CHAPTER 70

SIX YEARS LATER IN THE SEVENTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF TIBERIUS CLAUDIUS CAESAR AUGUSTUS GERMANICUS

For Flavia, at thirty-nine years old, it was a day of bittersweet emotions. She had all but forgotten life apart from being a Vestal. She would miss the others, miss the privileges and responsibilities of her exalted office, and she would desperately miss Rubria, who was growing into a beautiful young woman.

On her last day as a Vestal, she spent as much time as possible with Rubria. The younger Vestal helped Flavia fix her hair in the traditional style worn on such a special day. Using just the point of a spear, Rubria divided Flavia’s hair into six braided locks that were then coiled and held in position by ribbons on top of her head. For extra flair, Rubria wove several flowers and sacred plants into the hairstyle.

Late in the afternoon, Flavia put on a hemless white tunic with a band of wool tied in the knot of Hercules around her waist. She had dyed her sandals saffron for the occasion. She and Rubria spent nearly an hour on her makeup.

Finally Rubria held the mirror and Flavia nodded in approval. She put on a flaming-orange veil that covered her head and face, along with a saffron palla, a sleeveless flowing cloak worn over her tunic.

Now ready, she spent time in the garden of the House of Vestal, saying good-bye to the other Virgins. There were six of them leaving that evening. In a few weeks, Claudius would select six more.

When Flavia had finished her good-byes, she moved to the portico of the house, where she waited for her groom. She looked out over the Forum and saw the upturned faces of her admirers stretching as far as she could see. It seemed all of Rome waited with her.

Nobody could remember a spectacle like this —a Vestal being taken away in marriage the same day she finished her service. Flavia stood there patiently, surrounded by friends and adoring Roman crowds, and she couldn’t keep herself from smiling.

It was the happiest day of my life, and there wasn’t even a close second. I arrived at the House of Vestal and sang the traditional marriage hymn while a few thousand onlookers and friends joined in.

I climbed the stairs and stood next to Flavia and the other Vestals on the portico as we watched Rubria sacrifice the pig and spread the entrails on the altar. Adrianna came over, pushed the intestines and liver around, and nodded her approval. A few years ago, she and Flavia had ended their feud, and everyone knew the omens would be favorable on this day.

Still, I had a catch in my throat. I remembered the look on Flavia’s face when she first told me that the original omens had been bad. She had agonized for months about whether we should even move forward while I carefully built my case. I claimed that the omens had been wrong on so many occasions it made one wonder what the gods were doing. I told her of my own personal experience with the oracle and the prediction of a noble prince. “Is that what you would call Caligula?” I asked. We both recounted other times when the omens had been good and disaster had followed. She admitted that she had sometimes questioned the entire ceremony herself.

But most important, she eventually agreed that I had been right from the very beginning. The heart triumphed over the entrails. The prospect of spending our lives together was worth whatever heartache might come our way.

We decided not to go through life looking over our shoulders. We made a pact not to mention the bad omens again.

When the marriage sacrifice was complete, we signed the contract. I wrote my name with a flourish, and ten friends sealed it with their signet rings. In a traditional wedding ceremony, I would yank the bride away from the arms of her mother. But because Flavia was a Vestal, I pulled her away from the arms of Adrianna, the Vestal matron.

From the portico, we followed three young boys who led a procession from the House of Vestal to my own newly purchased doma on the Esquiline Hill. The crowd shouted and sang and straggled behind us. I occasionally turned and tossed nuts, sweetmeats, and sesame cakes. Along the way, whenever we went by a temple, Flavia dropped coins in tribute to the gods. Maybe the omens couldn’t be trusted, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep the gods appeased.

When we arrived at my house, Flavia spread wool over the doorposts and anointed the door with oil and fat. She turned to me, pulled back her veil for the first time, and I picked her up and carried her over the threshold.

Once inside the atrium, I placed her gently on her feet and handed her a pitcher of water to signify that she would be the giver of life in my household. Next I handed her a torch to represent her role as the matron of the house. I watched as she lit the hearth.

The place immediately warmed with Flavia’s presence. The crowd that had squeezed into the atrium behind us cheered. She turned her back to them, blew out the torch, and tossed it over her shoulder. The gods would smile on the man who caught it.

After a lavish banquet that lasted well into the evening, the moment I had been craving finally arrived. Flavia and I retired, alone, to our chambers. We talked about the day’s events and our future together. I told her I was ready to step away from the stress of being an advocate in the Roman courts. I had spent years dedicating myself to my clients. I was ready to dedicate myself to my family.

“I want to teach. Maybe set up my own school of rhetoric. I want to spend time with you and travel.”

“Where to?” Flavia asked.

“Everywhere. Let’s start with Greece and go from there.”

She gave me a kiss, and it was clear our travel plans could wait. “You know what I want to do?” Flavia asked.

“Tell me.”

“I want to have a family. I want to give you a son.”

And so we tried. On a day that couldn’t possibly get any better, the omens were the furthest thing from my mind.