Part 4 (1/2)

”Nonsense!” Flexinna disclaimed vigorously. ”You'd g-g-get used to the whole thing in a m-m-month and be the most s-s-statuesque of the six in t-t-ten years. Think of it! I'm just raging inside at your f-f-folly. To have the right to an interview with the Emperor whenever you d-d-demand it, to see the m-m-magistrates' lictors lower their fasces to you and s-s-stand aside at the s-s-salute and let you p-p-pa.s.s whenever you m-m-meet them in p-p-public. To live in one of the finest p-p-palaces in Rome, one of the most m-m-magnificent residences on earth, to have the ch-ch-chance at all that and m-m-miss it; I've no p-p-patience with you!”

”That's all very fine,” Brinnaria countered, ”but there's much to be said on the other side. I've been in the Atrium. Aunt Septima took me there to call on Causidiena. It's big, it's gorgeous, it's luxurious, that's all true. But I love sunlight. I'd loathe living in that hole in the ground; why, the shadow of the Palace falls across the courtyard before noon and for all the rest of the day it's gloomy as the bottom of a well. I heard Causidiena tell Aunt Septima how shoes mould and embroideries mildew and what a time they have with the inlays popping off the furniture on account of the dampness and about the walls and lamp-standards sweating moisture. I'd hate the dark, poky, cold place.”

”Oh,” Flexinna admitted, ”there are d-d-drawbacks to any s-s-situation in life, but, really the higher the s-s-station the fewer the drawbacks.

The p-p-plain truth is that being a Vestal is the highest s-s-station in Rome except being an Empress. No g-g-girl dare aspire to be an Empress; it would be treason. If any g-g-girl d-d-dreams of it she k-k-keeps her d-d-dreams to herself. But any g-g-girl has a right to aspire to be a Vestal, if she is made perfect and is under ten and has her f-f-father and m-m-mother n.o.ble and alive. You've got all that and you are offered what any g-g-girl would envy you and you throw it away! I've no patience with you.”

”You forget,” Brinnaria argued, ”that I'm in love with Almo and I'd have to give up Almo.”

”Not f-f-forever,” Flexinna retorted. ”He's enough in love with you to wait for you, to wait for you! You could have pledged him to wait till your term of service was up and then you two could have married just the same.”

”Just the same!” Brinnaria echoed. ”A lot of good it'd do me to marry after I'd be an old wrinkled, gray-haired woman of forty, dried up and withered.”

”Nemestronia,” Flexinna cited, ”has married twice since she was forty, and she's not withered yet, not by a great deal, even if she is gray-haired and has a wrinkle or two.”

”What's the use of arguing,” Brinnaria summed up. ”I hate the very idea of being a Vestal. I'd hate the fact a million times more. I'd hate it even if I were not in love with Almo, furiously in love with Almo. Daddy says I've got to wait four years to marry him. I roll around in bed and bite the pillows with rage to think of it, night after night. A fine figure I'd cut trying to wait thirty years for him. I'd swoon with longing for him and write him a note or peep out of the temple to see him go by and then I'd get accused of misbehavior, and accused is convicted for a Vestal; well, you know it. I'd look fine being buried alive in a seven-by-five underground stone cell, with half a pint of milk and a gill of wine to keep me alive long enough to suffer before I starved to death and a thimbleful of oil in a lamp to make me more scared of the dark when the lamp burned out. No burial alive for me.

I'm in love. I'm too much in love to balance arguments. I'm not sorry I missed my chance, as you call it. I'm glad I escaped; the chance isn't missed for that matter. Rabulla's place hasn't been filled yet.”

”Do you know who is g-g-going to be ch-ch-chosen to fill it?” Flexinna asked. ”You d-d-don't? The choice has about narrowed d-d-down to that execrable, weasel-faced little M-M-Meffia.”

”Meffia!” Brinnaria cried. ”There's no one alive I despise as much as that detestable ninny. I've a mind to chuck Almo and ask Daddy to offer me, just to spite Meffia.”

”Why d-d-don't you?” Flexinna stuttered. ”D-d-do it n-n-now, right n-n-now. You might be t-t-too late.”

”Oh bosh,” Brinnaria groaned. ”What's the use of talking nonsense? What would be the sense in my spoiling my life to spite Meffia? I hate her.

I'll hate to see her putting on airs as a Vestal, but I'd hate worse to be a Vestal myself, and worst of all to lose Almo. I just couldn't give up Almo.”

”I wish I were you,” Flexinna raged. ”If I were only under ten and d-d-didn't s-s-stutter, I'd d-d-do all I c-c-could to g-g-get D-D-Daddy to offer m-m-me.”

”Bos.h.!.+” Brinnaria sneered. ”You're in love with Vocco and you know you wouldn't even think of giving him up if you had the chance.”

”Just wouldn't I!” Flexinna retorted. ”I love Quintus dearly. But if I had a ch-ch-chance to be a V-V-Vestal, I'd fling poor Quintus hard and never regret him. Not I. Think of the influence a V-V-Vestal has! Every man who wants p-p-promotion in the army or in the fleet, or who wants an appointment to any office would set his sisters and all his women relations to besieging me to use my influence for him. Every temple-carver and shrine-painter in Rome would have his wife showing me attentions. I know; I've heard the talk.

”And b-b-besides, in all the Empire a Vestal is the nearest thing to a p-p-princess we have. We read a lot about Egyptian princesses, and Asiatic princesses and we hear about P-P-Parthian p-p-princesses, but the only p-p-princesses we ever see are the Vestals. They are the only p-p-princesses in the Empire, in Italy, in Rome, the six of them. And you had a chance to be one of the only six p-p-princesses in our world and you didn't take it. Oh, you f-f-fool, you f-f-fool!”

They wrangled about their conflicting views for a long time.

It was only as Flexinna was leaving that she inquired casually:

”Have you heard what Rabulla d-d-died of?”

”No,” said Brinnaria, ”what was it?”

”Hadn't you heard?” Flexinna wondered. ”It was the p-p-pestilence.”

CHAPTER IV - PESTILENCE

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.