Vestal

By A.J Baron

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

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

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

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

“Afinatia”, she answered.

Then the emperor asked her station.

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

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

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

Snickers from the gallery.

“Yes, your highness.”

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

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

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

“How old are you, girl?”

“Thirteen.”

More snickering and cajoling.

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

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

The priestess was becoming confused and her answers were slower.

“No problem, my lord.”

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

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

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

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

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

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