only the snarl.

“You would refuse a god? Especially one whose eminence and beauty rivals that of Venus herself? If you refuse, you are ,in a sense, breaking your vows. Therefore, your holiness will be revoked, and your virtue worthless. Then you might as well give it to me anyway.”

He’s playing with her now. He wishes to degrade her and Vestal’s renowned temple and flame before taking her. Blasphemy over blasphemy. If he had not been in such a playful mood, her head would have been separated from her neck before the word ‘Never’ was gone from her lips.

The merciless bastard.

Her fear became defiant.

“Not with you or any other man” the last word dripped wile guile.

I looked up from the floor. I just had to see the one from which this courage and commitment flowed. Never before have I seen one so young that stood so strong. Neither have I ever seen anyone stand up to this flagrant excuse for an absolute ruler. I drank of her innocence and fire deeply. I admired her, and I knew that soon, I would mourn for her.

Out of respect for my station, I will mourn in silence.

Emperor Caligula Gaius Caesar began to pace to and fro like an angry, caged tiger. His piercing green eyes searched her with disbelief. He looked as if he was staring into her soul.

“Foritus bojum covistuk zaloin BAKKARE!!!”

The enraged ruler snapped his face toward me.

“Thelonius! I shall propose my blessings and attentions to this ungrateful little trollop only once more. If she refuses, take your blade and spill her entrails at my feet.”

The snarl began to smooth over. The tyrant stepped down from his platform pedestal and placed his lips close to the priestesses’ ear.

“One way or the other, my pure, sweet sacrifice, I will be inside you,” his voice was volcanic and final.

Like I said before, I am and have been a royal guardsman for as long as I can remember. My sworn duty is to the house of Augustus and his clan. However, I believe in the sanctity of the vows of faith more than the bonds of politics. If I spill Afinatia’s blood in this courtroom, I can look forward to damnation in Tartarus. Yet, if I disobey my liege, then I will be executed after a very long and excruciating torture process typically reserved for those caught stealing directly from the royal crypt.

‘Little Boots’ continues to pace like the vicious tiger he is.

The chaste, but frightened lady will not be persuaded to give in.

I am caught between hell and damnation. Which will it be?

The Lady, or The Tiger?