“Come, Silvia,” he repeated. He leaned forward and the lion's pelt parted, revealing his bare chest beneath it. A single, large pendant in the shape of a ring pierced his left breast, in the fleshy muscular part just above his nipple. On the ring were nine small keys that could open the Wall of Doors. Free the others. If she got close enough to him, maybe . . . No! He was planting foolish ideas in her mind. If she succumbed, he would soon own her Ephemeral soul, too!
Seeing the direction of her gaze, he strummed his fingers over the keys, brushing them back and forth so they made an almost musical sound. He smiled slightly, revealing sharp, white teeth that could tear a man twice his size limb from limb before he knew what hit him.
Somehow, she managed to shake off his spells. “I have felt the effects of your avuncular love once before.” Silvia brushed her fingertips along the scar, reminding him of its cause.
“I won't hurt you,” he lied.
“Yet you ask me to break my vows?” she went on. “To go the way of so many before me?” She fluttered a careless hand toward the wall of cages behind him, hoping he couldn't see how it shook with fear and revulsion. “You'll forgive me,
Uncle,
if I forgo the pleasure of taking your cock as pacifier. Thank you all the same.”
He ground his jaw, angered and obviously in pain, then sat back on his throne and gestured at his prick. “Do something,” he muttered to Occia, and heaved a sigh of relief when she put her tired mouth back to work.
“Go!” he told Silvia, but she didn't move.
“I brought you a tithe,” she reminded him. She nodded toward the shard he still held. “Let me be Replenished.”
“Do it, then, and get out! When next I see you and that other one, there had better be a Vestal firestone in both of your fists.”
At his command, a ring of guards stepped away from a high marble pedestal to her left. Upon it rested a shallow golden bowl several feet in diameter. The sacred hearth of Vesta, brought here in 394
A.D.
from the Roman Forum. Her eternal flame had once burned brightly within it day and night. It pained Silvia now to see the hearth so cold and empty.
She took the three steps up to it and laid her hands upon its outer rim as if holding it. There were twelve shallow depressions running around it, just inside the rim. Six contained stones.
The guards leaned in to watch her every move, lest she attempt to make off with any of them. All the other Vestals had revealed the locations of their stones to him, but only six had been located. The other six still remained at large, and those were the ones she sought in EarthWorld. Her own and Michaela's were among them. If she brought them to him, Vesta's fire would leap high again. But he would possess the goddess's fire and use it for some evil purpose. Silvia would not let that happen.
She closed her eyes, shutting out the despicable horror of her surroundings. Quietly, she murmured a benediction to her goddess. The preternatural heat of her hands intensified with each word she uttered, until the air near the surface of the bowl began to shimmer. A flame suddenly burst from the center of the bowl, scattering the guards.
Lifting her chin, she inhaled deeply of the wisps of magic that flumed upward, and gloried in the replenishing of her eternal spirit. Ephemerals were kept alive only by virtue of Vesta's fire, which she and the eleven others carried in their hands. But their fireâtheir very livesâmust be renewed periodically by contact with the remnants of this single fire brought here from ancient Rome after the destruction of the temple.
Replete at last, Silvia opened her eyes and stepped back. The fire in the golden bowl dwindled, then quickly died.
Somewhere behind her, Pontifex spoke. “Gods, you are never more beautiful than when you do that.” His voice was thick with emotion and lust. “It makes me want to come inside you. To drill myself in your heat and never leave.”
Violently repulsed, she refused to glance his way as she slowly shook her head. Putting her palms together, she brought forth her own renewed inner flame, created a firegate, and promptly vanished from his domain.
The instant she rematerialized in EarthWorld, Silvia felt the near-dead summoning her. In a city as large as Rome, there were always some who found themselves hovering on the brink of their demise at any given time, just as surely as others were being newly born. It was the former that now called to her.
. . . please, let me live a while longer . . . there is so much left to do . . . my children, what will they do without me . . . my cat . . . my fortune . . . my husband . . . my wife . . . please . . .
Some in the worlds considered the work of an Ephemeral to be cruel, but in fact, those who lay dying hoped she would choose them. Begged for her to resurrect them so that they might live on, if only for a time. There was always something they'd left undone; and in exchange for the temporary use of their bodies, she would help them finish it.
The prospect of taking on a new corporeal form gave Silvia purpose and helped her shake off the lingering revulsion she felt after having visited Pontifex's realm. She could have her pick of hosts tonight and sifted through the macabre possibilities on offer. A lowborn prostitute, an elderly clergyman, a twelve-year-old Imp pickpocket, a fey fishmonger. The list went on and on. Although a dozen were caught in the clutches of the grim reaper at this very moment, these four seemed the best candidates.
She would need to don fleshly form in order to insinuate herself into the inner workings of what went on in that large white tent in the Forum. But who best to aid her in getting close to Bastian Satyr? She envisioned likely scenarios: A prostitute might woo him into illicit sex. No, that would be a betrayal of her Vestal vows and of Michaela's trust. A clergyman might marry him to her best friend. No, that didn't sit well either, and was getting ahead of things since there had been no mention of a wedding. A fishmonger? No, since she doubted Lord Satyr did his own marketing, and it wouldn't achieve her goal of inserting herself into his life.
That left the pickpocket. An Impish youth would come across as harmless. And the boy's thieving skills would be useful ones to add to her ever-growing repertoire. After all, she
was
here to steal from Lord Satyr.
Settling on her choice, she made haste toward the unfortunate victim. If he died before she arrived, it would be too late. She must be there at the very instant of death in order to claim him.
Half an hour later, Silvia reached the ruins of Aqua Claudia. Remnants of the ancient brick-faced aqueduct had been incorporated into the Aurelian Wall, which had once surrounded the Seven Hills of Rome. Its nooks and crannies were favorite hiding places of the homeless and nefarious populations of the city.
She found the boy hidden beneath one of the aqueduct's crumbling arches, where bricks had been hollowed out to form a sleeping place. He lay shivering on a makeshift pallet, his breath shallow. If she hadn't been pulled here and known where to look, she'd have missed him entirely. A dusty, white, mixed-breed dog she hadn't noticed at first rose from his side, standing stiff and cautious. Few animals could sense her in this altered state, but canines were among them. They eyed one another, sizing up their intentions. Uncertain, he barked once.
She held out her hand, letting him sniff. “It's all right. I'm here to help,” she coaxed. Still unsure, the dog went back to his master, nudging him worriedly with his wet nose. Silvia moved closer and knelt beside the boy. He was very close to death. She would have to act quickly. She didn't know what had caused his illness, but once she melded with him, she would know everything there was to know about him.
All was quiet as she did what she must. Moments later, she stood and stared at the empty pallet. The dog sniffed her again, suspicious. She knew his name now. Salvatore. And her own adopted nameâRico. Rico, the twelve-year-old pickpocket, who had been bitten on his ankle by a rat two days ago, and who had been orphaned as a baby and learned the skill of thieving on the street from a variety of sources. He was quick-witted, and though unschooled, had taught himself to read. And he loved Sal above all else. He had trained and cared for him over the past year since he'd found him starving in the streets.
“Good boy, Salvatore.” She extended a hand to the dog as she'd done before. Another sniff. This time with a better result. The dog's tail wagged tentatively, then more exuberantly in recognition. In the early days after a resurrection, a host's scent, memories, and emotions still thrived. Believing her to be his master, the dirty dog followed her from the aqueduct, prancing with excitement.
No one she passed paid her any mind. To all appearances, she was a ragged, homeless boy with only a dog and a small rusty knife in her pocket to call her own. She had for all intents and purposes assumed Rico's identity.
Instead of dying as he should have, his body would now live on, through her. But for no more than one month. The Dead always passed on at Moonful. Still, she would retain some of his abilities and memories after he left this world, just as had happened with every host. So in a small way, a part of him would continue on within her forever.
She called Sal to her side, and when she patted him, a puff of dust fluffed in the air from his coat. “
Phew!
I think the first order of business is a bath. For both of us. Come on, boy.”
The dog whined. But fortunately, he followed. It was a matter of personal pride to her that she had never yet failed to fulfill the Deathwish of one of her hosts. Rico had worried for the future of his dog. She'd promised to find Sal a home. And she would.
“I wonder how Lord Satyr likes dogs,” she mused aloud as they headed for the Forum.
S
cena
A
ntica
II
February 2, 374
A.D.
Vestal House, Rome, Italy
Along with the other eleven initiates, six-year-old Silvia was taken from her parents that first morning and ushered inside the Atrium House in the Roman Forum. The girls were separated almost immediately, before they could speak to one another, and each was led by an entourage of attendants into a discrete chamber. Although she complained vociferously, Silvia nevertheless found herself poked and prodded as her teeth, ears, and eyes were examined.
Despite her struggles, her shift was subsequently removed and every inch of her skin checked for flaws. Upon passing this test, she was laid on her back upon a stone table by hard hands at her wrists and ankles, and she was gently examined high between her legs. Amid her angry shrieks, a large hand smoothed over her hair. She looked up to see Pontifex standing beside her.
“Only a virgin can serve the goddess, dear niece,” he soothed. “We have to be sure.”
“Sure of what?” she demanded tearfully.
Her captors smiled among themselves. “So innocent,” said Pontifex, pleased.
When they were thoroughly satisfied, she was allowed to rise. Immediately, she tried to flee but was caught again and bathed. Her golden-red hair, which her father had called sunset-beautiful, was then summarily shorn until she was bald. By now she was sobbing uncontrollably.
“Your locks will be hung on the branches of the lotus capillata as a devotional offering to the Gods,” she was told. As if that made everything all right.
Her own simple shift had disappeared, and she was now clothed in a soft, white, flowing one, which was clasped at her breast by a fiery opal brooch. Her smooth head was loosely draped with an
infula
âa scarf that fell over her shoulders. Then she was released barefoot into the center of the rectangular, column-lined atrium. Furious and humiliated, she tested the doors at either end.
“I've already tried them,” said a girl from behind her. “They're locked.”
Like her, the girl was now wearing a white shift and head covering. Beneath it, she was bald. Her violet eyes looked huge in her olive-skinned face and her cheeks were tear-streaked. “What do you think they are going to do to us?” she asked.
Another girl with brown hair and eyes joined them, having been released into the Atrium by their captors as well. “We're going to serve the goddess,” she said.
“Why us?” asked Silvia. “Why choose us?”
The violet-eyed girl held her hands out, palms up. “They said I was chosen because of my talent.” She touched Silvia's bare arm and Silvia felt the warm tingle on her skin. Surprised, she touched the girl's arm with her own palm in return. The girl started at the sensation, and they smiled at one another in wondrous recognition.
“We're alike,” Silvia breathed. Despite her fear of this place, a tentative curl of joy wrapped itself around her heart. She'd always felt so different, so alone. To find another like her was something she'd prayed to the Gods for every night.
The third girl touched each of them with one of her hands and Silvia jumped as she felt the burning tingle from her as well. “Ow!” This girl's touch had stung. More girls joined them, each with her head newly shaven. When questioned, they all revealed that they, too, had been born with a strange preternatural heat in their palms.
Once all twelve girls stood in the atrium, servants brought out a feast such as Silvia had never seen before. Trenchers of melon, grapes, and olives. Platters of meat, fish, bread, and cheese. Pitchers of honeyed water and wine. The girls crowded around, eager for a taste. But then Pontifex came and they were told to wait as a large, shallow golden bowl was placed with great ceremony upon a pedestal at the center of everything.
Then he raised his arms wide and addressed them. “Initiates! You are privileged to wear the twelve jewels of Aeneas at your breasts, precious opals brought to this world from ancient Troy. Before we feast, each of you will remove the jewel from your brooch and solemnly insert it into one of these depressions within the bowl,” he instructed. He ran a fingertip around the inside of the bowl, indicating the two rings of six concave cavities each. “Note that one ring is set higher than the other. Take great care in your choice.”
When no one else volunteered, Silvia pried the opal from her brooch, went to the bowl, and randomly placed it in one of the upper depressions.
“Our first Virgin!” Pontifex proclaimed, setting an olive wreath on her head with great care and excitement, as if she'd accomplished something awesome. She went to the table but was disappointed to discover that it was guarded and that she must wait for all of the others to do as she had before she could feast.
The violet-eyed girl went next. Sending Silvia a smile, she inserted her jewel in the lower ring, just below hers. Instead of an olive wreath, one made of laurel was placed upon her head. “Our first Companion!” The brown-eyed girl embedded hers in the lower ring and was given a laurel wreath as well. “Our second Companion!” Pontifex announced.
The other girls came forward one by one, and the placement of each jewel was announced by Pontifex and then echoed by a scribe who noted it on a tablet. Once the bowl finally blazed with the shine of twelve fiery opals, Silvia and the others were made to repeat words whose meaning they didn't fully comprehend: “Today I am remanded to the care and keeping of Vesta's fire. For three decades I will serve her and the flame of hearth and home.”
As their chanting died away, a stunningly beautiful flame in colors of scarlet, gold, sapphire, fuchsia, and titanium erupted spontaneously from the center of the bowl. Shocked, the girls leaped back. But Pontifex only smiled beneficently. Lifting the bowl, he left the atrium with it, pompously announcing that he was removing it to the adjacent temple.
Once he departed in great state, they feasted. The violet-eyed girl came to sit with Silvia. “I'm Michaela,” she whispered.