Roma.The novel of ancient Rome

THE VESTAL

393 B.C.

On the eve of the greatest catastrophe yet to befall the city, the unsuspecting people of Roma celebrated their greatest triumph. One of the city’s oldest rivals had at last been vanquished.

The city of Veii was scarcely twenty miles from Roma. A man with strong legs could walk the distance in a single day. A rider on horseback could journey there and back in a matter of hours. Yet, for generation after generation, even as Roma conquered more distant enemies, Veii remained proudly independent, sometimes at peace with Roma, sometimes at war with her. In recent generations, Veii had grown immensely wealthy. Her alliances with other cities in the region began to threaten Roma’s dominance of the salt route and traffic on the Tiber.

For ten summers in a row, Roma’s armies laid siege to Veii, yet with the coming of each winter and the cessation of warfare, Veii remained unconquered. It would take a very great general to put an end to Veii, men said. At last such a general appeared. His name was Marcus Furius Camillus.

No one who witnessed it would ever forget the triumphal parade of Camillus. All agreed that it was by far the grandest triumph in memory; the number of captives, the sheer magnificence of the booty displayed (thanks to the opulence of Veii), and the joyous spirit of the event outstripped all previous triumphs. But, impressive as they were, it was not these details that made the event unforgettable; it was the sight of Camillus in a chariot pulled by four white horses.

Standing on the viewing platform reserved for religious dignitaries, the Vestal Pinaria let out a gasp. She whispered to the Vestal standing next to her, “Foslia, have you ever seen such a thing?”

“I should think not. No one has seen such a thing! Four white horses!”

Pinaria shook her head in wonder. “Just like the quadriga of Jupiter atop the temple on the Capitoline.”

“No general has ever done such a thing before,” declared Foslia. At seventeen, Pinaria was the youngest of the six Vestals. Foslia was only five years older, but was very studious, and something of a know-it-all. She was especially well versed in the history of religious observances, and, like every public act in Roma, a triumph was a religious rite. “Romulus walked on foot for his triumphs. Tarquinius the Elder was the first to ride in a quadriga. But no general has ever dared to emulate Jupiter and hitch four white horses to his chariot!”

“Do you think it’s an impious act?” asked Pinaria.

“That would not be for me to judge,” said Foslia, primly.

“Still, it’s quite a sight.”

“It is, indeed.” Foslia smiled. “And the general is so handsome-even with his face painted red!”

The two young women looked at one another and laughed. The Virgo Maxima did not approve of such talk, but all the Vestals indulged in it. It seemed to Pinaria that when they were not discussing religious matters, they were usually talking about men, and as often as not, about Camillus. In his fifties, the general was more robust than many a man in his thirties, with a magnificent mane of white hair, a broad chest, and powerful limbs.

“Do you think he knows how strikingly the white horses set off his white hair?” asked Foslia.

“Surely the man who conquered Veii has no time for vanity,” said Pinaria.

“Nonsense! Who is vainer than a general, especially on the day of his triumph? But look there, coming up behind him-it’s the statue of Juno Regina!”

Of all the objects taken from Veii, this was the most prized: the massive statue of the city’s divine patroness, the queen-mother of the gods, Juno, in whose honor the grandest temple in all Veii had been built. For generations, Juno Regina had protected the Veiians. On the eve of the final battle, Camillus had vowed that if Veii fell, he would bring Juno Regina to Roma and built an even grander temple for her. Now he was making good on the first part of his pledge.

Men who had grown hoarse cheering Camillus raised their voices even louder at the sight of the statue. It was transported on a massive cart pulled by Veiian captives, among them the former priests of Juno, who had been stripped of their robes and put in shackles. The statue was made of wood, but no joinery was visible; the surface had been carved and smoothed by the finest Etruscan sculptors, and covered with bright paint and precious gilt. Juno Regina sat upon a throne, grasping a scepter in one hand and holding a libation bowl in the other, with a peacock at her feet.

“Magnificent!” declared Foslia. “There can be no other image of Juno to rival it. Even the statue made by the great Vulca for the Temple of Jupiter can’t compare. This one is so much larger-three times the size of any mortal! The look on the goddess’s face is truly sublime! And that giant peacock, with its wings spread-did you ever see such a riot of colors?”

While they watched, a boy, egged on by his friends, darted from the crowd. He grabbed hold of the loincloth of a captive priest, yanked it off, and ran back into the crowd, whooping and waving the loincloth like a trophy. The priest, a middle-aged man already stumbling from exhaustion, turned red and wept from shame, unable to cover himself because his hands were shackled to the rope across his shoulder. Pinaria gasped, and Foslia raised an eyebrow, but neither looked away.

“I wonder what the goddess thinks of that?” said Pinaria.

“Keep watching. She might speak at any moment!”

“Are you serious?”

“Why not? You know the story: When Camillus sent soldiers to take the statue from her temple in Veii, one of the men, just to be funny, bowed and asked the goddess if she would like to be taken to her new home. What a shock those fellows had when the statue actually nodded-and then spoke out loud! They thought someone was pulling a prank, so they asked her again, and, as clearly as I’m speaking to you now, she said, ‘Yes, take me to Roma at once!’ They say she sounded angry; Juno Regina doesn’t like to repeat herself. Of course she wanted to come here. If she hadn’t lost affection for the Veiians, they would never have been conquered. Camillus has ordered the building of a new temple on the Aventine especially to house the statue. Veiian wealth will pay for materials. Veiian slaves will supply the labor. That naked priest can stop blushing. A slave doesn’t need clothing to dig a trench or carry bricks.”

“Do you think the Greeks treated the Trojans this way, after they conquered them?” asked Pinaria. Among the Vestals, there had been many discussions of late comparing the fall of Veii to the fall of Troy, a tale that the Romans had learned from the Greek colonists to the south. Just as the siege of Troy had lasted for ten years, so had the siege of Veii. Just as the Greeks finally took the city by guile-using the famous Trojan horse devised by Odysseus-so too had the Romans finally triumphed by a clever stratagem, tunneling under the walls so that Roman soldiers could steal inside by night and open the gates.

“Of course they did,” said Foslia. “The Trojan women, including Queen Hecuba and the princesses, were taken as slaves. So were the men, at least the ones who weren’t killed. No city is conquered unless its people have offended the gods; for the conquerors to kill or enslave the inhabitants is pleasing to the gods. The people of Roma have always known this. The humiliation of our enemies is one of the ways by which we please the gods, and by pleasing the gods, we continue to prosper.”

As usual, Foslia’s religious logic was irrefutable, and Pinaria gladly deferred to her, yet the sight of the disgraced Veiian priest disturbed her. She turned her head and looked instead at the triumphal chariot, which was now receding from them in the direction of the Capitoline. Camillus, turning this way and that to wave to the crowd, happened to look over his shoulder. His gaze abruptly settled on Pinaria. He ceased waving, tilted his head at a quizzical angle, and flashed an enigmatic smile.

Foslia grabbed her arm and squealed with delight. “Pinaria, he’s looking straight at you! And why not? You’re so lovely, even with your hair cut short. Oh, if he should look at me that way, I think I would die!”

Pinaria’s face turned hot and she lowered her eyes. When she dared to look up again, the chariot had rounded a corner and was no longer in sight.

She heard a sudden burst of laughter and applause from the crowd. Following the statue of Juno Regina came a flock of geese. The white birds strutted forward, stretching and flapping their wings, craning their necks and honking. These were the sacred geese of Juno, captured from the Veiians along with her statue, objects of religious veneration but also of good-natured humor. The pampered creatures seemed to understand their exalted position; they gazed back at the crowd with haughty heads held high. One of the geese suddenly raced forward, toward the priest who had been stripped naked, and bit the man on the ankle. The priest let out a plaintive howl.

“Getting back at her former keeper for some transgression, I have no doubt,” whispered Foslia.

The crowd roared with laughter.

In the last hour of daylight, after the sacrifice of a white ox upon an altar before the Temple of Jupiter and the ritual strangulation of high-born captives in the Tullianum, as the feasting and dancing in the streets began to die down, the Vestals convened at the Temple of Vesta.

While the others had watched the triumph, one of their number, as always, had been left to tend to the sacred hearthfire within the round temple. Now her five sister virgins rejoined her for the recitation of evening prayers, led by the eldest of them, Postumia, the Virgo Maxima. The keeping of the sacred hearthfire was the primary obligation of their order. Should the fire ever go out, catastrophe and misfortune for Roma would surely follow.

The keeping of their vows of chastity was an equally important obligation. Should a Vestal ever break that vow, she might conceal the crime from other mortals but never from the goddess. Vesta would know, and in consequence the hearthfire would sputter and dwindle. Only a pure virgin could maintain a steady flame in Vesta’s hearth.

The Vestals linked hands and stood in a circle around the flame. While the others swayed gently and hummed in harmony, the Virgo Maxima intoned the evening prayer. “Goddess Vesta, hear us. We have kept your flame for another day, and now another night descends, its darkness illuminated, as always, by your undying light. You warm us. You light our way. The same unwavering fire that comforted the baby Romulus at his birth comforts us here in your temple.”

Postumia was the eldest, but her short gray hair still had strands of black in it, and her voice was strong, without a quaver. She hummed and swayed with the other virgins for a moment, gazing at the flame, then recommenced the prayer. “For thirty years, each of us vows to serve you, goddess Vesta. We come to you before the age of ten; for ten years we learn; for ten years we perform the public rites; for ten years we teach the newcomers. Then we are free to go-or stay.

“Bless me, goddess Vesta! My thirty years passed years ago, but I chose to remain in your service. Permit me to stay, goddess, as long as I have eyes to witness the holy flame and strength to tend it, as long as I have words and wisdom sufficient to teach the younger virgins.

“Bless us all, goddess Vesta, but especially open your embrace to the youngest of us, Pinaria. Seven years she has been among us. Now that Foslia has entered her tenth year, Pinaria is the only novice. She still has much to learn. Give her special guidance, goddess Vesta.”

Pinaria, who had entered a kind of trance while humming and watching the flame, gave a tiny start at the mention of her name. It was not often that the Virgo Maxima mentioned the Vestals by name in her prayers. Why was she doing so now, and why for Pinaria? What she said next unsettled Pinaria even more.

“We pray, goddess, that you will remember all the Vestals who have come before us, going back to the days of King Romulus, who named the first four Vestals in Roma, and King Tarquinius the Elder, who raised our number to six, and who, in his wisdom, imposed a punishment far more terrible than simple death for any Vestal who should break her vows-the punishment that remains in force to this day.”

Pinaria drew a sharp breath, as did all the Vestals, their serene thoughts suddenly invaded by images of that most dreadful of all deaths. The humming and swaying stopped. The little temple became utterly silent except for the crackling of the hearthfire. Pinaria’s heart was beating so hard that she thought the others must be able to hear it. Why had the Virgo Maxima mentioned her in the prayer, and in the very next breath spoken of the terrible punishment for those who strayed?

“Give all of us strength, goddess Vesta,” whispered Postumia. “The way of the Vestal is not always easy, and harder for some than for others. Only the presence of your hearthfire within our hearts can keep us pure.”

The prayer ended. The Vestals released each other’s hands. Beyond the open doorway of the temple, twilight had turned to darkness.

“You may each ignite a taper from the sacred flame, to light your way safely back to the House of the Vestals. It’s Pinaria’s turn to tend the flame for the next four hours. Since she’s a novice, I’ll stay with her for a while.”

“But Virgo Maxima, I’ve tended the flame plenty of times before, all by myself. I know how to-” Pinaria saw Postumia’s withering gaze, and lowered her eyes. “Of course, Virgo Maxima. I’m honored that you’ll stay with me.”

The others filed out, carrying their tapers. Foslia, the last to leave, glanced back at Pinaria with a guilty look on her face before she shut the door behind her.

For a long time, Postumia stared at the flame and said nothing. At last she took a deep breath. “You may find this hard to imagine, Pinaria, but once upon a time, I was your age. I was not as beautiful as you-oh, no, not nearly as beautiful! For better or worse, Pinaria, with your auburn hair and your bright green eyes, you are an exceptionally lovely girl. But I was young, and passably pretty, and very, very vain, as only a young girl can be. I took my vow of chastity very seriously, but nonetheless, I saw no harm in adorning myself. I wore bracelets made of silver, and sometimes a necklace of carnelian that had belonged to my grandmother; I told people that I thought the red stone went very well with the red and white fillet we wear around our heads, but in fact, I thought it set off the pink glow of my cheeks. I anointed my hands and face with a scented oil that came all the way from Egypt-or so claimed the merchant who came once a month to the House of the Vestals to offer us such things.”

“The Virgo Maxima allowed this?” said Pinaria. Postumia never permitted any of the Vestals to wear jewelry or to use any sort of perfume or unguent, and while men were allowed to enter the House of the Vestals during daylight hours-never after dark-they could do so only if they had official or family business with one of the virgins. A seller of scented oils would never be permitted inside!

“The Virgo Maxima in those days was very permissive. She doted on the younger Vestals. She doted particularly on me; I was her favorite. She encouraged me. ‘How pretty that necklace looks on you, Postumia,’ she would say, or, ‘My, what lovely skin you have, so flawless and smooth!’ I can’t blame her for my vanity, but she certainly did nothing to discourage it. Nor did she discourage my flirtatious nature. Vanity leads to flirtation, you see. What good is being pretty if no one notices? And how can a girl know that she’s noticed unless she looks others in the eye? First, she accepts their admiring gazes, and after that, she accepts their spoken compliments, and after that…” Postumia shook her head. “Such behavior is dangerous for a Vestal. Very dangerous! And it all begins with the eyes. A man gazes at us, and we accept his gaze with pleasure, and that pleasure, which seems so innocent, leads us to desire other pleasures.”

Pinaria frowned. “Virgo Maxima, I don’t understand why you’re telling me this. I never wear jewelry; you don’t allow it, and even if you did, I have no desire-”

“Camillus looked at you today.”

Pinaria blinked. “Perhaps.”

“He looked at you with pleasure.”

Pinaria shrugged. “Did he? I couldn’t say whether-”

“And it gave you pleasure, did it not? That such a great man, the hero of the hour, so strong and handsome, should desire to look at you.”

Pinaria’s face grew hot. “I did nothing wrong, Virgo Maxima.”

“You returned his gaze.”

“Perhaps, but only for an instant!” Pinaria furrowed her brow. For a brief, irreverent moment, she imagined that the Virgo Maxima was jealous of the look Camillus had given her. “Virgo Maxima, surely Camillus is a pious man. No Roman is more respectful of the gods, or more beloved by them. Before the final siege of Veii, he pledged to build a grand new temple for Juno Regina, and in return, the goddess allowed him to capture the city. As well, he pledged a tenth portion of all the booty to the god Apollo-”

“I don’t question the piety of Camillus. But a pious man is a man, nonetheless. Pinaria, Pinaria! I don’t mean that Camillus himself poses a threat to you-unless you were to lead him on. The threat comes from within yourself.”

“But, Virgo Maxima-”

“Silence!” Postumia’s bosom rose and fell in a sudden access of emotion. She watched the flames until she grew calmer. “Listen to me, Pinaria. As I told you, when I was your age, I was very vain. I adorned myself. I accepted the gazes of men-and returned them. I laughed when they said amusing things. I tried to be witty in return, and when men laughed, I felt a flush of excitement. I did nothing wrong-certainly nothing that betrayed my vow to Vesta. But my behavior attracted attention.

“The year that I was elevated from novice to full-fledged priestess, a series of bad omens occurred. A goat was born with two heads. A summer hailstorm rained tiny frogs. Worst of all, one augury after another indicated misfortune on the battlefield. The people were alarmed. They wanted to know the cause. Had the military commanders failed to make proper sacrifices to the gods? Was the Pontifex Maximus at fault-had the highest authority of the state religion been derelict in his duties? Or had the priests who keep the Sibylline Books misread the prophecies and led the people astray? All these possibilities were investigated, yet no fault could be found with the performance of any of the sacred rites, and no impurity was detected in those charged with carrying out those rites. And then…the investigation turned to me.”

Again, Postumia fell silent for a long time, staring at the flame. “Do you know the penalty imposed on a Vestal who is found to have lost her virginity?”

Pinaria was barely able to speak about a whisper. “Of course I do, Virgo Maxima.”

“Then tell me.”

Pinaria swallowed hard. “If a Vestal is charged with breaking her vow of chastity, the Pontifex Maximus himself investigates the matter. A board of priests renders judgment. If they find her guilty…”

“Go on.”

“The priests strip her of her vestments. The man with whom she broke her vows is brought before her in chains, and beaten to death before her eyes. Then the priests turn their fury on the Vestal. They scourge her with whips until she can no longer stand. They dress her like a corpse, all in black, and tie her with leather straps to a funeral bier, so tightly that she can’t cry out. They place the bier upon a funeral wagon, draped in black, and the wagon is paraded through the city for all to see, just as if the Vestal were already dead and being taken to her funeral…”

“Go on.”

“They take her to a place where a crypt has been dug beneath the city wall. They remove her from the wagon, and lower her into the crypt. They seal the entrance and cover it with a mound of earth. No funeral rites are conducted for her. She is never spoken of again.” Pinaria’s mouth was so dry that she could hardly speak. “No man kills her. No man sees her die. What happens to her in the tomb is known only to Vesta.”

Postumia nodded gravely. “Who was the last Vestal to receive this punishment?”

Pinaria furrowed her brow.

“Come, come, Pinaria! Foslia would answer in a heartbeat.”

“I remember now. It was almost a hundred years ago-”

“It was exactly seventy-nine years ago,” said Postumia harshly, “in the days of my grandmother.”

“As you say, Virgo Maxima.”

“What were the circumstances? What was the Vestal’s name?”

“She was called Urbinia. The women of Roma had fallen prey to a pestilence, especially women who were pregnant; there was one miscarriage after another. The Pontifex Maximus suspected impurity. It was found that Urbinia had given herself not to one man, but two, and yet she still dared to tend the sacred flame. Urbinia was tried and found guilty. After she was punished, the pestilence ceased, and the women once again bore healthy babies.”

Postumia nodded. “Urbinia was the most recent Vestal to be found guilty of impurity and punished. But she was not the first. You come from a very old family, do you not, Pinaria?”

“Yes, Virgo Maxima.”

“A family older than the republic, older than the kings; a family that has given Roma many consuls and magistrates, many warriors and priests, and not a few Vestals. But even the most respectable families have stains on their history. It was King Tarquinius the Elder who initiated the method by which Vestals are punished. And what was the name of the very first Vestal to be punished according to that practice?”

“Her name…” Pinaria’s heart skipped a beat.

“Come, child! You know the answer.”

“Her name was the same as my own: Pinaria. An ancestress of mine was the first Vestal to be…”

“Buried alive!” whispered Postumia. She drew a deep breath. “Buried alive-that’s what they did to Pinaria, and to Urbinia. That’s what they wanted to do to me. Even now, I can’t speak of it with a steady voice.”

“But surely you were innocent.”

“Of course I was, you stupid girl! Had I been less than innocent, I wouldn’t be here today! In the end, thank the goddess, I was able to convince the Pontifex Maximus of that fact. But the investigation itself…the fear I felt…the humiliation…the terror…the nightmares I still experience, after all these years!” Postumia cleared her throat. “When I became Virgo Maxima, I promised myself that no Vestal in my charge would ever suffer such an ordeal. To keep your vow is not enough. Innocence is not enough! A Vestal must be above temptation, yes-but she must also be above suspicion. Do you understand, Pinaria?”

“Yes, Virgo Maxima. I understand.” Pinaria shivered and began to weep.

Postumia embraced her, holding her tightly and stroking her closely shorn hair. “There, there! I’ve frightened you, child. But I do it for your own good. I do it for the good of us all.”

Though the door was shut, a sudden draft passed through the chamber, as if the temple itself drew a breath. The sacred hearthfire leaped this way and that, wavered, and for an instant appeared to vanish altogether.

390 B.C.

“Of course, the ban on intermarriage between plebeians and patricians should never have been repealed,” said Postumia.

Foslia laughed out loud. “But Virgo Maxima, what can that possibly have to do with the so-called Veii Question?”

Postumia, who was about to take a bite from a stuffed grape leaf held delicately between her forefinger and thumb, put down the delicacy and cleared her throat. She was slightly flustered by Foslia’s disrespectful laughter. “All questions of right and wrong impinge on one another. In matters of religion-and there are no matters unrelated to religion-every subject is relevant to every other.”

Foslia was skeptical. “A ban on marriage between the classes-wasn’t that in force only briefly, because it was so unpopular? And it was all so very long ago. People my age are hardly aware that such a ban ever existed!”

The occasion was dinner in the House of the Vestals. The weather was mild. The priestesses dined in the garden under the open sky, reclining on couches. The couch of the Virgo Maxima was at the head of the group. Dining on a couch opposite the Virgo Maxima was the youngest-still Pinaria, for in the three years since the triumph of Camillus, no Vestal had retired or died, and so no new novices had been inducted.

Female servants moved silently among them, delivering fresh dishes and taking away empty ones. “The eyes and ears of the Pontifex Maximus,” Foslia called their servants. “They watch us like hawks,” she had once remarked to Pinaria. “They listen to every word we say. If ever a Vestal should stray, the Pontifex Maximus will know about it even before the goddess does, thanks to his vigilant spies!” Foslia said such things in jest, but Pinaria was not amused.

Nor was the Virgo Maxima amused by Foslia’s dismissal of her comment on marriage.

“May I remind you, Foslia, that a marriage between two patricians requires a religious rite, while any marriage involving a plebeian is purely a civil matter. In the time of the Decemvirs, this fact was one of the strongest arguments against intermarriage. In any mixed union, the patrician partner is deprived of religious ceremony-a state of affairs that must surely offend the gods. A patrician should marry only another patrician, and do so in accordance with the sacred rites. Yes, the ban was rescinded-but that doesn’t mean it won’t come back.”

Postumia took a bite of the stuffed grape leaf, then returned the remainder to a small silver plate and waved for a servant to remove it. She was finished eating and ready to pontificate for the benefit of the younger Vestals. “Times of piety and of impiety occur in cycles. I grew up in a permissive era, but we now live in an age not so very different from that of the Decemvirs. In recent years, due to the press of constant warfare, the election of consuls has been suspended, and Roma is ruled instead by six military tribunes. As for the conflict between the classes, if anything, it may be worse than in the days of the Decemvirs, because the patricians continually retreat and the plebeians continually demand more concessions-more land to settle, more debt-relief, more voting rights. If our leaders would use their power to reinstate the intermarriage ban, in that sphere at least Roma would again be in harmony with the will of the gods, and the classes might resume their rightful roles in the state. Such an idea did not originate with me; it comes from our sacred father, the Pontifex Maximus, who told me only yesterday that he intends to petition the military tribunes for a return of the intermarriage ban. And in this house, we do not contradict the Pontifex Maximus. If you have a conflicting opinion, Foslia, keep it to yourself.”

“Of course, Virgo Maxima.” Foslia’s sardonic tone seemed to indicate that, while she might keep her opinions private, she would keep them, nonetheless. “And of course you’re right to say marriage, at least any marriage involving a patrician, is a religious matter. But we were discussing the Veii Question, and surely that is about only two things: money and politics.”

Postumia shook her head. “To the contrary, Foslia, can you not see that the Veii Question is very much a religious matter? Pinaria, you’re very quiet this evening. You may still be the youngest, but you’re no longer a novice. Speak up.”

Pinaria swallowed an olive stuffed with goat cheese. “Very well, Virgo Maxima. It seems to me, more than ever, that Roma’s conquest of Veii is a mirror of the Greeks’ conquest of Troy. First, it took ten years. Second, it came about by a clever stratagem rather than by brute strength. Third, while it seemed to solve all our problems at the time, instead, like the Greeks after Troy, we discovered that the conquest merely led to more dissention at home.”

Postumia nodded thoughtfully. “Continue.”

“Veii was so rich, people thought the capture of so much booty would relieve the tensions between the classes. Surely, they thought, there would be enough, and more than enough, for everyone in Roma. But when the time came for the division of the spoils, no one was pleased. The temple to Juno Regina, and the ceremonies to dedicate the temple, cost a great deal more than anyone expected. Added to that was the tenth portion promised by Camillus to Apollo and his priesthood. The plebeians said they were being robbed of booty for which they had spilled their blood. In reply to that, the patricians said it was sacrilegious of the plebeians to try to claim booty that had been promised to the gods.”

“And the result?”

“Bitter accusations of unfairness and greed from both sides.”

“Which is certainly nothing new,” said Foslia, who could never stay out of any discussion for long. “For generations patricians have argued, quite reasonably, that everyone must pull together for the common good. We must be united under our leaders, all willing to sacrifice in the face of so many threats from so many enemies. And for just as long, selfish, shortsighted plebeians have done nothing but complain. At times, they’ve even refused military service!”

“Of course…” Pinaria said, then hesitated. Certain ideas which she overheard outside the House of the Vestals were not always welcomed by her fellow Vestals, especially the Virgo Maxima.

“Go on,” said Postumia.

“Yes, go on,” said Foslia, with a mischievous glint in her eye, hoping to see the Virgo Maxima provoked.

Pinaria spoke slowly and carefully. “These are not my ideas, you understand; but one does hear things. For instance, there are some who argue that, while the temple itself honors Juno Regina, the money to build the temple actually goes into the pockets of the contractors chosen by the state. Most of those contractors are patricians and are already quite rich. And because those contractors tend to use slaves-men captured in war and sold to them cheaply by the state-plebeian workers see no profit at all from such a project.”

“Their profit is the good will of the goddess, who is pleased by her temple!” declared the Virgo Maxima. “To reduce the building of a temple, a sacred act, to a squabble over money is nothing less than sacrilege, of the sort spewed by the worst rabble-rousers. Really, Pinaria, you must learn to allow such talk to go in one ear and out the other. Think about it: Simple reason dictates that the gods must always be given the first and greatest portion of the spoils. Otherwise, we might lose their favor, and then where would we be? Veii would have conquered us, instead of the other way around! After the gods, our responsible, hard-working leaders, the men who ensure the proper worship of the gods, must be given their rightful share. And after that, the plebeian rabble should be satisfied with whatever spoils may remain-just as they should be satisfied to marry within their own class! Instead of nurturing wild notions that they themselves are fit to rule the state, they should submit to those whose families have proved themselves best able to guide the destiny of Roma. This is a dangerous world, full of enemies. Only proven leadership that is pleasing to the gods can preserve us from catastrophe.”

Pinaria bowed her head. “The Virgo Maxima speaks wisely.”

The other Vestals, including Foslia, nodded and echoed her words: “The Virgo Maxima speaks wisely!”

“And yet…” Postumia’s voice trembled with emotion. “And yet it sometimes seems that our worst enemies are inside the city, not outside. The rabble may be unfit to rule, but they still have their tribunes and other powerful men who cater to them, as we have seen demonstrated only too well in recent days.”

The other Vestals put aside their food. The Virgo Maxima was alluding to a topic painful to them all.

Foslia broke the uncomfortable silence. “Is there no hope for Camillus, Virgo Maxima?”

Postumia sighed. “The situation remains unchanged. Even as we speak, Marcus Furius Camillus is making ready to leave Roma. Rather than face trial, he will go into exile. We all know how this lamentable state of affairs came about: In their fury over the spoils of Veii, the rabble decided to vent their spite on the man most responsible for dispensing those spoils. They accused Camillus of breaking the law. They claim he wrongfully enriched his friends and family members.”

“But surely he isn’t guilty,” said one of the Vestals.

The Virgo Maxima shook her head. “Alas, men wise in the ways of the courts tell me otherwise. By the strict letter of the law, Camillus did indeed commit improprieties. He is unable to account for all the wealth that was dispensed. The courts take such matters very seriously and cannot look the other way. Really, these laws are written as if they were intentionally fashioned to give a weapon to the enemies of any man in public life. The higher a man rises, and the more far-ranging his decisions, the more vulnerable he becomes to charges of corruption. And so, Camillus-our beloved Camillus! — is being driven from Roma. Only three years ago, every man, woman, and child was shouting his name in the streets, praising him as our savior. And now, this! Vesta forgive me for saying such a thing, but if Camillus were to raise arms against us, as Coriolanus did, I should hardly be able to deny that the city deserved it! But of course, he will never do that. Camillus is too great a man, and too loyal a Roman, no matter that his enemies have made him an outcast. Tonight, when we gather at the temple, we must all remember him in our prayers. May Camillus be comforted and kept warm by Vesta’s fire, however far he may journey from the hearth.”

“May Vesta’s fire keep him warm!” echoed the other Vestals, and some quietly began to weep; many tears had been shed in the House of the Vestals over the misfortunes of Camillus in recent days. In the years since his triumph, all the Vestals, including the Virgo Maxima, had come to regard the conqueror of Veii with a certain awe. In reverent tones they spoke of his military triumphs and his grandiose public works; in whispers they spoke of his chiseled features and brawny bearing, the exemplar of Roman manliness. The Vestals had built a veritable cult around Camillus, and his fall had devastated them.

Pinaria did not weep. She was remembering the day of Camillus’s triumph, and the shock she had felt at seeing the four white horses that pulled his chariot. Surely Jupiter, who saw everything from the clouds, had seen those white horses as well. Had the god believed that a mortal was mocking him? The Virgo Maxima saw the will of the gods in all things, so why not in the downfall of Camillus? But Pinaria had already provoked the Virgo Maxima once this evening; she did not care to do so again by imputing any fault to a man whom the Vestals held in such esteem.

It occurred to Pinaria that, in the course of the evening’s digressions, the topic that had originally been brought up was the very topic no one had discussed: the Veii Question.

The spoils of Veii had been claimed; the people had been sold into slavery and the conquered city had been stripped of every ornament, as vultures strip a carcass of its flesh. But even the most ravenous vultures leave bones behind, and the bones of Veii remained: its houses, walls, wells, fountains, assembly halls, streets, gardens, and temples. The houses of Veii stood empty. Veii was a city without citizens.

What was to be done with Veii?

One faction, led by a tribune of the plebs named Sicinius, argued that half the population of Roma should leave their homes and move to Veii, taking up residence in the empty houses there. Renters could become owners; men mired in debt could make a fresh start. Farmers who had been promised small homesteads in distant, conquered Volscian territory could instead receive lots outside Veii, enjoying the amenities of a city already built and living close to their family and friends in Roma. With two complete cities to accommodate the population of one, much of the disparity between the haves and have-nots of Roma could be eliminated overnight.

The supporters of Sicinius’s proposal were wildly enthusiastic, but the opposition was fierce. The landlords and moneylenders of Roma had everything to lose and nothing to gain. Those who ran the city foresaw a dilution of their authority; what if Veii became not an annex of Roma but a rival city, with its own magistrates and priesthoods? Opponents accused Sicinius of scheming to make himself rich by controlling the distribution of properties in Veii; perhaps he even intended to become king of Veii. To the opposition, the proposed migration was nothing less than another secession of the plebs-only this time, the secession would be permanent. The gods had shown favor to one city, Roma, and Roma should remain as it was. Veii should be utterly destroyed, it walls pulled down and its buildings burned to the ground.

Camillus had been among those who spoke most vehemently against the move to occupy Veii. In a speech to the Senate, he had uttered a phrase which became the rallying cry of the opposition: “Any city abandoned by the gods must never be inhabited by men!” Some said his exile was the price he paid for opposing Sicinius and his faction. They had brought charges of corruption against which Camillus had been unable to defend himself, but the real issue had been Camillus’s stand on the Veii Question.

Should Roma be one city or two? Should Veii be inhabited or destroyed? The unresolved issue overshadowed every other concern facing the city. The debate was fierce and unrelenting, and often descended to open violence in the Forum. There seemed to be no middle ground; migration either promised the solution to all problems, or threatened the annihilation of Roma. The stakes were incredibly high. No wonder Foslia had laughed at the Virgo Maxima’s quaint digression on intermarriage when the Veii Question was raised!

And yet, as Postumia had argued, all such questions were at some level related to one another. Politics split each question into many different questions, all of them vexed and insoluble: Every man asserted his own will, and whoever was strongest at a given moment prevailed. Religion unified all questions into one, to which there was a single answer: the will of the gods.

It often seemed to Pinaria that the world outside the House of the Vestals was a swirling chaos of violence and uncertainty. The enemies of Roma sought her destruction, as she sought theirs. The citizens of Roma endlessly struggled against one another for wealth and power; even within families, sons contested against one another and sometimes disobeyed their paterfamilias, and wives rebelled against their husbands. But these struggles were mere shadows of something far greater, and yet hard to see, as a temple by its vastness must be hard for an ant to discern: the will of the gods. Wisdom came not from within, or from other mortals; wisdom came from determining the desire of the gods. But how was this to be done? Even after her many years of study, the path often seemed obscure to Pinaria.

She was glad the dinner was over, and conversation had ceased; now the Vestals would make their way to the temple of the goddess for the evening’s thanksgiving. No matter how much delight the play of words gave to clever people like Foslia, or to teachers like the Virgo Maxima, talking never resolved anything. Peace came only in the performance of ritual, and the greatest peace came in those precious moments when Pinaria could gaze, uninterrupted and free from all extraneous thoughts, into the hearth-fire of Vesta, knowing it to be the one thing in all the world that was pure and everlasting.

“They are on their way! They are on their way! I must warn everyone! They are on their way!”

The madman had forced his way past the servants at the entrance of the House of the Vestals. He had rushed though the vestibule and into the atrium, where he now stood in the center of the impluvium. It was high noon and the sun shone directly down on him. When he stamped his feet in the ankle-deep water, like a child throwing a tantrum, the sunlight sparkled and lit rainbows amid the splashing water.

“They are on their way!” he cried, clenching his fists at his sides and drawing his eyebrows to a point. “Why will no one listen?”

The Vestals and their huddled servants kept their distance and watched him, fascinated. Foslia, who had just arrived, whispered in Pinaria’s ear. “Who is this creature?”

“I don’t know. But I’ve seen him before, in the street between here and the Temple of Vesta.”

“He looks like a beggar, to judge by those rags. And that awful unkempt hair and beard! Has he threatened anyone?”

“No. He seems to be trying to warn us about something. The Virgo Maxima has gone to find the Pontifex Maximus-”

“You must be joking! I should think she’d fetch some armed lictors to take the man away in chains.”

“She seemed to take him rather seriously.”

There was a commotion at the entrance. Postumia and the Pontifex Maximus appeared in the vestibule and strode into the atrium, followed by a retinue of priests and augurs.

The madman dropped to his knees with a splash. “Pontifex Maximus! At last! You will hear the truth of what I say.”

The high priest wore a toga distinctive for its many folds gathered and tucked in a loop just above his waist; the cowl that would have covered his head at ceremonies was pushed back to reveal a bald crown fringed with white hair. He stroked his long white beard and looked down his nose at the man in the impluvium. “Marcus Caedicius! How far you’ve fallen in the world-and I don’t just mean to your knees.”

“Pontifex Maximus, do you know this man?” said Postumia.

“I do. Caedicius used to be a respectable plebeian, a fuller who washed and dyed wool; observe the dark stains behind his fingernails. But some time ago he gave up his shop and became a vagrant. He frequents a particular spot in the street above the Temple of Vesta. Have you not seen him pacing this way and that, muttering to himself? Well, Caecidius, what is this nonsense? What can you be thinking, forcing your way into this sacred dwelling and terrifying the holy virgins! What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Oh, Pontifex Maximus, you must listen to me!”

“I am listening, you fool. Speak!”

“I heard a voice. I was in the street, alone-there wasn’t another mortal in sight, I swear-and a voice spoke to me, as clearly and distinctly as I’m speaking to you now. A voice from nowhere!” Caedicius wrung his hands and chewed his lower lip.

“By Hercules, man, spit it out! Do you think I have nothing better to do? What did this voice say?”

“It said: ‘The Gauls are coming!’ That’s what it said, as clearly as you hear me now: ‘The Gauls are coming!’”

The Pontifex Maximus wrinkled his brow. “The Gauls?”

One of his subordinates drew alongside him. “A tribe of savages who come from a land far to the north, Pontifex Maximus, beyond a great mountain range called the Alps. Some years ago, they discovered a pass across the Alps. Some of them moved into Italy and founded a city called Mediolanum. Poets say it was a craving for wine that drew the Gauls to Italy; in their native land they have nothing like it. Their language is said to be a combination of grunts, very uncouth and grating to the ear.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of these Gauls,” said the Pontifex Maximus. “Why should they come here, Marcus Caedicius, and why should we care?”

Caedicius splashed his hands in the shallow water, close to weeping. “The Gauls are coming! Do you not understand? Their arrival shall be terrible, the most terrible thing that has ever happened! Doom! Death! Destruction! Warn the magistrates! Flee at once, and take the Vestals with you! Pray to the gods for our salvation!”

For quite some time, a rotund little priest in the retinue behind the Pontifex Maximus had been searching through a scroll, rotating the cylinders with both hands and scanning the text. The man gave a sudden jerk, which caught Pinaria’s attention.

Foslia also noticed. She gripped Pinaria’s arm and whispered into her ear. “Do you realize what that priest is holding? It’s one of the Sibylline Books!”

“Surely not,” whispered Pinaria. “Aren’t they kept on the Capitoline, in a vault beneath the Temple of Jupiter?”

“Of course; that’s where the priests study the Greek verses, translate them into Latin, and debate their meaning. That roly-poly little fellow must be one of the priests, and that must be one of the Sibylline Books!”

“I never thought that I should ever actually see one,” said Pinaria, feeling a tremor of dread. The arcane verses were consulted only in times of dire crisis.

The priest gave another jerk and uttered a cry of excitement. “Pontifex Maximus, I’ve found something! I knew I had seen the reference before; at last I’ve located it. The Sibyl herself foresaw this moment. She wrote a verse to guide us.”

“What does it say? Read the oracle aloud.”

The little priest looked up from the scroll. He stared wide-eyed at Marcus Caecidius for a long moment, blinked and cleared his throat, and read:

A man kneels on water and does not sink. He speaks to the wise to make them think. From his warning they must not shrink.

The little priest lowered the scroll. Everyone in the room gazed at the man who knelt in the shallow water, who claimed to have heard a warning from a disembodied voice that proclaimed, “The Gauls are coming!”

Not long after Caedicius delivered his warning, word arrived that a vast army of Gauls had swept down from the north and was laying siege to the city of Clusium, located on a tributary of the Tiber, a hundred miles upriver from Roma.

The city fathers conferred. The prophecy of Caedicius and the words of the Sibyl were debated. It was decided that a delegation should be sent to Clusium to observe the Gauls at first hand. If they were as numerous as rumor asserted, and as menacing as Caedicius believed, then the envoys should attempt to use diplomacy-promises, pacts, or threats-to turn the Gauls back from Clusium, or at the very least to dissuade them from moving further south and setting their sights on Roma.

The Roman ambassadors were three brothers of the distinguished Fabius family. The Gauls received them courteously, for they had heard of Roma and knew the city was a force to be reckoned with. But when the Fabii asked what injury the Clusians had done to the Gauls that they should attack their city, and if making war unjustly was not an offense to the gods, the chieftain of the Gauls merely laughed at them. Brennus was a big-jawed man with a bristling red beard and a shaggy red mane, so massive and ruggedly muscled that he seemed to have been hewn from a block of granite. The Gauls were very nearly a race of giants, and Brennus towered over the Roman ambassadors. Even though he spoke with a kind of rough humor, it seemed to the Romans that he was belittling them.

“How have the Clusians offended us?” Brennus asked. “By having too much, while we have too little! By being so few, while we number so many! As for offending the gods, yours may be different from ours, but the law of nature is the same everywhere: The weak submit to the strong. So it is among gods, beasts, and men alike. From everything I’ve heard about you, you Romans are no different. Haven’t you done your share of taking what belongs to others, making free men into slaves simply because you’re stronger than they are and because it suits you? I thought so! So don’t ask us to pity the Clusians. Instead, maybe we should pity the people you’ve conquered and oppressed. Maybe we should go about setting them free and restoring their goods. How would you like that, Romans? What do you say? Ha!”

Brennus laughed in their faces. The Fabii were greatly insulted, but kept their mouths shut.

The matter might have ended there, but Quintus Fabius, the youngest and most hotheaded of the brothers, was determined to draw some Gallic blood. All races, including the Gauls, recognized the divinely protected status of envoys; it was universally agreed that ambassadors must be afforded hospitality and must not be harmed, and in return must not take up arms against their hosts. Quintus Fabius violated this sacred law. The next day, putting on the armor of a Clusian, he joined the forces of the besieged city and rode into battle against the Gauls. Picking out a Gaul of particularly large stature, he rode straight toward the man and killed him with a single blow of his sword. Wanting a trophy, Quintus Fabius jumped from his horse and set about stripping the dead man of his armor, and in doing so his Clusian helmet fell from his head. Brennus, fighting nearby, saw his face and recognized him at once.

The Gallic chief was outraged. Had he been able to confront Quintus Fabius there on the battlefield, the death of one or the other might have ended the matter, but the press of the battle carried the two men apart, and both ended the day unscathed.

The Fabii headed back to Roma. Brennus, an impulsive, prideful man, brooded all night. In the morning, he announced that the siege of Clusium was ended. For grossly insulting him-first by suggesting that he had offended the gods, then by flagrantly breaking divine law to take up arms against him-the Romans must be punished. Brennus declared that the entire force of the Gauls-more than 40,000 fighting men-would march south at once.

In Roma, the Pontifex Maximus called for the punishment of Quintus Fabius, saying that all guilt should rest on one man so as to exonerate the rest of the citizens and spare them from divine retribution. But popular opinion applauded Quintus Fabius for his recklessness. The people scoffed at retribution from either gods or Gauls; had not Quintus proved how easily a Gaul could be killed, no matter how gigantic, and had not the gods seen him safely home? Election time was at hand, and rather than punishing Quintus Fabius, the people elected him and his brothers military tribunes. Brennus, hearing this, grew even more enraged. His speeches whipped the Gauls into a frenzy. The vast horde rushed down the valley of the Tiber and rapidly drew nearer to Roma.

One man had the proven ability to unify the Roman forces and lead them to victory, even in the face of overwhelming odds, but that man was in exile: Camillus. Nightly, the Vestals prayed for his return, even as they saw omens everywhere that foretold disaster. But Camillus was not recalled from exile, and no dictator was appointed to deal with the emergency; instead, the Fabii and the three other military tribunes saw fit to split the command between themselves. Though they managed to muster an army to match the Gauls in numbers, the vast majority of these soldiers were raw recruits. Many had never held a sword or cast a spear; full of bravado like their leaders, they were unruly, undisciplined, and overconfident. On the eve of battle, still at odds with the priesthood that had demanded the punishment of Quintus Fabius, the commanders neglected to take the auspices or make sacrifices to the gods. Roma was to face Brennus without Camillus, without a sufficiently trained army, and without the favor of the gods.

The battle took place on the summer solstice. The longest day of the year became the most miserable day in the history of Roma.

The Roman forces were advancing upriver beside the Tiber, poorly massed and in disarray thanks to conflicting instructions from their commanders. As they approached the confluence where the river Allia ran through a steep ravine to join with the Tiber, about ten miles upriver from the city, they heard a noise like a multitude of animals braying. The noise grew louder and nearer, until the Romans began to realize it must be a marching song sung by the Gauls in their uncouth language. The scouts had given no warning, and it seemed impossible that the Gauls could have come so far so quickly. A tremor of fear ran through the front ranks. In the next instant, they came face to face with the enemy.

The Romans panicked, broke ranks, and ran. Thousands were pushed into the river and drowned. Thousands more fled into the narrow ravine; those who were not trampled by their own men were slaughtered by the Gauls. Those who survived the battle did so only because Brennus, amazed at the ease of his victory, suspected a trap. He kept his men from advancing as quickly as they might have, which allowed the Romans who threw down their weapons and cast off their armor to outrun their pursuers, saving themselves while shedding every vestige of their dignity. Because it was closer, most fled to Veii, not to Roma. Only a handful made it back to the city with news of the disaster.

The Roman army was destroyed. Its remnants were disarmed and scattered. Elated by their good fortune but exhausted from so much slaughter, the Gauls rested that night. The next day they stripped booty from the fallen dead; so many Romans had been killed that the process took all day.

The next morning the Gauls pressed on toward Roma. When they arrived, at nightfall, they beheld a city with open gates and not a single sentry on the walls. All was silent and still. So eerie was the sight that Brennus camped outside the walls that night, again fearing a trap. He waited until morning to venture into the defenseless city.

Alone in the Temple of Vesta, Pinaria slept. Not even the goddess was present, for the sacred fire of Vesta was gone. Only ashes remained in the hearth.

The previous day, while the others made ready to flee, racing about the House of the Vestals in a panic, Pinaria had been overcome by a desire to spend a few more moments, however fleeting, in Vesta’s temple. She had meant to steal quickly to the temple and just as quickly back again, but the masses of people in the street thwarted her intentions. By the thousands, Roma’s citizens were abandoning her. Some fled on foot with nothing more than the clothes they wore. Some pushed carts loaded high with belongings. Some hitched donkeys to wagons and attempted to take all their possessions with them.

As Pinaria threaded her way through the throng, others, seeing her holy vestments, tried to make way for her, but in many places the crowd was simply too thick. Pinaria was jostled this way and that. The heat of the midsummer day was stifling and oppressive. People moaned in misery. A woman screamed and cried out that her child had fallen and was being trampled underfoot. Pinaria turned to look, but the crowd carried her forward against her will.

At last she reached the temple. She broke away from the crowd and rushed up the empty steps. The doors stood open. There was no one inside. Pinaria closed the doors behind her and took a deep breath.

Why had she come? Vesta was no longer here; wherever the hearthfire was, that was the place where the goddess might be found, and the eternal flame had been transferred to a portable brazier to be transported away from Roma, to a place of safety. The Pontifex Maximus and the Virgo Maxima had overseen the grim ceremony while the Vestals looked on and wept; as long as Vesta’s hearthfire could be preserved, there remained a chance, however slender, that the city of Roma might endure.

The circular sanctum was dark and empty. The chamber was surprisingly quiet; the heavy doors muffled the hubbub of the crowd outside. As she stood alone in the Temple of Vesta, a sense of calm descended on Pinaria.

“What use is prophecy?” she said aloud, though there was no one to hear.

Marcus Caedicius had warned the magistrates and the priests about the Gauls, yet his warning had done no good. Despite their efforts to prevent the coming of the Gauls-indeed, because of those very efforts! — the Gauls were now marching on Roma, with nothing to stop them. The prophecy of Caedicius had proved no more useful than the prophecies of the Trojan princess Cassandra, who foresaw her city’s doom and yet could do nothing to prevent it. Was the fate of Troy to become the fate of Roma?

Pinaria shuddered and shut her eyes. She suddenly felt very weary. She knelt on the floor and leaned against the empty hearth.

She had not meant to fall asleep. Indeed, she would have thought it impossible to do so, considering the overwrought state of both the city and herself. Somnus, the god of sleep, overwhelmed her, accompanied by his son Morpheus, the shaper of dreams.

Pinaria woke. She did so suddenly, with a jarring sense of dislocation in time and space.

Where was she? Blinking, she realized that she was in the Temple of Vesta. She felt a stab of panic. Had she fallen asleep while tending the sacred flame? She looked at the hearth. It was cold and dark, the fire extinguished! Her heart raced and she felt lightheaded, then she remembered: The Gauls were coming. The flame had been removed so that it could be carried to safety.

She sensed that many hours had passed since she entered the temple. The murmur of the crowd no longer penetrated the heavy doors; no sound at all came from outside. It was not nighttime; bright sunlight leaked in from the narrow gap beneath the doors.

Pinaria opened the doors and shielded her eyes, dazzled by bright morning light. The hand of Somnus must have been very heavy upon her, to make her sleep from one day’s light until the next.

Morpheus had visited her as well, for now she remembered a dream that had haunted her sleep. Foslia was in the dream, nattering on and on, showing off her erudition. Everything she said irritated Pinaria and made her more distressed…

“Romulus walked on foot for his triumphs. Do you suppose Brennus will ride a quadriga through Roma, like Camillus? I wonder if Brennus is as handsome…”

There was more, though in the dream Pinaria protested and tried to stop her ears.

“The Trojan women were taken as slaves. Do you suppose we Vestals will become slaves? I don’t imagine the Gauls will allow us to remain virgins for long…”

And though Pinaria howled in protest, still Foslia continued, determined to show off her irrefutable religious logic.

“No city is conquered unless its people have offended the gods. Killing or enslaving the inhabitants of a conquered city pleases the gods. Now the Gauls have conquered Roma. What do you think that means, Pinaria? What does it say about Roma?”

What a terrible nightmare! Pinaria shivered, despite the warmth of the day. As she descended the steps and looked around her, what she saw was as disquieting as the dream, and just as strange.

The street was littered with castoff items, all the things that people had thought they could carry while they fled but had abandoned when panic or common sense overcame them: pieces of pottery, sacks full of clothing, boxes stuffed with trinkets and mementos, toys made of wood or straw, even chairs and small tripod tables. Forsaken wagons and handcarts had been knocked on their sides, with their contents strewn beside them.

Not a single person was to be seen, nor the sound of a single voice to be heard. Pinaria had lived her whole life in the city; she was used to its teeming energy, its loud, brash crowds. To see the city without people was bizarre. Roma was like an empty shell. It was like a tomb without a body.

Even the gods were gone. Before fleeing, the Romans had stripped their temples of every sacred object. The hearthfire of Vesta, statues of the gods, sacred talismans of the kings, the Sibylline Books-all been taken away for safekeeping or buried in secret places throughout the city. Only Somnus and Morpheus remained; perhaps they hovered over her still, for Pinaria felt as though she were walking through the strange, unreal landscape of a nightmare.

She wandered about the Forum, sometimes startled by the echo of her footsteps in the empty public spaces. Rounding a corner, she drew a sharp breath. She was not alone, after all. On a backless chair before the entrance to his official residence sat the Pontifex Maximus. He heard her gasp, gave a start and turned his head, as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

She ran to him. He stayed where he was, sitting stiffly upright and furrowing his brow. “Pinaria! What are you doing here? All the Vestals left yesterday.”

She knelt beside his chair. “Yes, Pontifex Maximus, and I was to go with them. But I wanted to visit the Temple of Vesta, one last time. I meant to stay only a moment, but somehow-”

“Shhhh! Do you hear?”

Pinaria cocked her head. The sound was distant and vague at first, then grew closer and more distinct. It was the sound of men talking, punctuated by shouts and raucous laughter.

“The Gauls,” whispered the Pontifex Maximus. “They’ve come at last!”

“But Pontifex Maximus, why are you still here? Why have you not fled?”

“Because some among us are still Romans. Flee the city? Never!”

“But when the Gauls find you-”

“I’m not the only one. Walk across the city and you’ll see the others who remain. Mostly old men, like myself; men who have never in their lives fled from an enemy and have no intention of doing so now. Nor will we cower inside our houses. Each of us has drawn a chair before his domicile, to sit and await whatever is to come, with our Roman dignity intact.”

“But the Gauls are monsters! They’re giants, twice as big as normal men. They drink human blood, and sacrifice babies, and burn their victims alive!”

“They may destroy my body, but they shall not rob me of my dignity. But listen, Pinaria-they’re drawing closer! You must flee!”

“Where?”

“Cross the street, quickly! Hide among the branches of that yew tree, and don’t make a sound, no matter what you see. Go!”

Reluctantly, Pinaria left him. She hid herself just before a troop of Gauls came striding up the street, laughing and swinging their swords for the thrill of hearing the blades cut the air. They were indeed large, though not as gigantic as Pinaria had expected. Nor were they as ugly as she had thought; some might even be called handsome, despite their strangely braided hair and untrimmed beards.

The Gauls saw the Pontifex Maximus and fell silent for a moment. They drew closer, peering at him curiously. He sat so still, with his hands on his knees and his eyes staring straight ahead, that perhaps they thought he was a painted statue. They slowly circled him, grunted to one another in their savage language, laughed, and pretended to poke at him with their swords. He did not react in any way; he did not even blink. At last, one of the Gauls-a redheaded giant from whom the others took orders-stooped down and peered at the Pontifex Maximus, eye to eye and nose to nose. He grabbed hold of the long white beard, grinned, and gave it a sharp tug.

The reaction of the Pontifex Maximus was instant: He slapped the Gaul across the face. The crack of the blow echoed up and down the street. Pinaria gasped.

The Gaul sprang back and roared. He drew a long sword and swung it in a circle in the air. The Pontifex Maximus did not move, but his face became as white as salt. With all his strength, the Gaul swung his blade against the neck of the Pontifex Maximus. There was a sickening sound, and then the priest’s head went flying through the air, the white beard trailing behind it like a comet’s tail. It landed in the street, bounced once, then rolled to a stop only a few steps from the place where Pinaria was hidden.

Despite herself, she opened her mouth to scream, but from behind a hand slipped over her mouth, and an arm embraced her so tightly that she had no breath to cry out.

The decapitated body of the Pontifex Maximus became a fountain of blood. The limbs jerked in a spastic fashion and the fingers madly twitched. The Gauls laughed and seemed refreshed by the rain of blood upon them. The sight was so horrible that Pinaria struggled wildly against the arms embracing her, desperate to flee, but the man held her fast. Against her back, she could feel that his heart was beating as rapidly as her own. The body of a Vestal was sacrosanct; Pinaria was not used to being touched. The sensation of being held so tightly was at once terrifying and strangely comforting.

The Gauls knocked the body of the Pontifex Maximus from its chair, kicked it a few times, then began to move on. Their leader barked an order at one of his men, who ran back to fetch the severed head. The man came so close to Pinaria that he might easily have seen her, had he peered into the foliage of the yew tree, but he kept his eyes on the head as he grabbed it by the beard and ran off, swinging it over his head.

The Gauls moved out of sight.

Slowly, the man loosened his grip on Pinaria. She slipped free and spun around to see a youth no older than herself. He was dressed in a tattered tunic. His shoes were mere scraps of leather, so worn as to be hardly worth wearing. Pinaria glanced at the hand that had covered her mouth, then at the one that had touched her breast.

“Where is your ring?” she said.

The youth merely raised an eyebrow. He had bright blue eyes and was very handsome, despite a haircut so ragged that his fair hair poked this way and that like tufts of straw.

“Your citizen’s ring?” demanded Pinaria. “Where is it?” Following a custom of the Greeks, every Roman citizen wore a ring, usually a simple band of iron. Sometimes such rings were carved with identifying initials or symbols; those who had cause to send letters or documents used their rings to impress their insignia on the sealing wax.

“I don’t have a ring,” said the youth. “But I do have this.” He indicated an amulet that hung from a leather strap around his neck. It appeared to be made of lead, very crudely molded in the form of a male member with wings.

Pinaria blanched. “You’re a slave, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“A slave dared to touch me!”

The youth laughed. “Had you rather I’d let you cry out? Those Gauls would have found you, for sure, and then they’d have found me, as well. And since I’m prettier than you, who knows which of us they would have ravished? I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy becoming a plaything for one of those bloodthirsty giants.”

Pinaria stared at him, dumbfounded. No man had ever spoken to her in such a crude fashion. Few slaves had ever spoken to her at all, except in response to her orders. No one had ever looked her in the eye and grinned at her in such a brazen way.

The slave looked her up and down. “You must be a Vestal.”

“I am!”

“What are you still doing here? I should have thought you’d have left yesterday.”

Pinaria was suddenly on the verge of tears. She drew a breath to steady herself. “You’re very impertinent.”

“Is that what you’ll say to Brennus when he has you staked spread-eagled in the middle of the Forum, and the line of Gauls queued up to make your acquaintance runs all the way to the Aventine?”

Pinaria slapped him across the face, then began to weep uncontrollably. The slave made no move to touch her, but stepped back and crossed his arms. “Have I frightened you?”

“Yes.”

“Good! Because more Gauls will be here at any moment, and this is not a very good place to hide.”

Pinaria fought back her tears. “I must get out of the city.”

“Impossible.”

“Then where can I go?”

“Take my hand.”

“What?”

“More Gauls are coming. Can’t you hear them?”

Pinaria listened. From nearby, she heard men braying a marching song in the ugly language of the Gauls. They sounded drunk.

“My name is Pennatus, by the way. Now take my hand, and don’t let go. We’re going to run, very fast.”

“Where?”

“How should I know? We’ll trust the gods to guide us.”

“The gods have left Roma,” said Pinaria, but she took his hand nonetheless.

This way and that they ran, uphill and downhill, heading nowhere, striving only to avoid the Gauls. As more and more Gauls appeared, overrunning the city like rats overrunning a ship, eluding them became harder. Sometimes they were seen, and the Gauls cried out and ran after them, but each time they escaped. Pennatus seemed to know each winding alley and every hole in every wall in the city.

They saw many terrible things. Like the Pontifex Maximus, others had decided to greet the Gauls fearlessly, seated like statues before their houses. Some, like the Pontifex Maximus, had been beheaded. Others had been strangled or stabbed to death. Some had been hanged from trees.

There seemed to be a surprising number of Romans in the city who, like Pinaria, had intended to flee but had failed to do so before the Gauls arrived. The city became a killing field; the Gauls were the hunters, the Romans the prey. Men were slaughtered and women and children were raped while Pinaria watched.

Shops were looted. Buildings were set on fire. The Gauls gawked at the opulent houses on the Palatine, and gawked even more at the crude Hut of Romulus, preserved as a rustic monument in the midst of the city’s finest dwellings. Could such unfeeling, half-human creatures understand what the sacred hut represented? While Pinaria watched from the shadows, a group of drunken Gauls stood in a circle around the hut and urinated on it, whooping and making a contest of their desecration. No other sight that day offended Pinaria as deeply, or made her feel more desperately that the history of Roma was finished forever.

The dreadful day seemed endless. At last, passing below the Tarpeian Rock, Pinaria and Pennatus heard voices calling from above. “Here! Up here! You’ll be safe if you can get to the top of the Capitoline!”

Looking up, they saw tiny figures peering over the rock. The figures beckoned to them, then frantically pointed.

“Gauls! Very near you, just behind that building! Run! Hurry! If you can get to the path that winds up the Capitoline-”

Pinaria was too frightened to think, too weary to move. It was Pennatus who dragged her forward, holding her by the hand. Crossing the Forum, they were spotted by the same troop of Gauls who had beheaded the Pontifex Maximus; one of the giants still toted the priest’s head as a trophy, carrying it by the beard. Pinaria screamed. The Gauls laughed and ran after them.

They came to the path which would take them to the top of Capitoline, the same route by which every triumphal procession reached the Temple of Jupiter. Drained by grief, immobilized by terror, Pinaria had reached the end of her endurance, yet, with Pennatus pulling her along, she seemed almost to fly up the winding path. Truly, she thought, the slave must have wings, as his name suggested, for how else was she being transported when her limbs had failed and her will was utterly spent?

With its steep slopes, the Capitoline had always presented one of the most naturally defensible positions among the Seven Hills. Over the generations, an accretion of monuments and buildings linked by walls and ramparts had essentially made it into a fortress. The defenders at the top had only to fill a few openings and passageways with rubble to secure the perimeter. They were doing so even as Pennatus and Pinaria reached the top of the winding path.

A narrow gap still remained amid the stones and bits of timber that were being hastily piled up to block the passage. A man stood in the breach, waving frantically. “The Gauls are right behind you!” he cried. Another Roman appeared atop the barrier, raised a bow, and let fly an arrow that very nearly parted Pinaria’s scalp. The buzzing of the arrow was followed by a scream, so close behind her that Pinaria flinched. The pursuers were very near, practically breathing on her neck.

Pennatus rushed through the breach, pulling her behind him. She tripped on the rubble and scraped her shoulder against a jagged bit of wood as she passed through to safety.

More arrows whizzed through the air, even as men rushed to fill in the breach. The archer gave a whoop of triumph. “They’re retreating! I got one in the eye, and another in the shoulder. Even giants turn tail and run if you show them who’s in charge.”

The archer jumped down from the barricade, rattling his armor. He removed his helmet to reveal a clean-shaven face, bright green eyes, and a shock of black hair. He squared his broad shoulders and stood stiffly erect. “Gaius Fabius Dorso,” he announced in a deep voice, taking such pleasure in enunciating his name that the effect was almost comical. He glanced at her vestments. “Can it be possible that you’re one of the Vestals?”

“My name is Pinaria,” she said, trying to steady her voice.

“What’s this?” Dorso peered at her shoulder. The fabric of her gown had been torn. The pale flesh was marred by a scrape and bright red speckles of blood. He averted his eyes, conscious of the sanctity of her body. “How did such a thing happen? The slave must have treated you very carelessly! If he needs to be punished-”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Pinaria. “The wound is nothing, and the slave saved my life.”

She covered the exposed scrape with her hand and winced, suddenly aware of the pain. She looked at Pennatus. Perhaps he was not as handsome as she had thought; seeing him next to Gaius Fabius Dorso, he looked slightly ridiculous, with his badly cropped hair and shabby clothes. Nonetheless, when he grinned at her-such cheek, from a slave! — she could not help but return his smile. Her face grew hot and she lowered her eyes.

“If you truly had wings, you could fly away from here,” said Pinaria. “If only…”

She stood behind a rampart on the Capitoline, overlooking the Forum and the hills that surrounded it. Many days had passed since the coming of the Gauls. The sight of Roma occupied by savages-horrifying and bizarre at first, almost beyond comprehension-had now become commonplace. Rarely now did the beleaguered Romans atop the Capitoline hear the screams of some hapless citizen being rousted from a hiding place by the Gauls to be tortured and raped. Most of those in hiding had been discovered in the very first days of the occupation; a lucky few had made their way to the Capitoline. Nonetheless, the Gauls’ assaults upon the city itself continued, day after day. After a house was ransacked, the Gauls often set it on fire, apparently for no reason other than to delight in its destruction or to infuriate the Romans watching from the Capitoline. On this day, from all over the city, great plumes of smoke rose into the air. High above the hills, the smoke coalesced into a grey miasma that obscured the midsummer sun and turned midday into twilight.

The handful of defenders atop the Capitoline-Gaius Fabius Dorso insisted that they think of themselves thus, and not as captives, for they were Romans and stood upon Roman soil-had, for the time being, enough to eat and drink. In the first days of the occupation, they stayed busy strengthening their defenses. They erected pickets, dug trenches, and even chipped away some of the hillsides to make them even steeper. So long as they kept watch day and night, their position was virtually impregnable. And yet, despair was always near. The sight of their beloved city being demolished house by house, the loss of all contact with those who had fled, the fear that the gods had abandoned them-these anxieties preyed on their waking thoughts and colored their nightmares.

If only one had wings; if only one could fly away…

Beside her, Pennatus smiled. He was always smiling, despite the grimness of their situation. He was quite unlike anyone Pinaria had ever encountered. Most of the slaves she had met were quiet and self-effacing, desirous of nothing except to go unnoticed. Most of the free men she had known were self-consciously deferential in her company, awkward or aloof. Pennatus was none of these things. He was constantly joking and making light of their situation, and her exalted status seemed to mean nothing to him. He appeared to be utterly without religious scruples or even religious belief. He often said things that went beyond sacrilege, not so much disparaging the gods as disavowing their existence.

Pinaria had never met such a person, or even imagined that such a person could exist. It seemed there was nothing Pennatus feared to say to her. Sometimes she thought he must be flirting with her, though she had so little experience in such matters that she couldn’t quite tell. If only Foslia were with her, so that Pinaria might have someone to talk to about the unfamiliar feelings stirred in her by this peculiar slave!

“For better or worse,” said Pennatus, “despite my name, I do not have, nor have I ever had, wings. Did I not tell you already how I came by my name?”

Pinaria shook her head.

“It was given to me by my master when I was an infant. He owned my mother as well.”

“What about your father?”

Pennatus shrugged. “I never knew him. For all I know, the old master sired me.”

Pinaria blushed. Pennatus clucked his tongue. “Really, do they teach you Vestals nothing about the facts of procreation? Well, of course they don’t. To what practical purpose could a Vestal virgin put such knowledge?”

She blushed more deeply. “Really, Pennatus! I shall pray to Vesta that you may become more respectful of her servants.”

“Why bother? I’m only a slave. I should think your goddess has no more interest in me than I have in her.”

Pinaria sighed, exasperated. “You were telling me how you acquired your name.”

“From this pendant I wear. As you see, it has wings. My mother wore it. It protected her in childbirth, but afterward, she wanted me to have it. She placed it on a cord around my neck not long after I was born. The old master’s eyesight was poor, and all he could tell about the talisman was that it had wings, and so he called me Pennatus: ‘winged.’ I was still quite small when my mother died. Her gift helps me to remember her.”

Pinaria gazed at the black object, which nestled in the cleft of Pennatus’s chest. His tunic was crudely made, and the wide opening for his head exposed a considerable portion of his chest, so that the talisman was always visible. Not for the first time, Pinaria noticed that the muscularity of his chest was quite pronounced, and the firm, sunburned flesh was covered with soft golden hair. “What is the amulet made of?”

He smiled oddly, as if at some private joke. “What does it look like?”

She shrugged. “Lead?”

He hummed and nodded. “And what master would bother to take a worthless lead pendant from a slave? Now, if it were made of some precious metal-silver, or even gold-many a master would take the talisman for himself, either to wear it or to sell it. Even a kindly, indulgent, slightly doddering old master might do so.”

“I suppose,” said Pinaria, who seldom thought about the lives of slaves and the problems and humiliations they faced. The world was as the gods had made it, and one did not question such arrangements. But if one were like Pennatus, who seemed not to believe in the gods, how very different the world and the people in it must appear…

Pennatus had been lucky. His master treated him well, and in return, Pennatus had been very loyal to the old man, who needed constant looking after. When the Gauls came, the master was too frail to be moved. Pennatus stayed with him, and by doing so missed the chance to flee the city. The shock of events proved too much for the old man. His heart stopped beating the very morning the Gauls arrived, leaving Pennatus to fend for himself. That was how Pennatus came to be wandering the city when he encountered Pinaria.

Pinaria sighed and gazed at the plumes of smoke that rose from all over the city. A noise from below drew her attention. Down in the Forum, a group of drunken Gauls were attacking a marble statue of Hercules with wooden staves. Their staves kept breaking against the stone, but the red-faced, maniacally laughing Gauls stubbornly kept up their assault. At last a finger broke off the statue and went clattering across the paving stones. The Gauls pranced about and howled in triumph.

Pennatus laughed. “What idiots!”

“What monsters!” Pinaria was not amused. The sorry spectacle made her feel disheartened and full of sorrow. She raised her eyes to the vast nimbus of smoke that veiled the dark red sun. “If you truly had wings, Pennatus, would you not fly away from here at once? Far, far away?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I might. Or I might keep my wings folded and stay here with you.”

“What a silly thing to say!” muttered Pinaria, but suddenly she felt less sorrowful.

They looked at each other for a long moment, then both turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. Gaius Fabius Dorso strode toward them. As always, he carried himself with an erect military bearing, but he was not clad in armor. He wore a toga with a ceremonial belt of gold and purple cloth and a headband of the same material, as if he were about to take part in some religious rite. In his hands, a bit awkwardly, he carried several small vessels made of hammered copper.

“Are you ready, Pennatus? I can carry the vessels of wine and oil myself, but I shall need you to carry the bowls of salt and ground millet.”

Pennatus nodded. He stepped forward to relieve Dorso of the bowls.

“What’s happening?” asked Pinaria.

Dorso stood tall before her and raised his chin. “This is the day of the annual sacrifice of the Fabii on the Quirinal. Since I am the only Fabius left in Roma, I shall tend to the ritual.”

“But where will you offer this sacrifice?”

“At the ancient altar on the Quirinal, of course.”

“But how? There must be a thousand Gauls between here and there.”

“Yes, and another thousand swarming over the Quirinal like rats. Nonetheless, it is incumbent upon me to perform the ritual, and so I shall.”

“But Dorso, it isn’t possible!”

“The ritual has been performed on this day every year, without fail, for many generations. Long ago, during the very first war against Veii, an army made up entirely of Fabii-three hundred seven in all-went to fight for Roma. There was a terrible ambush, from which only a single Fabius returned. To avert the recurrence of such a disaster, each year we make an offering to Father Romulus in his divine guise as the god Quirinus. Today is the day.”

“But Dorso, to leave the Capitoline would be madness!”

“Perhaps. But to neglect the sacrifice would be a greater madness, surely. Dear Vestal, I should think that you, of all people, would understand that. I shall walk across the city, directly to the altar. I shall perform the ritual. I shall walk directly back again. If the Gauls challenge me, I shall tell them they are standing in the way of a sacred procession. These Gauls are a peculiar people. They appear to possess little knowledge of the gods, but they are very superstitious and can easily be overawed.”

“But you don’t even speak their language!”

“They will see that I carry sacred vessels. From my face they will know that my purpose is a holy one. The god Quirinus will protect me.”

Pinaria shook her head. She glanced at Pennatus, and swallowed a lump in her throat. “Must you take Pennatus with you?”

“A slave customarily accompanies the Fabius who performs the ritual, to help carry the vessels.”

“But Pennatus is not your slave.”

“No, he is not, and I am not compelling him to go with me. I asked him to go, and he agreed.”

“Pennatus, is this true?”

The slave shrugged and flashed a crooked smile. “It seemed reasonable at the time. I’m getting bored, trapped up here day after day. I think it may be a great adventure.”

Pinaria shook her head. “No, this isn’t right. Pennatus…Pennatus is impious! He can’t be part of such a ritual. He has no more respect for the gods than the Gauls do.”

“All the better!” declared Dorso. “If I fail to overawe them, perhaps the Gauls will see in Pennatus a kindred spirit, and leave us alone for his sake.” He smiled at Pennatus, who smiled back at him.

The unlikely friendship that had developed between the two young men was a great puzzlement to Pinaria. Two mortals could hardly be more different. Gaius Fabius Dorso was a pious, upright patrician warrior; he was oddly likeable, despite being more than a little vain and self-important. Pennatus was an impious slave who seemed to respect nothing and no one. And yet, thrown together atop the Capitoline, in a situation where the normal constraints of society were undone, the two men had discovered a pleasure in each other’s company that grew deeper every day. Now, to Pinaria’s amazement and dismay, they were about to set out together on a mad venture that would surely put an end to both of them.

Pinaria stepped forward and laid her hand on Dorso’s arm. “Please, I implore you, don’t do this thing! Forgo the ritual. The gods-if they still have any love for us-will understand and forgive.”

Her touch humbled Dorso. He lowered his eyes. “Please, Vestal, I need your blessing, not words of discouragement. The truth is this: I returned to the city from the battle at the River Allia and I remained here, despite the coming of the Gauls, for the express purpose of performing this ritual. I am…” He drew a deep breath and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I am all too aware of the role played by my kinsmen in drawing the wrath of the Gauls, and perhaps the wrath of the gods, upon Roma. I cannot turn back time and reverse the damage that was done by my impetuous, impious cousin, Quintus. For his crime, Quintus should have been punished-the Pontifex Maximus himself said so-but instead he was commended by the people of Roma and made a commander of the legions. Now disaster has overwhelmed us, and it falls to me to honor the gods and my ancestors by performing this ancient ritual. If…” Again he drew a deep breath. “If I should die in attempting to do so, perhaps my blood will assuage the gods. Perhaps they will accept my sacrifice in place of my cousin Quintus, and return their favor to Roma.”

Pinaria was so moved that for a long moment she could not speak. She fought back tears, and finally said, “If the Virgo Maxima were here, she would bless you-but the Virgo Maxima is gone, and so are the other Vestals. I’m the only one left in Roma, so I will bless you, Gaius Fabius Dorso. Go and make the sacrifice-and come back safely!”

Dorso bowed his head to her, then turned and strode toward the barricade, carrying the vessels of wine and oil.

Pennatus lingered behind for a moment. He gave Pinaria an odd look; his eyes seemed to smile even though his lips did not. He looked down at the vessels of millet and salt, frowned and furrowed his brow, then puffed out his cheeks and seemed to reach a decision. “Well, then! I told him I would go with him, and so I shall.”

“Come back safely, Pennatus!” she whispered. She very nearly touched his arm, as she had touched the arm of Dorso, but at the last moment she drew back her hand. It would hardly be pleasing to the goddess, for a Vestal to touch a slave.

Pennatus squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “Of course I’ll come back. Will your gods not protect me? If the Gauls menace us, I shall simply sprout wings and come flying back to you!”

With Dorso leading and Pennatus walking behind him, the two men strode across the Capitoline. Word of Dorso’s intentions had spread, and a crowd gathered to watch them depart. Soldiers rushed forward to help the two men keep their balance as they climbed over the barricade, holding the ritual vessels aloft. Not a grain of salt or millet or a drop of wine or oil was spilled, and this was seen to be a good omen. The soldiers crowded together along the top of the barricade to watch Dorso and Pennatus descend the winding path.

Heads turned and a hush fell over the spectators as Pinaria climbed up to join the soldiers. They drew aside to make room for the Vestal. She gazed at the receding procession of two and began to move her lips without making a sound. Thinking to join her in prayer, men muttered pleas to the god Quirinus for the safekeeping of his worshippers, but the words shaped by Pinaria’s lips were not addressed to any god.

“Come back!” she begged silently. “Come back to me, Pennatus!”

The hours passed slowly. The afternoon sun suffused the smoky sky with a lurid glow, and began to descend toward the distant hills beyond the Tiber. On the barricade, sharp-eyed lookouts kept a watch on the Quirinal, but saw nothing to indicate the fate of Dorso and Pennatus.

Pinaria paced back and forth across the open spaces of the Capitoline. Reflexively, she muttered prayers to Vesta, but in her heart she felt she was speaking to empty air. The hearthfire of the goddess was gone from Roma and her temple had been desecrated by godless savages. Vesta must be far, far away, thought Pinaria, beyond the reach of even the most devoted Vestal. Even if the goddess was still present, and could hear her, would she not see into Pinaria’s heart and know that her prayer was profane? For a Vestal to pray for the safe passage of Dorso was one thing; he was a Roman citizen on a holy mission. But the prayer that came unbidden to Pinaria’s lips was not for Dorso, and had nothing to do with the fulfillment of sacred rites. What would the goddess think, to hear one of her virgins plead so desperately for the return of a slave? It was better that the goddess was absent, unable to hear Pinaria’s prayer, than that Vesta should hear it and perceive the longing in Pinaria’s heart.

She was shaken from her gloomy reverie by a shout from one of the lookouts.

“There! At the foot of the Capitoline! I see them! Dorso and the slave-and Gauls, hundreds of Gauls…”

The words gave Pinaria a momentary flash of hope, then plunged her into despair. She imagined Dorso and Pennatus running at top speed, pursued by warriors; she pictured their severed heads borne aloft on stakes by taunting Gauls. She ran to the barricade, climbed to the top, and peered down the steep hillside.

“There!” said the lookout. “On the path, coming toward us.”

What she saw was the last thing she expected. Walking proudly erect, bearing in their upturned hands the now empty sacrificial vessels, Dorso and Pennatus were ascending the winding path at a steady, unhurried pace. A huge crowd of Gauls followed them, bearing swords and spears but keeping at a distance and doing nothing to impede their progress.

The officer in charge of the barricade shook his head. “These Gauls and their cruel games! They’ll wait until Dorso is almost to the barricade, then strike him down while we watch. Vile creatures! We should fire upon them now, while Dorso still has a chance to break and run. Archers! Raise your bows!”

“No!” cried Pinaria. “Can’t you see their faces? It’s just as Dorso predicted. The Gauls are in awe of him. See how they hang back? See how they whisper among themselves and jostle one another, trying to get a better look at him? He’s put a kind of spell on them. If you fire on them, you’ll break the spell. Lower your bows! Do nothing! Say nothing!”

The men on the barricade unnotched their arrows and fell silent.

Following the winding path, Dorso and Pennatus drew closer and closer. The Gauls followed doggedly behind them. Pinaria’s heart pounded in her chest. The wait was excruciating. Why did they walk so slowly? She caught a glimpse of Dorso’s face as he rounded the final bend; she saw the serene expression of a man at peace with himself and his fate, ready to live or die, as the gods saw fit. Then she saw Pennatus. Her heart leaped as his eyes met hers. He smiled-and then winked at her!

The two men reached the barricade. Hands stretched down to take the vessels and help them climb up. Dorso clambered atop the barricade and looked over his shoulder. “Stupid Gauls,” he muttered. “Archers! Here’s your chance to kill a few of those fools. Take aim and fire at once, before they can run!”

Arrows whistled though the air, followed by screams and the chaotic sounds of the Gauls retreating in a sudden panic.

Dorso quickly escorted Pinaria away from the barricade, out of harm’s way. “It was your blessing, Vestal, that did the trick,” he whispered. “I felt the goddess of the hearth looking over us every step of the way.”

“Did you? Did you truly feel Vesta’s presence?” Pinaria looked from Dorso to Pennatus.

“Something must have protected us,” said Pennatus. “It was amazing! The Gauls were dumbfounded. They fell back on all sides, like grain cut by a scythe. Not one of them dared to approach us. Not one of them even raised his voice.”

Dorso and Pennatus looked at each other and spontaneously embraced, laughing like two boys after a great adventure. Pinaria longed to join their embrace. Especially she longed to hold Pennatus and to be held by him, to reassure herself that he still lived and breathed, to feel the warmth of his body, to touch his hairy chest, where the black pendant hung between the firm muscles. Such thoughts made her feel weak and flushed, but she could not control them.

Could it be as Dorso said? Could it be that Vesta had watched over and protected both men, despite Pinaria’s impure feelings? Or had Pennatus survived only because-or precisely because-the goddess was absent, no longer present to punish an erring Vestal and the object of her desire?

Either Vesta knew of Pinaria’s passion for the slave, and approved of it-mad thought! — or Vesta was gone, perhaps forever, and no longer held sway over her devoted virgin-another mad thought! In either case, Pinaria knew, in a blinding flash, that no impediment remained to hold her feelings in check. The realization dazzled her. The ground gave way beneath her and the sky cracked open.

She looked at Pennatus. He looked back at her. Their eyes spoke a secret language. She knew he felt the same.

In that moment, Pinaria was lost, and she knew it. She burst into tears. Those who had gathered to welcome Dorso assumed they were tears of joy and relief, and men bowed their heads at the sight of a sacred virgin so deeply moved by the evidence of the gods’ continuing favor for the people of Roma.

There was little privacy to be had among the defenders atop the Capitoline, but such privacy as could be arranged was given to the Vestal who dwelled among them. While others slept in the open, or crowded together inside the temples and public buildings, a small chamber in the foundations of the Temple of Jupiter was given to Pinaria for her sole use.

The entrance to Pinaria’s room was at the back of the temple, out of sight. It was Pennatus who suggested to Dorso that it would be proper to install a simple lock on the inside of the door, so that no one could possibly walk in on the Vestal unannounced or by accident. As Pennatus knew how to fashion such a lock, he was given the job of making it himself. “What a clever fellow you are!” remarked Dorso, after the lock was installed.

One night, there came a soft knocking on Pinaria’s door.

The hour was late, but Pinaria was not asleep. She rose from her bed and went to the door at once. She did not bother to ask who was knocking.

She opened the door and saw his head and shoulders silhouetted by moonlight. Her first thought was that he was mad to come to her on a night when the moon was so bright and might cast such a glaring light on his movements. What if he had been observed?

In the next instant he was inside, shutting the door behind him. Then his arms were around her and his body was pressed against hers. It was Pinaria who initiated the kiss, pressing her mouth to his. She had never kissed a man before. It seemed to her that they drew the same breath and shared the same heartbeat.

She was not accustomed to being naked, even among the other Vestals, but that was the way he wanted her. She allowed him to disrobe her, then helped him to take off his own tunic; she wanted no pretense that anything was being done solely at his behest, or against her will. Whatever might happen, it would not occur because she merely allowed it, but because she made it happen.

She knew a little about the basic act of sex, but she could not have imagined the sensations that accompanied it. The touch of his flesh against her own was thrilling, but nothing compared to the feeling when a part of his body actually entered her own and began to move inside her. There was a sharp pain at first, but it seemed a small thing to bear, compared to the pleasure that followed. The rhythm of the act was like a complicated dance, or a song of unearthly beauty, sometimes slow and languid, sometimes rushed and breathless. His rhythm inspired her to find a rhythm inside herself; she struggled to match his movements, cried out in frustration at the sudden awkwardness of it, and then, laughing breathlessly, clutching his hips, she demanded that his rhythm match her own. He submitted, resisted, submitted again. They seemed to be in competition for a while, and then almost at odds, and then, without warning, in perfect, ecstatic harmony.

They reached the pinnacle in the same instant. She felt him shudder and convulse inside her, and at the same time a wave of exquisite pleasure washed over her entire body.

The thing was done. There could be no turning back.

The occupation of the Gauls continued throughout the hot summer and into the autumn. Cooler days brought some relief to the defenders atop the Capitoline, but their hunger increased. Rations were reduced to a handful of bread and a cup of wine a day.

House by house, the Gauls continued to pillage and burn the city below, poisoning the air with smoke. After the failure of their initial attempts, the Gauls stopped laying siege to the Capitoline, but sentries still kept constant watch around the perimeter.

On an autumn night when the air was cool but acrid with smoke, Pinaria and Pennatus lay naked upon her bed. A shaft of moonlight from a high, small window illuminated their sweat-glazed bodies. The hour was midnight, but neither of the lovers slept; there was still too much pleasure to be had from each other’s bodies to think of sleep.

Pinaria had been delighted but not surprised to discover that Pennatus was such an insatiable lover. What had surprised her was the depth of her own craving, which was as great as his, if not greater. The devotion she had once given to tending the sacred hearthfire she now gave to the tending the fire that flared up inside them each time their bodies met. When she joined with Pennatus, it seemed to her that she was taken to a place beyond the mortal world, to a mystical realm such as that where the gods must dwell. She worshiped his body, the vehicle that transported her to that divine place; she adored his sex, that part of him, so potent yet so exposed and vulnerable, which he eagerly placed into her safekeeping. Such thoughts were blasphemous, surely; but the gods were gone, and the Vestal was no longer a virgin, and a slave had become her master. The world was a mad, broken place, but Pinaria had never before felt so alive and complete.

Through the little window, very faintly, they heard the cry of “All clear!” from the nearest sentry. The cry was echoed from various points around the perimeter of the barricades and cliffs. In the silence that followed, a goose let out a single, plaintive honk. To save them from the Gauls, the sacred geese of Juno had been brought from the goddess’s new temple on the Aventine and were being kept in an enclosure beside the Temple of Jupiter.

“We shall have to eat them soon,” said Pennatus.

“The geese? They’re sacred to Juno,” said Pinaria.

“But what good are geese to a goddess if all her worshipers die of starvation?”

“No one would dare to touch them.”

“Yet I’ve noticed that their ration of grain has been cut. Those geese are getting awfully skinny. Soon there’ll be no meat on them worth eating. Better to eat them now, while they can still give us some sustenance.”

“People would sooner eat the dogs!”

“But the dogs at least serve a function. They keep vigil at night, along with the sentries. My old master was especially fond of goose liver. He said it was quite delicious.”

“Pennatus, what terrible things you say!”

He snuggled close. “Like the things I whisper in your ear when I’m inside you?”

She shivered, and clutched his sex, which was full and firm in her hand. They had finished only moments ago, and already he was stiff again. He cupped her breast and kissed her nipple. A wave of sheer pleasure rippled through her.

She sighed. “Long before anyone considers eating the sacred geese, Camillus will come.”

This was the hope on everyone’s lips. Only a few days earlier, an intrepid soldier from the outside, Pontius Cominius, had managed to pass through the Gaul’s defenses and reach the defenders on the Capitoline. He had filled his tunic with bits of cork and floated down the Tiber, and then, by night, stole through the streets and scaled the Capitoline at a point so craggy and steep that the Gauls kept no watch on it. The Roman sentry who witnessed his arrival had been amazed to see a human scrambling like a spider up the sheer rock face, and even more amazed when the man called out to him in Latin. Pontius Cominius brought word that the Roman forces were gradually regrouping under the leadership of the exiled Camillus, who requested that the handful of senators trapped atop the Capitoline should formally invest him with the powers of a dictator. The senators had sent Pontius Cominius back to Camillus with a pledge of their full support and promises to pray for his victory. Had the messenger passed safely through the Gallic forces to return to Camillus? No one knew, but the news from outside had brought fresh hope to the Capitoline. Camillus was on the march and might arrive any day. Camillus, the conqueror of Veii, would rescue them and drive the Gauls from Roma!

Pennatus rolled away from her, onto his back. His member became noticeably more pliant in her hand. “And then what? You shall go back to being a Vestal, and I shall go back to being a slave.”

The sweat turned cold on Pinaria’s body. She released his sex and pulled the coverlet over her breasts. The future that Pennatus suggested-a resumption of the way things had been before the Gauls came-was far less horrible than the one she envisioned. Pinaria knew all too well what was done to a Vestal found guilty of breaking her vow, and what was done to the Vestal’s lover.

“Who can say what the future will bring?” she whispered. “Who knew that Camillus would be exiled, or that Brennus and the Gauls would come and change everything? Who knew that you would become my lover-who could imagine such a thing! Who knew that I…”

The sudden break in her voice caused him to furrow his brow. “Go on, Pinaria. What were you about to say?”

She drew a sharp breath. “I may be mistaken. It may be the strain of the siege that caused the interruption. I think that this happens to women sometimes-when there’s a terrible crisis, or if they go hungry…”

“Pinaria, what are you saying?”

“The full moon has come and gone, and come again, and yet…no blood flowed from inside me. I don’t know much about such things-but even I know what it means when a woman’s menses is interrupted!”

He rose onto his elbows and stared at her. Shadows hid his face. “Are you with child?”

“I don’t know, not for certain. As I said, perhaps there’s another explanation…”

He moved closer. The moonlight revealed his awestruck expression. “But this is wonderful! Terrible and wonderful, at the same time!”

Pinaria shivered and hugged herself. “Sooner or later, it will begin to show. What will I do then?”

“Perhaps no one will notice.”

“Not notice? I shall grow fatter while everyone else grows thinner!”

“You can loosen your robes. You can say that you need seclusion. I’ll wait on you, and not let anyone else approach. And maybe Camillus will come soon, and set us free, and we can leave the Capitoline-”

“And go where? I could never hide my condition among the others in the House of the Vestals.”

“Then we shall go into hiding. Or run away. We’ll flee up to Gaul and live among godless savages! I don’t know what we’ll do, Pinaria, but we’ll think of something. It’s just as you said, no one can know what the future will bring.”

He slipped beneath the coverlet and lay next to her. His hand sought hers and held it tightly. Together, they stared into the dark corners of the room. “I know you’re afraid,” he said. “Afraid of what the others will do to us if they find out. But…is it more than that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you unhappy because…because it’s the child of a slave inside you?”

“Pennatus! I never expected to carry any man’s child. I don’t know what I’m feeling. I never said I was unhappy-”

“Because…because there’s something about me that you don’t know. It might make a difference.”

She turned to face him. She touched his cheek and looked into his eyes, which reflected the pale moonlight. “I know that you’re very brave, Pennatus. And very funny. And wicked sometimes-the things you say! I know that you’re not like anyone else I’ve ever met, and that I love you. And I know that you love me. Such a precious thing, this love between us! Sometimes I think it must be a gift from the goddess, even though I know that’s impossible. I could never regret that you’ve given me a child, Pennatus. I only wish-”

“I wish things were different, too. I wish that you weren’t a Vestal. I wish that I wasn’t born a slave! If it weren’t for the bitterness of fate, I might have been as high-born as you, Pinaria. I have the blood of patricians in me.”

“What do you mean?”

“This talisman I wear-it’s more than it appears to be. And so am I!” He held up the image of Fascinus. The black amulet gleamed dully in the moonlight. “It’s not made of lead, Pinaria. It’s only been dipped in lead, to hide what’s beneath, so that no master would bother to take it. If you scratch through the lead, you can see the pure yellow gleam underneath. It’s made of gold, Pinaria. It’s an heirloom. It’s very ancient, older than Roma itself-older than all the gods and goddesses of Roma! Fascinus was here first, even before Jupiter.”

She shook her head. “More blasphemy, Pennatus? This isn’t funny.”

“It’s neither blasphemy nor a joke. It’s the truth, Pinaria. Before she died, my mother told me where I came from and who I really am. I was born a slave, yes, and so was she, but her father was the son of Titus Potitius, a Roman of the most ancient patrician blood, and Icilia, the sister of Lucius Icilius, who was a tribune of the plebs. The son of Titus Potitius and Icilia was illegitimate, and he was made a slave at birth because of the spite of his uncle. But even as a slave, he wore the talisman of the Potitii around his neck, and Titus Potitius himself, in secret, told him the tale of his birth. That slave passed the talisman on to his daughter, my mother. She was born a slave in the household of Icilius, but was later sold to my master, in whose house I was born. Before she died, she passed the talisman to me. It represents the god Fascinus, the most ancient deity worshipped by mortals in Roma. Fascinus was known even before Hercules and Jupiter, and long before the gods who came to us by way of the Greeks.”

Pinaria was silent for a long time. “You never told me this before.”

“It’s my deepest secret, Pinaria.”

“You scoff at the gods.”

“I believe in Fascinus!”

“You mock the freeborn. You laugh at the vanity of patricians.”

“I am a patrician-by blood if not by birth! Titus Potitius was my great-grandfather. Don’t you see, Pinaria, the child inside you isn’t the offspring of a nobody, a slave who came from nowhere, who has no ancestors worthy of remembrance. The child inside you carries the blood of the first settlers of Roma, from both his mother and his father. Whatever others may say, and whatever the law may call me, you need not be ashamed of the child. You can be proud, even if you must be proud in secret!”

“Pennatus! I feel no shame for what we’ve done, or what’s resulted from it. Perhaps it’s not even sinful. If Vesta is truly gone, and all the gods have left their temples here on the Capitoline, it may be that your god Fascinus holds sway in Roma, all alone, as he once did long ago, and you and I are doing his bidding, and everything is proper. Who can say, in a world where everything can change in the blink of an eye? No, Pennatus, I’m not ashamed. But I am fearful, for you, and for me, and for the child.” She shook her head. “I didn’t mean to tell you. Some impulse came over me and made me speak. I had thought to keep it to myself, until I was sure, or else…”

She bit her tongue and said no more. Why tell Pennatus where her thoughts had led whenever she considered the child that might be growing inside her? There were ways to rid a woman’s womb of an unwanted baby. Pinaria had a vague notion that there were potions that could be drunk, some of them dangerously poisonous, or that a slender wand, perhaps made of supple willow, might be inserted into her body to bring about the desired expulsion. But Pinaria had no sure knowledge of such matters, and there was no one she could ask for advice or assistance, and there was no way to obtain such a potion. There was not a single willow tree on the Capitoline! And now that she had told Pennatus about the child, and he had responded by sharing his deepest secret with her, and had shown an almost fierce pride in the act of giving her a child…

She shook her head. The voice of the holy Vestal that still dwelled inside her whispered, What a thing, that a slave should be proud of his offspring! What a world, where a Vestal could delude herself into thinking that her pregnancy might please a god!

Suddenly, in the quiet stillness of the night, one of Juno’s sacred geese let out a loud, blaring honk. The unexpected noise broke the tension between them. Pennatus laughed. Pinaria managed a crooked smile.

The goose honked again, and then again.

“If that keeps up, a certain goose is likely to get plucked, sacred to Juno or not,” muttered Pennatus. He brought his lips to hers. They kissed. He moved to embrace her, then drew back. The single goose had been joined by others making the same abrupt, braying racket. “A good thing we’re not trying to sleep!”

“It’s the sentry’s fault, waking them up by calling the all-clear,” said Pinaria.

“But that was a long time ago. Long enough for the geese to fall asleep again.” Pennatus frowned. “Maybe long enough for the sentry to fall asleep…”

The honking of the geese continued.

“Stay here,” whispered Pennatus. “Lock the door after I leave. There’ll be others up, awakened by the geese. I may not be able to return tonight without being seen. Kiss me, Pinaria!”

Pennatus tore himself from her arms, reached for his sword-Dorso had insisted on arming him, despite his status-and slipped out the door. He waited until he heard her drop the lock into place, then hurried toward the sentry post beyond the goose pen.

The rocky face of the Capitoline was very steep at that point-indeed, it was the very place where Pontius Cominius had made his impossible ascent. But of course, the ascent of Pontius Cominius had not been impossible; if he could do it, so could others. On a moonlit night, might a company of Gauls be able to find the footholds and handholds by which Pontius Cominius had reached the top of the Capitoline?

It seemed impossible. And surely, in the stillness of the night, a sentry would hear anyone making such an ascent, and peer over the side to see them long before they reached the top. Unless…

The geese continued to honk.

Pennatus saw the sentry, standing at his post at the cliff’s edge-then realized that the figure dimly lit by the moon was not the sentry, but a Gaul! While Pennatus watched, two other Gauls appeared, clambering over the ledge and standing upright.

His blood froze. He tightened his grip on the sword. He had never actually used such a weapon, except in practice with Dorso. He gripped the image of Fascinus and did something he had never done before: He whispered a prayer for courage and strength.

“Out of my way, slave!” An armor-clad figure knocked him aside and rushed past him. Pennatus recognized Marcus Manlius, a friend of Dorso’s and a former consul. The grizzled veteran rushed headlong toward the Gauls. Giving a great shout, he struck the foremost with his shield. The man staggered back and fell screaming from the cliff, taking the other two with him.

More Gauls scrambled over the edge. Manlius struck with his shield and stabbed with his sword. Pennatus gave a cry and ran to join him.

His sword struck metal with a deafening clang. He lunged again and struck flesh. The sickening impact seemed to travel into his arm and all through his body. Pennatus had scarcely ever caused another man to bleed, much less killed a man. Under moonlight, the blood on the paving stones was glistening and black.

He heard a shout, turned, and saw Dorso. The warrior slashed his sword against the exposed neck of a Gaul with such force that he nearly decapitated the man. A fountain of blood erupted from the wound. The look on Dorso’s face was ferocious and frightening, filled with utter hatred. The Gauls had destroyed his city, driven away his gods, ruined his world. Now, at last, Dorso had a chance to bring death and suffering on at least a few of the Gauls in return.

What had the Gauls done to Pennatus? Their invasion had brought him unexpected freedom, a friendship he could never have known before, and a love he would never have dared to imagine. He feared the Gauls, but he could never hate them as Dorso did. Then he thought of Pinaria. If the Capitoline was taken, all would be lost. Pinaria, the most exquisite and perfect thing in all the world-what might they do to Pinaria?

Miraculously, the Gaul who had been struck by Dorso was still alive, staggering this way and that. With a great cry, Pennatus ran toward him, raised his blade, and finished what Dorso had started. The Gaul’s head went flying through space. It disappeared beyond the precipice, where yet more Gauls were climbing over the edge.

The geese cackled madly. Men shouted and screamed. Suddenly there were many more Gauls and just as many Romans. What started as a skirmish abruptly became a battle, with clanging swords all around and blood everywhere. The moonlit battle seemed incredibly intense and yet utterly unreal to Pennatus, like a strange dream; yet it was no stranger-and no more dangerous-than the waking dream in which Pennatus had become the secret lover of a fallen Vestal.

The Gauls were repulsed. For being the first to rush to the Romans’ defense, Marcus Manlius was declared a hero, and rewarded with extra rations of bread and wine. A full ration of grain was also restored to the sacred geese, whose honking had alerted the defenders.

As for the sentries on duty that night, the military commanders at first declared that all would be put to death for negligence. So would the dogs who kept vigil with them. It was presumed they had all fallen asleep at their posts, including the dogs, since not a single dog barked. The geese had proven to be better sentinels!

Dorso argued against the mass punishment, pointing out that the Romans could ill afford to lose so many men, and among the common soldiers there was a great outcry. It was decided that only the sentry responsible for the area where the assault took place would be punished.

The man denied that he had fallen asleep. In the stillness of the night, he said, he had heard a man and a woman talking. Distracted and bored, he wandered from his post, toward the Temple of Jupiter, trying to figure out where the voices came from. His excuse gained him no sympathy. He was hurled to his death from the ledge where the Gauls had staged their attack. As a token punishment, a single guard dog was also thrown from the cliff.

The Romans increased their vigilance. So did the Gauls, who were determined that no more messengers should reach the Capitoline from the outside world.

Throughout the winter, the occupation and the siege continued. Rain brought fresh drinking water to the Romans, but food grew scarcer.

“If only it would rain fish,” said Pennatus one day, watching a downpour from beneath the pediment of the Temple of Jupiter.

“Or honey cakes!” said Dorso.

“Or bits of dried beef!” said Marcus Manlius, who had a fondness for military rations.

The situation atop the Capitoline grew more and more desperate, but so did the circumstances of the Gauls. Having never dwelled in a city, they understood nothing about sanitation and the disposal of their own wastes. They made a pigsty of Roma, and a plague broke out among them. So many died so quickly that the survivors gave up on burying the bodies separately, but instead piled the corpses in heaps and set fire to them.

Once again, as earlier in the siege, flames and columns of smoke surrounded the Capitoline. The sight of the flaming pyres was ghastly. The smoke and the stench from the burning bodies was stifling. As Pennatus wryly commented to Dorso, “These Gauls have a madness for burning. Having torched all the houses, now they set fire to each other!”

The Gauls also grew hungry. Early in the siege, they carelessly burned several warehouses full of grain. They sorely missed that grain now. Though the Romans on the Capitoline could not know it, the forces of Camillus had taken control of much of the countryside, and the Gauls could no longer go raiding at will to replenish their stores. The city which they had claimed as a prize was becoming a trap and a tomb.

Publicly, Pinaria joined in the daily prayers that Camillus would soon arrive and rescue them. Privately, she lived in constant fear. She did everything she could to hide the visible evidence of her pregnancy. She had so far succeeded, perhaps because the child growing inside her was small and undernourished. But what would happen when she gave birth? Even if she could hide in her room and deliver the child in secret, how could she conceal a crying baby? Could she bear to kill the child immediately after it was born? Babies were allowed to die every day, especially if they were imperfect, but even the most unfeeling mother did not kill an unwanted baby with her own hands; it was taken from her and left in an open place to die from exposure to the elements or wild beasts. The quickest and easiest way to dispose of the child would be to throw it from the Capitoline, but even that might prove impossible, because such a close watch was kept at all points of the perimeter. Would Pennatus do it, if she asked him? What a terrible thing, to ask a father to murder his own child!

And yet, if the child were born and allowed to live, it would surely be discovered-the proof of their crime-and they would all three be put to death. Many times, Pinaria woke from nightmares in which she saw Pennatus beaten to death, and then was sealed in a chamber underground, without light or air. The baby was buried along with her, and in the utter darkness of the crypt its wailing was the last sound she could hear.

In dark moments, she allowed herself to imagine that the baby would be born dead. That would end the fear and dread-but what a thing for a mother to wish for, to give birth to a dead child! Perhaps it would be better for Pinaria to jump from the precipice herself, and to do so soon, before the child inside her grew any larger. Let the Gauls find her broken body and burn it on a pyre. Men would honor her memory, then; they would say she had offered herself, a pure Vestal, as a sacrifice to the gods. The unborn child would die with her, and Pennatus’s guilt would never be known. Slave or not, such a clever fellow surely had a life worth living ahead of him. He would soon forget her and the child that had resulted from their crime. It would be as if Pinaria had never lived…

The one outcome that she would not allow herself to imagine-because it was impossible, and thus too painful-was that the baby would be born healthy and whole, and that she would be able to look upon its face, and proudly show it off, and cherish it with all the devotion and affection of any normal mother. Such a thing could never happen.

These desperate thoughts consumed her. She grew distant from Pennatus. They ceased to make love. The act that had given her such delight she now saw to be a treacherous thing, a trap into which she had foolishly fallen. For a while, they still met in secret, and instead of making love, they conversed-but what was there to talk about except the suffering inflicted on them by the siege, and the even greater suffering that awaited them? Eventually she forbade Pennatus to come to her private chamber again, saying she did so for his own safety, when in fact she simply could not bear to be alone with him.

She grew closer to Dorso, who treated her always with deference and respect. Pennatus, as Dorso’s friend, was often present in their company, but he knew better than to treat her with too much familiarity. He hid his pain and confusion by making wry comments and bitter jokes, and no one noticed that his behavior was any different than before. People did notice a change in Pinaria, and commented on it. Men called her the melancholy Vestal, but they thought her suffering was for their sake and they honored her sadness as a sign of her piety.

For seven months the Gauls occupied Roma, from midsummer to midwinter. It was on the Ides of Februarius that Pinaria, crossing the Capitoline, her head clouded by dark thoughts, was given the news by Dorso.

He ran up to her. He said something. She was so distracted that she did not hear his words, but from his animated expression she realized that something of great importance had happened. From the corner of her eye she perceived movement. She looked around and saw that all of the Capitoline was in a great commotion. People hurried this way and that, gripped one another, spoke in whispers and shouts, laughed, wept.

“What’s happening, Dorso?”

“A messenger has come-a Roman! The Gauls allowed him to pass. He came right up the pathway.”

“A messenger? Who sent him?”

“Camillus, of course! Come, let’s hear what the man has to say.” He led her to the Temple of Jupiter, where a soldier, dressed in armor but carrying no weapons, stood on the top step to address the crowd. People shuffled aside to allow Pinaria to move to the front of the crowd.

Men were shouting questions at the messenger, who raised his hand. “Be patient!” he said. “Wait until everyone has gathered. Otherwise, I shall have to repeat myself a hundred times.”

“But look here!” shouted Marcus Manlius. “Gaius Fabius Dorso has arrived with the melancholy Vestal. That’s everyone who counts! Say what you have to say!”

People in the crowd laughed. The mood was cheerful, for everyone could see by the messenger’s face that he came with good news.

“Very well. Over the last few months, our armies have regrouped under the leadership of the dictator Marcus Furius Camillus-”

There was a great cheer.

“-who has met with the Gauls in a number of minor engagements. We cannot claim to have defeated the enemy, but we have stung them repeatedly, and the Gauls have had enough. They’re ready to leave Roma.”

The cheer was deafening. The messenger motioned for quiet.

“But the Gauls will not leave without a ransom.”

“A ransom?” shouted Manlius. “Haven’t they looted everything that was of any value in Roma?”

“They have, but they demand still more. There is to be a payment of jewels and precious metals. Camillus has gathered everything he can from the Romans in exile, and appealed to our friends for contributions-”

“The people of Clusium should pay the ransom!” shouted Manlius. “Did we not sacrifice ourselves to save them from being sacked by the Gauls?”

“The Clusians have contributed, very generously, and so have many others,” said the messenger, “but there is still not enough. Camillus looks to you here on the Capitoline, who never left Roma, to help make up the final measure of the ransom.”

There were shouts of protest. “Us?” said Manlius. “For months we’ve eaten fly-blown flour and drunk nothing but rainwater! These people have nothing left to give!”

“Are you sure? Perhaps some of you know where treasure was buried, to hide it from the Gauls. Perhaps some of the women still have a few pieces of jewelry. All the Roman women in exile have already contributed every piece of jewelry they possessed.”

“This is wrong!” shouted Manlius. “Our women should not be stripped of every ornament, simply to satisfy the greed of Brennus.”

“There is no other way,” said the messenger. “The Gauls must be paid. Once they leave, the city will be ours again, and we can begin to rebuild.”

Dorso looked over his shoulder at Pennatus and grinned. “Perhaps you should donate that little talisman you wear so proudly.”

Pennatus gripped the image of Fascinus. He scowled and clutched it so hard that his knuckles grew pale.

Dorso laughed. “Relax, Pennatus! I was only joking. Not even a Gaul would want that worthless piece of lead!”

The ransom was paid in the Forum.

Brennus insisted on a formal ceremony at which Camillus himself was present. Those on the Capitoline watched the transaction with mingled dismay and relief. The Gauls produced a huge set of scales, large enough to weigh a whole ox. Lead weights were placed on one tray. The Roman emissaries piled the ransom onto the other. The treasure of ingots, coins, and jewels rose higher and higher, until at last the lead weights began to rise.

The two sides of the scale reached equilibrium. A sigh passed through the crowd watching from the Capitoline, to see such a fortune paid to recover the city that was theirs by birthright.

Down in the Forum, Brennus strutted before the scales and laughed. “Not quite enough!” he shouted.

Camillus looked at him darkly. “What are you saying? The scales are balanced.”

“I forgot to include this. You want me to put it aside, do you not?” Brennus drew his sword and tossed it atop the lead weights.

Groans of anger and disgust rose from the Roman delegation. Some of the officers reached for their swords, but Camillus held up his hand to stay them. “We have yet a little more treasure in reserve. Place it on the scales.”

More was added to the ransom, until the two sides were balanced again. Brennus let out a roar of triumph and clapped his hands. The Gauls broke into raucous cheering and laughter. Even from the Capitoline, the watchers could see Camillus’s face turn dark red from fury and chagrin.

Pinaria, watching with the rest, suddenly felt the presence of Pennatus beside her. His hand sought hers. She submitted to linking her fingers with his. “Whatever may happen, Pinaria, I love you!” he whispered.

“And I…” She could not bring herself to say the words. She let out a gasp, drew back her hand, and placed it on her belly. The baby was kicking inside her. She sensed that the time was drawing very near.

Like a ruinous floodtide receding, the Gauls withdrew from Roma. The process took several days; there were a great many of them, and they were not in a hurry. They continued to rummage for loot and set fires until the final hour of their occupation.

The Romans on the Capitoline, despite their impatience, waited until the last Gaul had departed before they began to climb over the barricades and descend the winding path. Elated to be free at last, but horrified at the wreckage of their beloved city, they dispersed across the Seven Hills, each seeking a remnant of home, and awaited the return of Camillus and the exiles.

Dorso, with Pennatus at his side, accompanied Pinaria to the doorway of the House of the Vestals. The structure appeared to be intact, though the doors had been broken open and hung crookedly from their hinges.

Trembling, Pinaria stepped inside. Dorso moved to follow her, but Pinaria shook her head. “No, stay back. What I must do here, I must do alone.”

“But we can’t be sure it’s safe. I can’t leave you, Vestal.”

“Of course you can! Do you think the goddess has protected me this long, only to allow some misfortune to befall me in the House of the Vestals? Go, Dorso. Leave me, so that I can set about purifying the house before the other Vestals return. Aren’t you eager to see what’s become of your own house?”

Dorso frowned. “And you, Pennatus? Where will you go?”

He shrugged. “Back to my old master’s house, I suppose-if there’s anything left of it.”

“Very well, then,” said Dorso. The three parted company.

Only moments after Pinaria crossed the threshold, her water broke, and then the pains began. Staggering, she made her way to her bedchamber. The room was filthy, the bed disheveled; a Gaul had slept there in her absence. She felt a wave of revulsion, but had no other choice than to collapse onto the bed.

A little later, she opened her eyes. Pennatus stood over her. In her delirium, she thought he was an image sent by Vesta to taunt her with her guilt, but then Pennatus smiled, and she knew he was real. He took the cord from his neck and placed it over her head.

“Fascinus protects women in childbirth,” he whispered. “Don’t worry, Pinaria! I’ll stay with you.”

“But what do you know about childbirth?”

He grinned. “What do I not know? When I was small, I watched slave girls give birth to my master’s bastards. When I grew older, I carried and fetched for the midwives. I know what to do, Pinaria. You’ll be safe with me, and so will the baby.”

“Pennatus, Pennatus! Will you never cease to amaze me?”

“Never! I love you, Pinaria.”

“That amazes me most of all.”

It was an early birth and the baby was small, but nonetheless healthy; he gave a great cry when Pennatus held him up to examine him for defects. For an hour Pinaria held him.

The winter day was short, and shadows were already growing long.

There were voices from the street. The first of the exiles had already entered the city. At any moment, the Vestals might arrive.

“Pennatus, what shall we do with the child?”

“He was born whole and healthy. That means the gods want him to live.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I want him to live, no matter what the gods intend.”

“Blasphemy, Pennatus!” She shook her head and managed a rueful laugh. “How absurd, that I should chide you. I’ve just given birth to a child, in the House of the Vestals!”

“Will you stay here, Pinaria?”

“There’s nowhere else for me to go.”

“The baby can’t stay here with you.”

“No.”

“Can you bear to give him up, Pinaria?”

She gazed at the child in her arms. “Where will you take him, Pennatus? What will you do with him?”

“I have a plan.”

“You always do! My clever Pennatus…”

Gently, he took the child from her. Tears ran down her cheeks. She touched the talisman at her breast. “You must take this as well, for the baby.”

Pennatus shook his head. “Fascinus is for you. It averts the evil eye. It will protect you from the scrutiny of the other Vestals.”

“No, Pennatus-”

“Fascinus is my gift to you. Let it remind you of me, Pinaria, as it served to remind me of my mother.”

“Your mother is dead, Pennatus.”

“And so am I, in the world to which you must return. We will never see one another again, Pinaria, at least not like this. We will never again be alone together, never speak words of love. But you will know that our child is alive and well, proof of the love we shared on the Capitoline. I promise you that!”

She closed her eyes and wept. When she opened them again, Pennatus and the baby were gone. The room grew dark. Time passed, and more time, and the room slowly grew light again. From within the house, she heard voices, indistinguishable at first, then growing closer and louder. They were the voices of women, talking with great excitement.

She recognized the voice of the Virgo Maxima, and of Foslia. They called her name aloud: “Pinaria! Pinaria! Are you here?”

The Vestals had returned.

“Tell me again, where and when you found this infant?” said Dorso, frowning.

“Yesterday, abandoned in the bushes outside the ruins of my old master’s house,” said Pennatus. “Clearly, the mother had just given birth.”

“And who might the mother have been?”

“Not a Gaul, surely. The child is too handsome to be a Gaul, don’t you think?”

Dorso scrutinized the baby. “He is a good-looking fellow. And too tiny to be a Gaul! The child of a returning Roman, then?”

“My intuition tells me so. No doubt the mother experienced great hardship during the occupation, and when she returned to the city to find that all she knew was burned or in ruins, the prospect of caring for the newborn was simply too much for her. Another harsh legacy of the Gauls, that the women of Roma should be so beset by fear and uncertainty that they abandon their children! And such a beautiful child as this little fellow!”

“You appear to be very fond of this infant, Pennatus.”

“There is something very special about him. Can you not sense it? I think it was a sign, that I should have found this child on the very day the Gauls departed and the Romans returned-a pledge from the gods that the city is to be reborn, that its best years lie ahead.”

“Words of piety and optimism from you, Pennatus?”

“I am a changed man since my months on the Capitoline.”

“And you will be a free man, as well, if I have any say in the matter. You accompanied me when I made the sacrifice on the Quirinal. You fought beside us when the Gauls gained the summit and frightened the geese. You’ve more than earned your freedom, and your master is dead and no longer needs you. I intend to approach his heirs, pay them a reasonable sum, and see that they set you free. What do you say to that, Pennatus?”

“The gods are surely smiling upon me, that I should rescue this child, and receive such a pledge from you, in the space of two days! But…”

“What is it, Pennatus? Speak!”

“If you truly wish to reward a humble slave for his service on the Capitoline, I have a different request to make. Not so much for myself-for what am I except a broken thread in the great tapestry woven by of the Fates? — but for the sake of this helpless, innocent child.”

Dorso pursed his lips. “Go on.”

“What use is freedom to me? On my own, in such a devastated city, a dull fellow like me would probably starve. I would much prefer that you purchase me outright and keep me as your slave. I promise that I shall strive every day to prove my worthiness to be your trusted servant. I shall be honored to be the slave of the bravest descendent of the bravest of all Roman houses, the Fabii. And if someday, after my years of service, you should see fit to manumit me, I will proudly bear a freedman’s name that honors my former master: Gaius Fabius Dorso Pennatus.”

Dorso was not immune to flattery, even from a slave. “I see your point. I will be glad to honor this request. You shall be the most senior of the slaves in my household, and my trusted friend.”

“And also-though I know this is an extraordinary request, still I feel compelled to make it-I ask that you adopt this foundling, and raise him as your own son.” Seeing the look of surprise on Dorso’s face, Pennatus pressed on. “Is there not an ancient precedent for such an act? Romulus and Remus were foundlings, the flotsam left behind by a great flood; so, too, this child was left behind when the Gauls at last receded. Faustulus adopted the Twins and never had cause to regret it, for the gods meant him to do so, and surely you shall not regret it if you adopt this foundling.”

Dorso raised an eyebrow. Why was Pennatus so interested in the child? He claimed to see the newborn as an omen, but seeing omens and bowing to the will of the gods was not in character for Pennatus, unless his captivity on the Capitoline had truly transformed him. Was it not more likely that Pennatus’s concern for the newborn sprang from a more personal reason? In his head, Dorso had already done some simple arithmetic. The occupation and siege had lasted seven months; a normal pregnancy lasted about nine months. It was not hard to imagine that Pennatus had enjoyed a dalliance shortly before the arrival of the Gauls, and then, during the occupation, had became separated from his lover-probably a slave girl, but possibly a free woman, perhaps even high-born, for such things did happen. Now Pennatus had descended from the Capitoline to discover that he was the father of a newborn. Whether slave or free, the mother felt obliged to relinquish the child rather than keep it-and now the wily slave sought, by this gambit, to make his own bastard the son of a Fabius!

Dorso felt an impulse to call Pennatus’s bluff and demand the truth from him. And yet…the gods worked their will in mysterious ways, using doubters and disbelievers and even slaves as their unwitting vessels. Pennatus might think he was getting the better of his new master; but in fact, it might be that the gods were guiding both men to do exactly what the gods desired.

Dorso recalled the long walk from the Capitoline to the Quirinal, with Pennatus following behind him. In retrospect, the mad boldness of the act took his breath away, yet it had proved to be the best thing he had ever done, or probably ever would do. That action had made him a famous man; his name would be spoken and revered long after he died. On that day, Dorso had become immortal-and Pennatus had been there with him, every step of the way, helping him keep up his courage simply by showing no fear. Pennatus had done no less than Dorso, yet he would be forgotten by posterity. Did Dorso not owe a debt to Pennatus-a debt so great that it demanded a repayment as bold as the walk to the Quirinal itself?

Dorso nodded gravely. “Very well, Pennatus. I will adopt your…I will adopt the child. He shall be my son.” He took the baby in his arms and smiled at the tiny infant, then laughed aloud at the look of wonderment on Pennatus’s face. “Did you not expect that I would say yes?”

“I hoped…I dreamed…I prayed…” Pennatus dropped to his knees, clutched Dorso’s hand, and kissed it. “May the gods bless you, master!” Reflexively, he reached to clutch the talisman of Fascinus at his breast, but his fingers touched only his own bare flesh.

The scattered exiles returned to Roma. Little by little, order was reestablished in the devastated city. The Senate reassembled. The magistrates resumed their offices.

Almost at once, the Veii Question was raised again. Camillus was determined to settle the matter, once and for all.

A few of the most radical of the tribunes of the plebs argued that the city was so ruined, and its sacred places so polluted by the Gauls, that Roma should be abandoned altogether. They proposed that the entire population should move at once to Veii, where many of the exiles had taken shelter during the occupation and had begun to feel at home. Ignoring all other possibilities, Camillus seized on this argument and decided to frame the debate as an all-or-nothing proposition: Would the citizens completely abandon Roma and move to Veii, or would they pull down every building in Veii for materials to rebuild Roma?

With the Senate united behind him, Camillus came before the people assembled in the Forum. He mounted the speaker’s platform to address them.

“Fellow citizens, so painful to me are these controversies stirred up by the tribunes of the plebs, that in all the time I lived in bitter exile my one consolation was that I was far removed from this unending squabbling! To contend with this nonsense, I would never have returned even if you recalled me by a thousand senatorial decrees. But now I have returned, because my city needed me-and now needs me again, to fight an even more desperate battle, for her very existence! Why did we suffer and shed our blood to deliver her from our enemies, if now we mean to desert her? While the Gauls held the city, a small band of brave men held out atop the Capitoline, refusing to abandon Roma. Now the tribunes would do what the Gaul could not-they would force those brave Romans, as well as the rest of us, to leave the city. Is this a victory, to lose the thing dearest to us?

“Above every other concern, the will of the gods must be considered. When we follow divine guidance, all goes well. When we neglect it, the result is disaster! A voice from the heavens announced the coming of the Gauls to Marcus Caedicius-a clear warning to mind ourselves-and yet, soon after, one of our ambassadors to the Gauls flagrantly violated sacred law and took up arms against them. Instead of being chastised by the people, the offender was rewarded. Soon after, the gods punished us by allowing the Gauls to take our beloved Roma.

“But during the occupation, acts of such great piety occurred that the favor of the gods was restored to us. Against impossible odds, Gaius Fabius Dorso performed a miraculous feat. To honor the divine founder of the city, he left the safety of the Capitoline and walked to the Quirinal, unarmed and oblivious to danger. So overwhelming was the aura of sanctity that shielded him that he returned unscathed! And though the defenders of the Capitoline suffered terribly from hunger, they left the sacred geese of Juno unmolested-an act of piety that resulted in their salvation.

“How lucky we are to possess a city that was founded by Romulus with divine approval. Those who followed filled it with temples and altars, so that gods dwell in every corner of the city. Some fools will say, ‘But surely the gods can be worshiped just as well at Veii as here in Roma.’ Nonsense! Blasphemy! If the gods wished to live in Veii, they would never have allowed it to be conquered. If they did not wish to dwell in Roma, they would never have allowed us to retake the city. The divine favor of a place is not something you can pack in a trunk and take with you!

“Yes, Roma is in ruins, and for a time we must endure discomfort. But even if we must all live in huts again, what of it? Romulus lived in a hut! Our ancestors were swineherds and refugees, yet they built a city in a few years, out of nothing but forests and swamps. We shall look to their example and rebuild the city better than it was before.

“This disaster of the Gauls is no more than a brief episode. Roma has a great destiny. Her story has only just begun. Have you forgotten how the Capitoline received its name? A human head was exhumed there, which the priests declared to be a mighty omen: In this place would reside one day the head and supreme sovereign power of the world. That day has not yet come-but it will! Abandon Roma, and you abandon your destiny; you consign your descendents to oblivion.

“Look to your hearts, Romans! This is your heartland. Let me tell you, from my own experience, nothing is worse than to pine with homesickness. In my exile, I never ceased to dream of these hills and valleys, the winding Tiber, the views from the summits, the endless sky beneath which I was born and raised. Here I belong. Here you belong. Here, and nowhere else, now and forever!”

The crowd was deeply moved, but remained undecided. They responded to Camillus’s final words with a prolonged, uneasy silence.

Just at that moment, a company of soldiers returning from guard duty arrived at the far end of the Forum. The soldiers scheduled to relieve the company were late. The exasperated commander ordered his men to halt. “No point going elsewhere,” he said. “We might as well settle right here.”

The acoustics of the Forum were such that his words rang out loud and clear to Camillus’s listeners, almost as if they came from the sky. People looked at one another in wonder. There was nervous laughter and cries of amazement.

“It’s an omen!” someone shouted, “an omen from the gods! The voice spoke to Marcus Caedicius before this whole affair began. Now the voice speaks to us again! ‘We might as well settle right here.’”

“Settle right here!” the people chanted. “Settle right here! Settle right here!”

The crowd broke into an uproar of cheering, laughter, and tears of joy. Camillus, who could see to the far side of the Forum and knew exactly where the voice came from, was acutely chagrinned. For all his eloquence and passion, it was a chance remark from an anonymous soldier that tipped the scales.

Standing in a place of honor, maintaining their composure despite the uproar of the crowd, were the Vestals. The Virgo Maxima stood stiffly upright, allowing herself a faint smile. Foslia, more smitten than ever by Camillus, gazed raptly at the dictator. Her hand sought Pinaria’s and squeezed it tightly.

“Oh, Pinaria!” she whispered. “We’ve been through so much-you, more than any of us. And yet, all shall be well again. Vesta never ceased to watch over us, and now her servant Camillus will guide us back to virtue!”

Pinaria did not answer. The loss of her baby and her parting with Pennatus had plunged her into deep sorrow. The resumption of her day-today duties as a Vestal brought her no comfort. Her contemplation of the sacred hearthfire only filled her with doubt. During its hiatus from Roma-so the other Vestals assured her-the fire had never wavered in the least, but burned as steadily as ever. How could that be, when Pinaria had repeatedly broken her vow of chastity? Her transgressions should have extinguished the flame altogether!

What did it mean, that Pinaria had sinned and yet no consequence had followed? Was the goddess oblivious, or forgiving, or did she simply not exist? If a sin had been committed, Pinaria should be dead. If there had been no sin, then she should never have been separated from her baby!

Foslia squeezed her hand and gave her a commiserating smile; poor Pinaria had suffered so much in captivity, it was no wonder that she should weep! When Pinaria bowed her head and clutched her breast, Foslia thought her sister Vestal was suffering a pain in her chest, not knowing of the talisman that was hidden beneath Pinaria’s vestments.

373 B.C.

The citizens voted to demolish Veii and to rebuild Roma. In celebration, a temple was built on the spot where Marcus Caedicius had received the divine warning. It was dedicated to a new deity called Aius Locutius, the Announcing Speaker.

Camillus also decreed an annual ceremony to honor the geese for saving the Romans on the Capitoline. A solemn procession would be led by a sacred goose of Juno perched in state upon a coverlet in a litter to be followed by a dog impaled on a stake.

The city was rebuilt in hurried and often haphazard fashion. Neighbors built across each other’s property lines. New construction often encroached on the public right-of-way, pinching streets into narrow alleys or blocking them altogether. Disputes over property would continue for generations, as would complaints that sewer lines that originally ran under public streets now ran directly under private houses. For centuries to come, visitors to Roma would remark that the general layout of the city more closely resembled a squatters’ settlement than a properly planned city, like those of the Greeks.

The son of Pinaria and Pennatus-who unknowingly carried the patrician bloodlines of both the Pinarii and the Potitii-was duly adopted into the almost equally ancient family of the Fabii. Dorso named the boy Kaeso, and raised him as lovingly as if he had sprung from his own loins. If anything, young Kaeso received greater favor than his siblings, for he was a constant reminder to Dorso of the best days of his own youth. No other time of his life would ever be as special to Dorso as those months of captivity atop the Capitoline, when nothing seemed impossible and every day of survival was a gift from the gods.

Pennatus lived out his life as the loyal slave of Gaius Fabius Dorso. His cleverness and discretion got his master out of many scrapes over the years, often without Dorso ever knowing. Pennatus especially looked after young Kaeso. Friends of the family ascribed Pennatus’s special affection for his young charge to the fact that he had discovered and rescued the foundling. To see the two of them walking across the Palatine, Pennatus doting on the boy and the boy gazing up at the slave with complete trust, was a touching sight.

Pinaria remained a Vestal all her life, though she was plagued by doubts that she kept secret and expressed to no one. Not so secretly, she cherished the gift Pennatus had given her, from which she carefully removed the lead, restoring its golden luster, and which she wore openly after Postumia died and Foslia was made Virgo Maxima. When the other Vestals expressed curiosity, she explained the antiquity of Fascinus without revealing its origin.

Foslia was especially intrigued by the protective qualities of Fascinus. As Virgo Maxima she introduced the practice of incorporating Fascinus into triumphal processions. She had a copy made of Pinaria’s original and placed it out of sight under the chariot of a victorious general, where it served to avert any evil that might be cast by envious eyes. The placement beneath the chariot of this object, called a fascinum, became a traditional duty of the Vestals from that time forward. Similar amulets made of base metals quickly spread into common use. In time, almost every pregnant women in Roma wore her own fascinum to protect her and her baby from malicious spells. Some had wings, but most did not.

Pinaria had become very fond of Dorso during their captivity on the Capitoline. Afterward, she was careful to keep a respectable distance from him, lest their friendship arouse unsavory suspicions. Nevertheless, at public ceremonies their paths frequently crossed. On those occasions, Pinaria sometimes caught glimpses of Pennatus. She avoided looking into his eyes and never spoke to him.

These occasions also allowed Pinaria to see her son at various stages as he grew up. When Kaeso attained his majority and celebrated his sixteenth birthday by donning a man’s toga, no one, including Kaeso, thought it odd that Pinaria should be invited to the celebration. Everyone knew that the Vestal had witnessed his father’s famous walk beyond the barricades, and that his father held her in special esteem.

But young Kaeso was a little surprised when Pinaria asked him to join her alone in the garden. He was still more surprised at the gift she gave him. It was a gold chain upon which hung a gleaming golden amulet of the sort called a fascinum.

Kaeso smiled. With his unruly, straw-colored hair and his bright blue eyes, he still looked like a child to Pinaria. “But I’m not a baby. And I’m certainly not a pregnant woman! I’m a man. That’s the whole point of this day!”

“Even so, I want you to have this. I believe that a primal force-a power older than the gods-accompanied your father and protected him on his famous walk. That force resides in this very amulet.”

“Are you saying that my father wore this when he walked among the Gauls?”

“No, but it was very close to him, nonetheless. Very close! This is no common fascinum, of the sort that anyone can buy in the market for a few coins. This is the first of all such amulets, the original. This is Fascinus, who dwelled in Roma before any other god, even before Jupiter or Hercules.”

Kaeso was a little taken aback. These were odd words, coming from a Vestal. An image of the masculine generator of life was an odd gift to receive from a sacred virgin. Nonetheless, he obediently put the necklace over his head. He examined the amulet. Its edges were worn from time. “It does look very old.”

“It’s ancient-as old as the divine power it represents.”

“But it’s too precious! I can’t accept it from you.”

“You can. You must!” She took his hands and held them tightly. “On this, your sixteenth birthday, I, the Vestal Pinaria, make a gift of Fascinus to you, Kaeso Fabius Dorso. I ask you to wear it on special occasions, and to pass it on, in time, to your own son. Will you do that for me, Kaeso?”

“Of course I will, Vestal. You honor me.”

Both heard a slight noise, and turned to see that the slave Pennatus was watching them from the portico. There was a look on his face such as Kaeso, who had known the slave all his life, had never seen before, an extraordinary expression of mingled sorrow and joy, fulfillment and regret. Confused, Kaeso looked again at the Vestal, and was astounded to see the very same expression on her face.

Pennatus disappeared within the house. Pinaria released Kaeso’s hands and departed in a different direction, leaving him alone in the garden with the amulet she had given him.

Adults were so very mysterious! Kaeso wondered whether he was ready to become one of them, despite the fact that this was his toga day.