Pestilence!

Brinnaria heard the word often during the next few days. Rome talked of little else. It had begun with a few deaths along the river front in the sailors’ quarters, and among the stevedores and porters of the grain-warehouses, southwest of the Aventine Hill in the thirteenth ward. Next it came to notice when there were many deaths along the Subura in the very centre of the city. From there the infection had spread to every wind. Panic seized the people. There was an exodus of all who could afford it, to their country estates, to the mountains, to the seaside. Brinnarius and Quartilla discussed arrangements for their departure to his mountain farm in the Sabine hills above Carsioli. Their difficulty was to decide to whom to commit their great house in Rome. They had no slave whom they implicitly trusted, and no one certainly who would be willing to stay in the city. To close the house was to invite burglary, for in the general panic watchmen were unreliable and house-breakings were frequent. Into their consultation Brinnaria thrust herself uninvited.

“Why don’t you leave me in town?” she suggested. “I hate the country and I hate it near Carsioli worse than any neighborhood I ever saw. I want to stay right here. I love Rome. And I’m not afraid of pestilence. Nobody can die more than once and nobody dies till the gods will it. There’s more danger of dying of fright and worry than of pestilence. Anyhow a pestilence never kills all the people in a city, most of the towns- folk stay right at home and keep alive all right. Half the people that die scare or fret themselves to death. I won’t fret or worry and I’ll keep well here; but if you take me with you I’ll be miserable and chafe myself ill. I can run the house as well as mother can. Most of the slaves worship me and will obey me for love, the rest are deadly afraid of me and will not dare to disobey me. I’ll keep order and I will not waste a sesterce. Can’t I stay, Father?”

Brinnarius knit his brows and looked at his wife. Her eyes answered his.

“It would save a deal of trouble,” he said, reflectively.

“It would make a deal of gossip,” Quartilla declared. “All my enemies would say that I am an unnatural mother, that I do not love my youngest child, that I hate her, that I am exposing her to certain death, that I am as bad as a murderess.”

“Nonsense!” her husband retorted. “We can’t bother about all the malice of all the slanderers in Rome. Other people’s daughters are remaining. Lucconius means to stay here in Rome with his family. If he ventures to keep Flexinna here we might venture to leave Brinnaria behind.”

“You might,” that self-assertive child cut in, “and you know there is really no use in taking me if I do not want to go. You know how much trouble it will make for both of you.”

Quartilla sighed.

“Perhaps we had best leave her,” she said. “Certainly the house will be safe and the slaves kept in order. I shan’t have an instant’s anxiety about that. Then Brinnaria is so genuinely brave that she will really not dread the pestilence, and all the doctors say that there is nothing like that feeling to protect any one from the danger. She makes me feel that she will be safe. I don’t believe I’ll worry about that either.”

“Fine!” Brinnaria squealed. “I’m to stay.”

“Not so fast,” her father rebuked her. “I haven’t said yet that you may stay. But if I say so, then you must stay. I’ll not have you changing your mind and deciding to leave Rome after we have arranged to put you in charge here. It would make trouble indeed to have you shutting up this house in a hurry and chasing after us to Carsioli.”

“Epulo!” his wife reproached him, “the child has her faults, but changeableness is not one of them. She is the most resolute child I ever knew. If you leave her, she will not fail us. If she gives her word she will keep it. I never knew Brinnaria to break an earnestly made promise.”

“Will you promise?” her father asked her.

“I promise,” Brinnaria shouted, “I pledge myself. I take oath. I swear by my love of both of you, by my respect for our clan, by my hopes of marrying Almo, that I’ll stick it out here in Rome, going out only when necessary, unless you send for me to come away. If anything happens that makes me think I ought to leave the city I shall send a message to you, but I shall not cross the city boundaries nor relax my watch on this house without your permission. I swear.”

“That’s enough, dearie,” her father said, “enough and too much. If your judgment tells you that you ought to flee from Rome, you have my permission to send me a messenger; I know you will not resort to that without real need. I rely on your judgment. The gods be with you, child. You have taken a load of my shoulders, two loads, in fact.”

Thereupon preparations for departure were pushed and soon after sunrise on the next day Brinnaria found herself left to her own resources, responsible for the welfare of a large retinue of obsequious slaves, autocrat over them, and mistress of one of the largest private houses in Rome. She acquitted herself well of her duties. She had been right in claiming that she was loved by most and feared by the rest. Certainly she was trusted and respected by all as if she had been five times her age. She made them as comfortable as town-slaves could be and they knew it. To her they accorded instant and implicit obedience. The life of the household went on as smoothly as if the master had been at home. And its life was not gloomy. Although the main subject of conversation was the pestilence, open forebodings were not indulged in and the house was outwardly cheerful.

Equally cheerful was Flexinna, whom Brinnaria saw daily. Neither of them had the slightest fear of the pestilence and no member of either household had shown the slightest symptoms of any kind of illness. Of the daily deaths among their large acquaintance or among the nobilities of the city, they talked calmly, without any feeling of gloom or of dread, secure in the confidence of youth and health.

On the tenth day after Brinnaria had been left to her own devices Flexinna visited her as usual. Early in their talk she said:

“D-D-Dossonia died last night.”

“The Chief Vestal?” Brinnaria queried.

“Yes,” Flexinna replied, a bright tear in each eye.

“She couldn’t live forever,” Brinnaria said. “She was ninety-four, wasn’t she?”

“Ninety-four years and eight months yesterday,” Flexinna replied. “She had been Chief Vestal ever since C-C-Calpurnia P-P-Praetextata died, and that’s fifty- six years ago. She had been Chief Vestal longer than any ever and she had lived longer than any Vestal ever.”

“Well,” said Brinnaria, the practical, “she ought to have been glad to go, and she stone blind for twenty years.”

“Yes, I know,” Flexinna rejoined, “but she was such an old d-d-dear, she looked so much younger than her age, her face so healthy and pink, and b-b-beautiful even with all its wrinkles, so calm and placid and holy I loved to look at her sitting in her big chair like a great white b-b-butterfly, so plump and handsome and soft-looking. She always put out her hand to my face and recognized me at the first t-t-touch, almost, and gave me her blessing so b-b-beautifully. Sometimes Manlia let me read to the old dear, and she always seemed to enjoy it so much. I’m real shaken at her d-d-death. I really loved her.”

“Everybody loved her,” Brinnaria declared. “But everybody loves Causidiena too, and she’s Chief Vestal now. She’s not fat and placid like Dossonia, but she is wonderfully dignified. My, I admire that woman!”

“I wonder,” Flexinna reflected, “who will be chosen in her p-p-place.”

“Poor wretch!” Brinnaria commented. “I’m sorry for her, whoever she is. Just think, she’ll have to pair with that unspeakable little muff of a Meffia. I hate that girl.”

“Whoever she is,” Flexinna continued, “she is sure to be chosen and taken mighty quick. For with this p-p-pestilence in the city, and all the trouble the P-P-Parthians are making in the East, of the Marcomanni on the Rhine colonies, and the thunder-storms that have raged about lately, there’ll be need felt for all the p-p-prayers all the offer. They’ll not leave the vacancy open long. I’ll bet they have it filled by d-d-day after to-morrow. Old B-B-Bambilio is a stickler for pious precision an observance of all ritual matters and the Emperors are with him.”

“Marcus is,” Brinnaria agreed, pertly, “but Lucius doesn’t care what happens so long as he has his fun.”

“You mustn’t t-t-t-talk that way about the Emperors,” Flexinna cautioned her. “If you were overheard you’d get into no end of trouble. Anyhow, Verus defers to Aurelius in everything, so that whatever Aurelius wishes is as if both wished it. And there never was a more p-p-pious Emperor than Aurelius. So the place is certain to be filled p-p-promptly.”

“At once, for sure,” Brinnaria agreed. “I wonder who the victim will be? Do you suppose it will be Occurnea?”

“It would have been Occurnea, I think,” Flexinna said. “You know it was a chance for a while whether she’d get it instead of Meffia. But she’s not eligible now. Her mother d-d-died yesterday.”

“Tallentia, perhaps,” Brinnaria hazarded.

“Impossible,” Flexinna declared. “You remember how recklessly she rode and how her horse f-f-fell on her. She has limped ever since and always will.”

“Cuppiena?” suggested Brinnaria.

“Not she,” said Flexinna; “she has some k-k-kind of skin rash and has lost almost all her hair.”

“Sabbia,” Brinnaria proposed.

“Her mother’s d-d-dead too,” Flexinna reminded her; “has been for months.”

“Fremnia,” came the next suggestion.

“She’s off to Aquileia with her family,” said Flexinna; “they all left the d-d-day your folks went.”

“Eppia,” ventured Brinnaria.

“She’s ten years old now,” Flexinna demurred. “She celebrated her b-b-birthday three days before the Kalends. I was at the party.”

“Pennasia, perhaps,” Brinnaria suggested.

“D-d-deaf in one ear like her mother and grandmother,” said Flexinna, “and you know it.”

“Licinia,” Brinnaria ventured.

“She’d be the last they’d choose on account of the b-b-bad luck Vestals of her family have had;” Flexinna reminded her. “The very name suggests disgrace. Anyhow, she’s in Baiae with her p-p-people.”

“Rentulana,” came the next conjecture.

“Has a b-b-big wen on the side of her head,” Flexinna proclaimed.

“Numledia?” came next.

“You’ve lost your memory, Brinnaria,” said Flexinna, severely. “She’s got a b-b-big purple birthmark on her neck.”

“Magnonia,” Brinnaria proposed.

“She’s far away, in Britain, with her father and mother; might as well be out of the world.”

Brinnaria was at a loss. She meditated. “Gavinna!” she said at last.

“She has a bad squint and you know it,” laughed Flexinna. “Why don’t you think of an eligible c-c-candidate?”

They tried a dozen more names, all of girls out of the city or defective in some way, or with one parent dead.

“But who will it be?” Brinnaria wondered. “It’s bound to be somebody and quick.”

She jumped to her feet.

She screamed.

“They’ll take me! They’ll take me! Oh, what am I to do, what am I to do? I’m the only possible candidate in the city. And they’ll be after me the moment they run over the lists and find no one else is in town.”

She stood a moment, considering, then she called Guntello, and a lean Caledonian slave called Intinco. She gave them each a written journey-order to show to any patrol that questioned them, told Guntello to take the best horse in the stable and to give the next best to Intinco, bade Intinco ride to Carsioli and Guntello to Falerii, gave Guntello a letter for Almo and Intinco a letter to her father and told them verbally, in case the letter was lost, to make it plain that she was in danger of being taken for a Vestal and bid her father come quickly to interfere and her lover to ride fast to claim her in time. She enjoined both slaves to spur their horses, gave them money in case they needed to hire fresh mounts and wound up:

“Kill Rhaebus, kill Xanthus, kill as many hired horses as need be, ride without halt or mercy. Get there and get father and Almo here. Be quick. You can’t be too quick.”

She watched them ride off at a sedate walk, for no man was allowed to trot a horse in the streets of Rome. Both had assured her that they would ride at full gallop from the moment they passed the gates.

Then began for Brinnaria a tense and anxious period of waiting. Flexinna obtained her parents’ permission and remained with her friend. The entire household continued in good health and there was nothing to distract t he two from their dread on the one hand that the Pontifex might come to claim Brinnaria before Almo and her father arrived, and their hope on the other hand of seeing them come in time.

On the whole the strain told on Flexinna more than on Brinnaria, who never once shed a tear, attended to her housewifely duties calmly and steadily and talked little. Flexinna fidgeted constantly and talked a good deal.

“If I were in your place,” she said, “I shouldn’t be waiting here inertly for Faltonius to come and claim me. Instead of dispatching messengers for your father and Almo, you ought to have left the city at once and made your best speed for Carsioli yourself.”

“I couldn’t,” Brinnaria declared, “and you know why. I passed my word to stay in this house and not so much as to go out unless some compelling necessity arose. I pledged myself not to leave here unless I sent a messenger saying I needed to leave and received permission before I started. I took my oath not to cross the city limits without Father’s consent. I can’t break my oath and I shouldn’t break my word, even if I hadn’t sworn in addition to promising.”

“You f-f-fool!” Flexinna declared.

“All members of our clan keep their word,” said Brinnaria proudly. “We do not ask whether it is advantageous to keep our word or pleasant; when we have passed our word we keep it. I’ve given my word and there’s nothing to do but to wait for Almo and Daddy and hope that both, or at least a message from Daddy will get here before Faltonius.”

“There is something else you might do,” Flexinna suggested. “You might easily arrange to be ineligible before Bambilio comes for you.”

“I shall,” spoke the matter-of-fact Brinnaria. “The moment Daddy and Almo come, I’ll be Alma’s wife in less time than it takes to tell it and will be able to snap my fingers at Bambilio.”

“Suppose he comes before your father,” Flexinna suggested.

“I’d be a Vestal and all hope gone,” said Brinnaria,

“I mean,” said Flexinna, “suppose Almo comes before your father.”

“I’ve thought of that,” Brinnaria admitted. “But I’d hate to break the record of which our family is so proud. None of our women ever were so much as accused of any misbehavior before marriage.”

“I’ve no p-p-patience with you,” Flexinna raged. “You’ll throw away your life for a mere scruple. You risk being made a Vestal every moment. Faltonius may be on the way here now. If I were in your place I’d make sure. I’d not wait for Almo. Any lad would do for me. You c-c-could make sure, if you had sense. Almo would forgive you and marry you anyway. Your father would forgive you; he’d never approve, I know.”

“Not he!” Brinnaria proclaimed, “and he’ll never have any such dishonor to forgive. No man of our clan ever had reason to be ashamed of his daughter or of his sister. I’ll not be the first to disgrace the clan. If Faltonius comes he’ll find me as eligible as the hour I was born, unless Daddy and Almo come in time for me to be married first.”

“At least,” Flexinna persisted, “you might say no when he asks you. That would stall the whole ceremony and give you t-t-time.”

“Do you suppose,” Brinnaria sneered, “that I haven’t thought of that? I’m tempted, of course. But that would be to advertise myself a disgrace to the Pontifex during a solemn interrogatory.”

“At least,” Flexinna pleaded, “you might say you are over age. You look sixteen to anybody, and no one would imagine you are under fourteen. You could halt the proceedings, at least, and gain t-t-time.”

“Faltonius has the lists,” said Brinnaria wearily, “with all the birthdays sworn to by both parents for every girl on them and attested by four excellent witnesses, besides. He’d know I was lying and it would do me no good.”

Flexinna changed the subject.

But when the next day dawned and neither Brinnarius nor Almo appeared, she returned to the attack. Brinnaria was very pale, very tense, but obdurate. She controlled herself, did not forget, did not express her feelings, but she posted a slave at each street corner, right and left of the house-door, and had them look out for what she hoped and what she feared.

Dastor brought word that the Pontifex and his retinue were approaching; three litters, each with eight bearers, preceded by the lictor of the Chief Vestal.

Brinnaria, pale and tense, did her best to look collected and controlled. She succeeded well, heard calmly the announcement of her august visitors, ordered them shown into the atrium, and received them with proper dignity. Her self-possession did not desert her when she recognized in the train of the Pontifex her rejected suitor Calvaster, sly, malignant and with an air of suppressed elation.

Faltonius Bambilio, the Pontifex of Vesta, was a pursy, pudgy, pompous old man, immensely self-important, almost ridiculous in his fussiness, but clothed with a certain impressiveness by the mere fact of his religious office. He gazed about him, stared at Brinnaria, hemmed and hawed and threw himself into poses intended to be stately.

With him was Causidiena, now Chief Vestal, a tall, spare woman of about forty-five, her austere face kindly and reassuring, her dark hair barely showing under her official head-dress, a statuesque figure in her white robes of office.

“My daughter,” spoke Faltonius to Brinnaria, “Rome has but five Vestals. I have come to take you into the vacant place. You have been chosen, as best suited to this high dignity, from among those whose names were on the lists of those fit for the office. Was it proper that your name should be on the lists?”

“I believe so,” spoke Brinnaria, weakly, almost in a whisper.

“Are you fit to be taken as a Vestal, my daughter?”

“I believe so,” came the answer.

“Have you any blemish or defect of body, any impediment of speech, any difficulty of hearing?”

Brinnaria’s awe was wearing off, and the irritating pomposity of Faltonius was producing its usual effect of arousing antagonism, as it generally did in those he talked to. Brinnaria felt all her wild self surge up in her.

“I’m sound as a two-year-old racing filly,” she replied. “I’m clean as fresh curd; I hear you perfectly and you can hear me perfectly.”

Bambilio bristled like a bantam rooster.

“That is not the way for a Vestal to speak,” he rebuked.

“I’m not a Vestal yet,” Brinnaria retorted, “and that was my answer to those questions. If you don’t like it I don’t care a shred of bran.”

“Come! come!” fussed Bambilio, “answer the interrogatories properly.”

“I have and I shall,” Brinnaria maintained mutinously.

“Are you fit in mind and in faculties to be a Vestal?” he continued.

“Fit to be Flaminica or Empress,” Brinnaria responded.

“Are you pure?” came the next query.

“As when I was born,” said Brinnaria emphatically.

“What is your age?” the Pontifex queried his victim.

“I’ll be ten on the Ides of next September,” quoth his victim.

“Are your parents both alive?” he asked.

“They were the last time I heard of them,” spoke Brinnaria flippantly.

“When was that?” he insisted.

“This is the twelfth day since they left Rome,” said Brinnaria, “and I’ve not heard from them since they sent a messenger back from the ninth milestone on the road to Tibur.”

Faltonius was irritating her more and more, and she added:

“They may both be dead by this time, for all I know.”

“This will not do,” spoke Faltonius. “We must be sure that they are both alive.”

“Find out,” snapped Brinnaria.

Up spoke young Calvaster, his pasty face alight with a sort of malicious glee.

“I passed Quartilla’s travelling carriage at Varia last night. Quartilla was alive and well. I passed Brinnarius this morning at dawn, this side of Tibur. He was alive then and puffing.”

“How did you get here ahead of him?” Brinnaria interjected.

“I am light built,” Calvaster explained with obvious relish, “and I rode the best horse in Italy. His mount labored heavily under his load.”

“Both parents are then alive,” spoke Faltonius. “I hereupon and hereby pronounce you in all respects fit to be taken as a Vestal. Are you willing?”

“Not I!” Brinnaria fairly shouted.

“Not willing!” Faltonius cried, incredulous.

“Not a fibre of me!” she proclaimed emphatically.

“Wretched girl!” expostulated the Pontiff. “Have you no sense of patriotism? Do you not realize your duty to your country, to the Roman people, to Rome, to the Emperor, to all of us, to the commonwealth? Do you not realize Rome’s need of you? Shall it be said that Rome has need of one of her daughters and that her unnatural child refuses?”

“I have not refused,” said Brinnaria. “I only said I was unwilling.”

“It is the same thing,” declared the bewildered ecclesiastic.

“Not a bit the same thing,” Brinnaria disclaimed. “I know my duty in this matter perfectly. Castor be good to me, I know it too well. I know that a refusal would avail me nothing, if I did refuse. I have not refused. I would not, even if I could escape by refusal I realize my duty. If I am taken I shall be all that a Vestal is expected to be, all that she must be to ensure the glory and prosperity and safety of the city and the Empire. I shall not fail the Emperor nor the Roman people, nor Rome. But I am unwilling, and I said so. Little good it will do me. But I am no liar, not even in the tightest place.”

“Stand up, my daughter,” said Faltonius, rising himself, suddenly clothed in dignity, a really impressive figure, in spite of his globular proportions.

Brinnaria stood, her eyes on the door to the vestibule, her face very pale, trembling a little, but controlled.

The Pontifex took her hand and spoke:

“As priestess of Vesta, to perform those rites which it is fitting that a priestess of Vesta perform for the Roman People and the citizens, as a girl who has been chosen properly, so I take you, Beloved.”

At the word “Beloved,” which made her irretrievably a Vestal, Brinnaria could not repress a little gasp. Her eyes no longer watched the vestibule door. She looked at the Pontiff. He let go her hand.

“You will now go with your servitor to be clothed as befits your calling.”

He indicated one of Causidiena’s attendants, a solidly built woman, like a Tuscan villager, who carried over her arm a mass of fresh white garments and robes.

With her and Causidiena Brinnaria left the atrium; with them she presently returned, a slim white figure, her hair braided and the six braids wound round her forehead like a coronet, above them the folds of the plain square headdress of the Vestals.

“I thought,” she said, “that my hair would be cut off.”

“That will be after you are made at home in the Atrium of Vesta,” spoke the Pontiff.

“And remember,” he continued sternly, “that you are now a Vestal and that young Vestals may not speak unless spoken to.”

Brinnaria bit her lip.

At that moment they heard hoofs and voices outside, the door burst open and Brinnarius entered.

“Too late, Daddy!” cried Brinnaria. “You can’t help me now. I’m not your little girl any more; I don’t count as your daughter; you don’t count as my father; I’m daughter to the Pontifex from now on. I’m a Vestal.”

She was trembling, but she kept her countenance. Brinnarius uttered no sound, the whole gathering was still and mute, the noises of the street outside were plainly audible. They heard horse-hoofs again, again the door flew open wide. In burst Almo, wide-eyed and panting.

At him Brinnaria launched a sort of shriek of expostulation.

“Why couldn’t you ride! You call yourself a horseman! And you’ve come too late! I mustn’t even kiss you good-bye. And I mustn’t speak to you, I mustn’t see you, I mustn’t so much as think of you for thirty years, for thirty years, for thirty years!”