The Capture

            I was only ten years old when it happened. I was working by the brick oven with my mother, baking bread like we did every morning, when we heard a large bang by the front door. Moments later, our slave Diana uttered a blood curling scream. I remember how my skin prickled, and even though I was sitting next to the fire, I felt a chill make its way through my body. Diana was quickly silenced, the scream evaporating instantly. Somehow, the silence was worse.

            Mother looked over at me with wide, alert eyes and pressed a finger to her lips, warning me not to make a sound. I remember wondering how she could sit so still, how she could be so calm, when it took everything I had not to burst into to tears. My hands shook and my heart raced up my throat like a wild rabbit; desperately, silently, I prayed to Salus, the goddess of safety. Behind us, our bread was burning.

            Soon there were shouts, closer this time than they had been before. They were many voices speaking at once, but one I could pick out above all the rest.

            “Where is the girl?” the voices asked. “Where is Aemilia?”

“Go to hell,” the familiar voice snapped. There was a loud crash and then screaming.

 My heart stopped.

Even it didn’t dare to make a sound. It was too busy being horrified by the sound of my older brother Crispus crying out in pain. Whoever was here, they really wanted to find me. For some reason, I wasn’t too keen on that idea.

After a while, even my brother’s screams went silent. I hoped, I prayed, I begged that he was alright. Tears steadily streamed down my face, my fist was stuffed into my mouth to stop me from making any noise. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth I rocked. I knew not how I retained even that amount of calm.

My mother took me into her steady arms, holding my head to her chest. I could hear heart; I could hear how it betrayed her. My mother, it seemed, was very afraid. But she refused to show her fear, even though we both knew it consumed her. After a few seconds of sitting like this, she kissed the top of my dark, curly head of hair then whispered very softly into my ear.

“Go Aemilia, run and hide in the courtyard.” She looked deep into my brown eyes and gave me a sad smile. “Go,” she said again softly and I ran away. I slipped out of the kitchen door, sneaked all the way to the courtyard in the center of our villa home. Never before had I truly appreciated living in a large home, had I really realized the perks of being a senator’s daughter.

I found a place to hide behind the statue of Vesta, goddess of the home and the hearth, and surrounded by bushes. The day was beginning to get hot and before long beads of sweat trickled down my tiny back. Rome was always boiling this time of year, but sitting there behind that statue, with my heart thumping so loudly it surely must have been echoing throughout the entire empire, I was convinced I must have descended into Tartarus.

Several minutes passed and no one came outside.  Shouts came from inside the house a few times, but after awhile they went quiet and I heard nothing for a long time. Perhaps 30 minutes passed, and I grew less frightened and increasingly bored. I played with the ants in the dirt, making them little bridges and homes out of sticks and leaves. I picked flowers from the bushes around me and created a crown for my hair. It wasn’t long before I fell asleep.

I awoke, Jupiter knows how much later, to the sound of voices. I yawned lazily and stretched my arms out before it hit me. The screams, the desperation, the cries of pain; they all echoed in my head and ripped apart my nerves into millions of panicked, dysfunctional shreds. My heart jump started and took off again in its high speed race; terrified at the possibility of being found and guilty for momentarily forgetting the initial terror.

I heard the voices once more and it took all the willpower I possessed not to make any noise. My hands shook so badly, I knocked over the ant house I had made earlier. My legs began to cramp and I shifted my weight, accidently snapping a twig as a result.

The voices stopped.

I swallowed down a gasp; my throat was so dry that it was the only thing left to swallow. I remember how the seconds of silence passed so very slowly, how they defied all logic and possibility by lasting a lifetime. And then, after I had lived through thousands of years, I heard a single voice that brought me instantaneous relief.

“Aemilia? Aemilia, where are you? Please come out from where you are hiding child, you have no reason to be afraid.”

Father! I thought. The corners of my lips curled up into a smile and peace washed through me. If father was here then things must be okay.

I should have been suspicious.

I should have kept quiet.

I should have stayed hidden.

But I did none of these things.  

“I’m here father!” I yelled and I got up out of my hiding place and walked over to my parents.

Behind him stood my mother, who looked utterly defeated; it wasn’t until I saw my brother, beaten, bruised and restrained by soldiers that I realized something might be wrong.

“No Aemilia,” he moaned. “You should have stayed in hiding.” He coughed weakly and a few drops of blood sprayed onto his lips.

“Cris?” I whispered.

“Don’t listen to your brother, come over to me, dear,” my father grinned, his eyes gleamed with excitement. “This is such a big honor for you, for us.” I stood there frozen, unsure of what to do, of who to believe.

Then, a woman who I had not noticed before, stepped in front of my father. She wore a white dress that draped across her figure perfectly and her head was covered by a gauzy veil. Very slowly, she reached up and pulled the veil from her face. She must have been in her fifties, but despite her age, she retained a certain beauty about her, full of regal elegance. I gasped as I took her in, now knowing exactly what was going on.  She raised a tanned arm, pointed at me and spoke.

“I take you, Aemailia, to be a Vestal priestess, who will carry out sacred rites which it is the law for a Vestal priestess to perform on behalf of the Roman people. Come child.” This was the captivo, the capture, the ceremony that meant I was to be a Vestal priestess. She opened her hand and turned it over so that her palm faced upwards, waiting for my tiny hand to slip through hers.

I hesitated, looking at my family. At the mother who hid me, the brother who protected me. At the father who betrayed me in the name of honor. I wanted nothing more than to rush over to my brother and give him a hug, to hold on tightly to my mother as she stroked my hair and kissed my head. But I could do none of those things any more.

As a Vestal priestess, I could be touched only by my fellow priestesses. All others would suffer the punishment of death. Knowing I had no other choice, I walked over to the chief priestess and took her hand; signing away thirty years of my life.

Thirty years of servitude.

Thirty years of honor.

Thirty years of preserving the sacred fire.

Thirty years of virginity.

Thirty years without the touch of my family.

Solemnly, I walked out to the street with the chief priestess, hand in hand. We were followed by three attendants who carried ceremonial rods to distinguish us. As we walked down the marble street, the crowd parted for us and all the hustle and bustle of everyday life came to an abrupt stop. Everyone watched as we paraded by, most people clapping and cheering when we passed. Because this was the greatest honor a woman could be given. Not something I should be miserable over.

Or that is what they told me anyways.

As we made our way to the House of the Vestal Virgins, I saw the face of my best friend peeking around her father’s legs. Marcia stared at me with solemn eyes, her face full of regret. I stared sadly back at her, taking in every detail of her face. Our friendship would have to be put on hold for a while; it’s all part of the sacrifice that comes with the honor of my newfound position. I would still be able to see her, but the visits would be few and far between.

Finally, we reached the House of the Vestal Virgins. Releasing my hand, the chief priestess walked forward and opened the door.

“Welcome, my child, to your new home,” she smiled down at me, waiting for me to go inside.

I took a deep breath and walked into the house, leaving behind everything comfortable, familiar, and loved in one single step.