The King's Gambit(61)

She probably meant the twelfth hour as told by the great sundial of Catania in the Forum. Messala had brought it as loot from Sicily almost two hundred years before and it was the pride of the city for a long time. Unfortunately, it was calibrated for Sicily, which is far to the south of Rome, and gives an inaccurate reading of the time. The vestals were incredibly old-fashioned and probably ignored the much more modern sundial and water clock of Philippus and Scipio Nasica, which were not even one hundred years old. I decided I would just estimate the time, like everyone else. She had said “at about the twelfth hour.” Neither sundial works in cloudy weather, and even the water clock was erratic in winter.

I gave the boy a denarius and he was properly awestruck by my munificence. He could add it to his peculium, with which he might someday purchase his freedom, but far more likely he would use it to bribe the cook for delicacies or wager on the next Games with his fellow slaves.

I decided to go to the Forum. It was the time usually devoted to the baths, but I could not attend the baths bandaged as I was. Rome in winter is like a great, sleepy animal that spends most of the season dozing in its den. The markets are less raucous, the clamor of the builders is quieter, the hammering of the metalworkers more muffled. People even walk more slowly. We Italians need the warmth of the sun to stir us to our customary level of frenetic, if oftentimes unproductive, activity.

In the Forum I lazed among the crowd, exchanging greetings, hearing petitions from dissatisfied residents of my district, most of whom believed, incorrectly, that any public official had the ear of every other, so that I was constantly referring them to the proper authorities.

The Aunt Caecilia whom I was about to visit was one of my many aunts named Caecilia, since women are not given cognomens, thus causing much confusion. This one was known in the family as Caecilia the Vestal, a formidably prestigious lady. She was a sister of the Quintus Caecilius Me-tellus under whom I had served in Spain, who had been one of our more illustrious generals until Sertorius got the better of him and Pompey, the boy wonder, had arrived to reap all the glory.

As I made my way toward the House of the Vestals, I contemplated upon how to approach her. A woman raised from girlhood within the confines of the vestals’ quarters could not be expected to be worldly regarding matters of Roman political life. Chaste and archaic in her attitudes, she would believe and behave as a noble lady descended from a long line of Roman heroes. This shows how inexperienced in the ways of women I was at that age.

The Temple of Vesta was located in the heart of the Forum, and had stood on that spot since the founding of the city, almost seven hundred years before. It was round, in the ancient Italian fashion, because our ancestors had lived in round huts. One of our finest festivals was also the simplest, when, on the kalends of March, all the fires in the Roman community were extinguished and, at first light of the new year (the kalends of March being the ancient new year), the vestals kindled a new fire with wood friction. From this fire, which they would tend ceaselessly for the rest of the year, all the other fires were relighted.

For the last year or more, Caecilia had been Virgo Maxima, the head of the college. Though seldom seen, she had prestige and privileges equal to those of any princess of other nations. She alone of all the vestals had the right to visit alone with a man. All others were required to have at least one chaperone. A vestal who was found to be unchaste suffered a uniquely horrible punishment: She was placed in a tiny, underground cell with a little food and water, after which the cell was covered with earth.

Their temple may have been small, but their house, the Atrium Vestae, was the most splendid palace in Rome. It lay near the temple and like all Roman residences had a facade as plain as a warehouse, whitewashed plaster over brick. The interior was far different.

A slave girl admitted me at the door—for obvious reasons, all the slaves were female—and rushed off to tell the Virgo Maxima that an official had called. The interior was entirely sheathed in pristine white marble. Skylights illuminated wall frescoes depicting the complex rites of the goddess. Everywhere the emphasis was on beauty and simplicity, richness without ostentation. It was as if a fine Tuscan villa had been transported to Rome and enlarged to palace size. I might add that it was and remains the only such palace in Rome. Good taste has never been a prominent Roman virtue.

“Decius, how good to see you.” I turned to see my aunt coming through a side door. She was about fifty, but a life free of worldly cares and ehildbearing had left her looking many years younger. Her face was unlined and preternatu-rally serene.

“I am most honored that you receive me, Reverend Lady,” I said, bowing.