CHAPTER 8

I had missed the Roman Forum during my time in Greece, even the self-important politicians and greedy businessmen who scurried around at the epicenter of the civilized world. It was a place to see and be seen. I soaked in the energy as Seneca and I waited for our meeting with Flavia under the Arch of Augustus.

A few minutes after we arrived, I saw her entourage proceed up the Via Sacra. She rode in a litter bedecked with silver and jewels, reflecting the sun, carried by four hairy, barrel-chested Ethiopians. Lictors preceded her, clearing the way with shouts and an occasional use of the rod.

People stood aside as Flavia passed, and some onlookers burst into spontaneous applause. Fortune smiled on anyone who came close to a Vestal —her very presence was so powerful that if her shadow fortuitously fell across the path of a condemned prisoner, he was automatically freed.

There were only six active Vestals in Rome, but eighteen women served at the temple of Vesta. The youngest six were students; the next six, including Flavia, were in active service. The six oldest taught the students and presided over the most important ceremonies. Thus, a senior Vestal like Calpurnia slit the throat of the heifer, but a younger Vestal like Flavia ended up taking the blood bath.

All Vestals were selected by the emperor himself for thirty years of service. It was the grandest of all beauty contests. Patrician families from all over the empire brought their young girls, between the ages of six and ten, to the House of Vestal. According to law, the girls had to be free of physical and mental defect and the daughters of Roman citizens. According to custom, the girls also had to be beautiful and blazingly smart.

The Vestal matron filtered hundreds of candidates, narrowing the field to about a dozen. Then the emperor appraised the candidates. It was one of the most harrowing mornings known to our culture, as the young girls responded to the rapid-fire questions of the emperor, withering under the scrutiny of his personal inspection, until he decided on the most worthy candidates.

At that point, the candidates would stand in a line with their parents behind them. The emperor would approach the winners one by one and extend his hand. “I take you, amata, my beloved, to be a Vestal priestess, who will carry out the sacred rites on behalf of the Roman people.”

Then he would lead the winners away from their parents. Many times the young girls’ lips would tremble, their eyes welling with tears. They were not allowed to look back. Their heads would be shaved, and they would move into the temple of Vesta. Their parents would leave the temple with heavy hearts but with the pride of knowing their daughter was a chosen one.

Amata. Loved by the Pontifex Maximus.

Flavia had been the very first Vestal chosen by Tiberius Caesar, who was rumored to have an exquisite eye for potential beauty. Even at a young age, Flavia could turn heads, and she was known to have a true zest for life.

I felt a little overwhelmed by the grandeur of the approaching dignitary. “Are you sure it is all right for me to be here?” I asked.

Seneca didn’t bother looking my way. “You’ve been trained by the best Greek rhetoricians,” he said, staring straight ahead as if transfixed by the Vestal. “Not to mention the most brilliant Roman tutors. Just do your best not to outshine your teacher.”

I tried to convince myself that Seneca was right. I had been trained for this. All of that practice by the Aegean Sea, the dissecting and analysis of the great philosophers and orators, even the physical discipline from gymnastics —it would all pay off. I had mastered my subjects. I was more than ready for this moment.

But I had not yet mastered all the social graces required at this level of Roman society, nor had I perfected the art of self-deception. So the closer Flavia got, the more I felt my mouth drying up. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst through my toga. At least I had Seneca with me. The man was never at a loss for words.

I couldn’t help but stare when Flavia’s procession stopped in front of us. She alighted from the litter in her sparkling white robe and long palla that was secured by a brooch and draped over her left shoulder. Her hair was fixed in the style of Vestals —separated into six braids and woven on top of her head to form a sort of crown. I had heard the style required waist-length hair.

Flavia shooed away her lictors, and they formed a semicircle around the Arch of Augustus to give us space.

I was immediately drawn to the woman. She had large brown eyes, full lips, and a beautiful smile that came quickly and naturally. She seemed so relaxed for someone of her station. I sensed that I was in the presence of greatness, though she was only two years older than me.

She smiled at Seneca as he greeted her with a customary kiss on the hand, and I followed his lead. “Some say you are the next Cicero,” she told him.

Seneca tried to shrug it off. “Some people will say anything to curry favor.”

She grinned because he had fallen for her trap. “In my circles, comparisons to Cicero, the champion of the Republic and the critic of all things imperial, are not necessarily compliments.”

“The man did have a bit of a populist flair,” Seneca said as if it were a crime.

He quickly introduced me and told Flavia how I had studied under the Greeks at the School of Molon. Her face lit up. “I love the Greeks,” she said. “They’re idealists. They build cultures and philosophies. We build roads.”

She moved a half step closer and reached out to touch my arm. “Tell me about the School of Molon. One of the problems with being a Vestal is that we cannot travel much.”

At that moment, all my rhetorical training betrayed me. My tongue no longer seemed to fit my mouth, and I stumbled through my first few sentences. Even so, I was amazed at how Flavia listened, soaking it all in, barely blinking, making me feel like the most important man on earth. She had an almost-irresistible charm and a disarming personality. When she spoke, she displayed a quick wit and a convincing tone that had me smiling and nodding.

After fifteen minutes of casual conversation with Seneca and me, Flavia lowered her voice and turned serious. I was ready to do whatever she requested. “Have you been to the games lately?” she asked Seneca.

He frowned. “The games are Rome at her worst. The lowest and basest instincts of our citizens all compressed into ten hours of slaughter.”

Flavia nodded, and concern wrinkled her brow. “I’m sick of the bloodshed, Seneca, and I suspected you might share my feelings. As one of Rome’s brightest minds, you may be able to help me.”

Seneca was wise enough not to answer immediately. He understood the importance of the games to Rome’s political system. Tiberius was said to be an emperor of “bread and circuses.” He kept the masses happy by supplying free bread for hundreds of thousands and free entertainment that featured the most vicious and bloody games the empire had ever seen. Plus, the executions that occurred during the lunchtime intermissions served as a vivid reminder that crossing Rome meant a painful and scandalous death.

“I’ve heard that Tiberius is not really a supporter of the games,” Flavia continued. “I sit in the box with Sejanus, who can barely stand them himself. And the bloodshed is only getting worse. More men die with each spectacle, and the crowds become bored if the blood doesn’t flow faster and faster. Your opinions are highly regarded both here and on the island of Capri. I would consider a letter from you to Tiberius about the games a personal favor. I have asked a few other influential citizens, including three senators, to do the same.” She fixed Seneca with her stare, and I marveled at her intensity.

I knew my mentor well enough to know that he was conflicted. He espoused Stoicism but lived as a man of luxury. He preached detachment but craved approval. Seneca needed popularity the way grapes needed rain, and nothing could destroy his popularity more quickly than taking a stand against the games.

“I think you overestimate my stature with Tiberius,” Seneca said in a halfhearted attempt at humility. “And I am not sure he dislikes the games as much as you think. But I’m willing to help however I can. Give me a few days, and perhaps I will have something worthy of your request.”

Flavia broke into a smile, thanked Seneca profusely, and kissed him on both cheeks. She did the same to me, and I watched slack-jawed as she walked away, mission accomplished. She thanked us again and waved as she climbed into her litter.

As Seneca and I watched her go, I realized that Flavia had done what great orators before her could not —she had rendered Seneca dumbstruck without even trying.

“I never liked the games anyway,” Seneca said, still staring after the Vestal’s entourage.

“Funny,” I replied. “You never mentioned that to me.”