Goddess
Chapter 1: The Sputtering Flame

It’s hard to feel puredevotion when you’re five feet tall.

I stand beside thealtar, stretching my arm up as high as I can, but I’ll never make it. Lucia’scandle is still a good six inches above my own, and my flame won’t magicallyleap from one candle to another, no matter how hard I pray. I try to standhigher on my tiptoes, but I wobble. Hot wax cascades over my hand, and I losemy balance.

“Idiot,” huffs Marta,as my foot lands squarely on her. She’s crouched below me with the incense inthe traditional pose, but she immediately breaks the tableau in disgust.

“Olivia,” Lavinia saysto me, “we have now proven that it is impossible for you to pass the flame inthis ritual. So I hope you’ll finally stop begging me to let you try. Marta,please take Olivia’s place beside the altar, and we’ll resume.”

“Yes, Vestalis Maxima," I say. I kneel below Marta, disappointed. Prayer is impossible from down here,with the smoke from the incense stinging my eyes, and I know from experiencethat I’ll reek of perfume for the rest of the day.

“Try not to catchyourself on fire this time,” Marta says to me in an undervoice as she assumesmy place at the altar. I glare at her in return, but she and Lucia have alreadyresumed their ritual. I begin burning the incense, suppressing the occasionalcough brought on by the smoke. The heavy scent makes me sleepy. To keep awake,I shift my position so I can stare directly at the holy flame of Vesta, burningin its exalted pedestal in the center of the main dais behind us.

“Oh holy flame,” Martadrones in the bored, almost sarcastic voice she reserves for prayer, “youreverlasting nature fills us with awe. You burn eternally without fuel, unaidedby our powerless hands. Your clean, bright light is purest fire, without a hintof smoke…”

Despite Marta’suninspired delivery, my heart swells with love for my goddess as I listen to herprayer. As happens so often, I am mesmerized by the flame. It’s so blue in thecenter, so perfect, so lovely.

As I gaze at the flame,I begin to think something seems different today. Is the flame getting smaller? I wonder, watching it closely. No, it must be a trick of the light...

In a heartbeat I knowthat something is wrong. With a hiss and a pop, the flame gutters out, almostdisappearing, and I stifle a gasp of horror.

The next moment thefire lights up again, burning as brightly as ever.

I look wildly around tosee if anyone else noticed that our eternal fire was momentarily extinguished. Theothers are absorbed in the ritual. I justimagined it, I think, panic forcing me to deny what I saw. But a white wispof smoke rising above the shimmering flame is proof.

“Olivia. Olivia.”Lavinia’s voice calls me to the present.

“Here, let me get herattention,” Marta offers, giving me a swift kick.

“Ow!” I yelp.

“Turnabout is fairplay,” she says with a wicked smile.

“Girls,” Lavinia says,“that’s enough. We’ll try it again tomorrow. Take the things back to thestoreroom and begin your afternoon duties. Lucia will assist those preparingfor tomorrow’s ritual, and Marta and Olivia will meet supplicants in the Templeof Vesta.”

“Thank you, VestalisMaxima,” I say, staring into the flame once again. It flickers at meinnocently. I must have imagined thesmoke, I tell myself. It’s impossible for the fire in the temple to go out.It has burned for over a thousand years without fuel.

“What are you staringat?” Marta elbows me. “Come help me get ready for the crowd.”

As Lucia beginsclearing away the candles and censer, Marta and I prepare to open the heavy templedoors and let the first of today’s visitors in. The activity helps me shake offthe last of my gravity.

“I bet they rue the daythey matched a squat dwarf, a flat-chested stick insect, and a freakishly tallbeauty as their next crop of Virgins,” Marta says.

I laugh. It is not thefirst time she has referred to me as fat or short, although the fat part is anexaggeration. Lucia is tall, probably over six feet, and she’s full figured andstatuesque. Marta is of average height and is quite thin. And I am mostaccurately described as short and curvy. She’s right though—as a trio, we lookawful.

“How desperate do youthink this lot will be today?” she asks me.

“As always, I’m lookingforward to helping our faithful with whatever challenges they face.” She’sheard this lecture from me many times, but I give it another try. “I want toserve Vesta in the best way I can, every day. What better way to serve her thanto help people with their homes, their hearths, their domestic problems?”

“In my experience, peoplewho need a sixteen year old girl to solve their problems for them are prettymuch hopeless,” Marta says.

“Put your training intopractice,” I urge. “We know the theology. We’ve cultivated favor with ourgoddess. We can help them build happier home lives.”

“Right, because we’reso happy living as Vestals,” Marta says. “Our lives are perfect. We’re theexperts.”

“You need to becareful,” I tell her. “The elder Vestals will report you to Lavinia if you keepslacking off. You’ll get another disciplinary hearing, and this time they won’tgo so easy on you.”

“We’re just trainees,”she says. “We’re supposed to be bad at our jobs.”

I used to fear forMarta. Her attention wanders in prayer, she doesn’t feel any compassion for oursupplicants, and I have never heard her utter a single sincere devotional toour goddess. But I’ve seen a deeper sign of faith. For years, Marta spent agood portion of her free time in needlework. As her roommate, I watched her sewfor hours, and mostly she worked on a single garment: a beautiful blue shawl,hand embroidered with narcissus flowers, the kind with the white six-petalskirts and yellow centers. She worked on the shawl until I believed it wasnearly finished. And one day, during our ceremonial offerings to the hearth, Ilooked up from prayer and there it was on the altar. She had given it to Vesta,to be consumed by sacred flame.

In that single act,Marta gave more to Vesta than I had given in my entire life. I turned to lookat her and caught Lucia’s gaze instead, her eyes brimming with tears, lookingdevastated. No doubt she wanted to snatch it from the fire—it was such abeautiful shawl. Anyway, now I worry less about Marta’s favor with the gods andmore about her favor with the Vestalis Maxima.

In the temple, we takeour places at the side of the sacred hearth. “Don’t disturb anyone who’s inprayer,” I remind Marta as she leaves me. She tends to “accidentally” stomp onthose unfortunate worshippers in the most direct route to her post.

It’s busy today.Because we’re located in the capital, Polonia, we run the largest Vestal templein our country, and we always have crowds. Vesta is the most popular goddess inthe entire country of Parcae, and her temple is viewed as the hearth of thenation. It attracts hundreds of the faithful every day. Most people just cometo pray and leave offerings, but a few Vestal Virgins are always available forconsultations.

When my firstsupplicant approaches me, I take her to a small office located off the main templeso we can discuss her issues in privacy.

“What can I help youwith today?” I ask.

“I’m having troubletoilet training my son,” she says.

“Oh!” I say withsatisfaction, “That’s a common enough issue.” I give her a number of practicaltips that I have committed to memory from our child-rearing classes, but shefidgets through my instructions. As I describe how to bribe the child withsweets as a reward, she breaks through my recital.

“Sorry, but I’ve triedall those things already,” she says. “Can you suggest anything else?”

I spend a few momentswondering what else I can offer her, racking my brain about what my mother usedto do with my younger brothers. But I’ve got nothing. “Um,” I say finally,“Would you like to pray with me?”

“No thanks,” she says,hastily rising from her seat.

I walk her back to the temple,hoping the rest of my afternoon will be filled with easier cases. Fortunately,my next client is a housewife whose chimney smokes excessively, so we say theproper devotionals and I refer her to a sweep I know in town with a goodreputation. Then I get a would-be mother who is having trouble conceiving,which is an easy one: she’s in the wrong place. I pack her off toward theTemple of Venus. Sometimes people get lazy and don’t want to walk across town,but I’d prefer she see a real expert, and, you know, actually pray to the rightgoddess.

During a lull, I check in with Marta.“Everything okay so far?” I ask.

“Fine,” she says in a bored voice. “I got awoman who doesn’t get along with one of her household servants. I told her tofire him. What is it with the people who come here? I almost sent her toMinerva—that’s her last hope—to replace a speck of intelligence.”

“Bet the Minerva people would love that,” I say.“Perhaps they’d even invite you over for a visit! Hey, you know what, too badthere’s not a goddess of competence you could swing by to consult.”

“There is. You’re talking to her,” says Marta.

As I ponder a retort, I see my next customer andmy heart sinks. I already know what her problem is, but even if I didn’t, it’s writtenacross her face in the form of a black eye.

We walk to the little office farthest from themain room, and I look over her face. “I know a doctor down the street who mightbe able to provide a salve for that,” I say.

“Thank you,” she says, although she doesn’t askfor the address. We do the only other thing she knows I can offer, which isrepeat the prayers and study the Vestal devotionals that pertain to domesticharmony. Then I hold her hand while she cries. This is the way her visitsusually go.

“Can’t you get a divorce?” I asked her the firsttime she came in.

“Can you lend me five thousand sesterces?” sheresponded bitterly. I still cringe whenever I remember asking her thatquestion. It was so thoughtless. But Virgins don’t have to think much aboutmoney.

“It’sterrible,” I tell Marta when I return to her side. “It just keeps happening.What are we supposed to do for these women? When I ask the elder Vestals, theynever have an answer.”

She sighs. “I don’t know, Olivia. Let them cry.That’s all we can do.”

“Much more of this, and I’ll need my ownsession,” I say.

“Well, don’t expect to cry on me,” she warns. “Youget snot everywhere when you cry.”

Finally, the sun tells us it’s late afternoon,and thank the goddess, this shift in the temple is over. Blinking, we step intothe dazzling light. In the distance, we can see the sea glimmer, dotted withthe distinctive curved silhouettes of Selanthi trading ships. Suddenly, ahandsome form comes into focus.

“Cassius,” I say. “Hello.” And I attempt to moveon.

“Olivia!” he says expansively. “And how are wethis fine afternoon? Did you have a nice session? Are you girls making mola salsa next?”

I blink at him some more. Like Lucia, Cassius isthe kind of handsome that throws you off beat. Tan and strong, with wavy bronzehair and brilliant white teeth, he reminds me of a tiny Apollo. Emphasis on tiny. He’s built from a small mold, andthough taller than me, can’t even match Marta’s height.

“Probably,” I say. “Yes. Yes, I think we are goingto do the salsa later tonight.”

“Brilliant deduction,” says Marta, “as the nextfestival is in less than a week. Or have you been reading Olivia’s secret diaryabout our thrilling wheat-toasting adventures?”

Cassius laughs, as if Marta’s comment is thewittiest thing he’s heard in months.

“Come on,” I say to her. I don’t want to pursuethis. Cassius is one of the boys from the local academies, and he’s alwaysambushing us and making weird, pointless conversation about the obvious. Iwould say he’s trying to flirt, except that’s dangerous, and no decent manwould risk the consequences. In any case, I really don’t see the point ofprolonging this chat.

“You lovely ladies have an excellent day!” hebeams.

“Eff you,” says Marta. Good! She’s making aneffort to censor her language down to at least quasi-Virginal levels.

Before we reach our room, I separate from Marta.I have another task to perform today, and it’s one I’m looking forward to. Itrot through the grove back to the House of Vestals, where the Vestalis Maximawill be waiting for me.

“Thank you, Olivia,” says Lavinia when I bustlethrough her office door, and she holds out a packet of letters for me withoutlooking up. “Take these over to Sextus Tacitus at the Regia, please. Thesearen’t urgent. You can leave them with his assistant.”

“Of course!” I say. “On my way.”

When I deliver Lavinia’s letters to SextusTacitus, there’s an underground passage I like to use. It connects the House ofVestals to another building, the Regia, which houses the group of thirteen veryimportant priests known collectively as the College of Pontiffs. The passage iscool and quiet, and I enjoy using it, although my heart generally startspounding about halfway through.

As I emerge from the staircase onto the Regia’sground floor, he’s there waiting for me, sprawled in his chair outside Sextus’soffice, running a hand through his dark hair.

“Hello, Gaius,” I say breathlessly. I hold thepacket out. “Letter delivery as usual.” Believe it or not, I have rehearsedthis line for the last ten minutes in my head.

He looks at me, unimpressed, and takes thebundle. “Letters! Miss Olivia, you shouldn’t have, what a treat,” he says,rifling through them and opening a particularly important-looking missive toscan it.

“Of course!” I say with a breathy giggle. “Noproblem. How are your studies going?”

“Fine,” he says, folding the letter and openinganother. “But they would be better if Sextus wasn’t so busy right now. Hereally needs a second assistant,” he adds, more to himself than to me.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” I say, casting about foran intelligent response as he starts to read. “Maybe you need a break. Youshould get outside. The weather’s beautiful today.”

He looks up from his letter, eyebrows raised. Hedoesn’t respond.

Are we really going to talk about the weather? I thinkto myself, suddenly feeling trivial and intrusive. He’s obviously busy. I decide to cut my losses and run.

“Um, have a good evening!” I say quickly, andturn to continue down the hall.

“I’ll be sure to do that,” he responds in abored tone, again preoccupied with reading.

As I continue down the hallway to make my otherdeliveries, I see Marta. She’s been watching me. I think she has hersuspicions.

“You said hello to Mr. Charisma?” she asks me,with a half-smile.

“I like him!” I say, following her down thehall. “He’s not the friendliest person but he’s got a certain charm. You justdon’t know him yet.”

“As rich as he is, I don’t imagine he’ll needmuch charm in life,” she says. “None of those rich boys will ever be realsoldiers. They’ll get the cushy high-ranking jobs and be pontiffs or flamenssomeday, brains and talent not required.”

“I don’t think that’s true. You have to be smartto be a Mars student.” I say. “The ones assigned to the pontiffs have importantduties, and they’re excellent at their jobs. They have to be, to stay in goodstanding at the Academy.”

“Oh yes, they have such valuable skills. I sawone of them taking dictation yesterday, and he knew how to spell every word. Itwas awe-inspiring,” she smirks. “I only caught him drooling once.”

Marta’s disdain for Gaius and his colleagues istypical of her general disdain for everyone, so it can’t sway my opinion ofhim, which is unfortunate. It would be better for me if she could talk me outof my crush entirely. Although he’s not particularly pleasant or conversable,Gaius has an air of capability that I wish I could emulate in my own Vestalduties, and which I replace deeply attractive. And on top of that, he is not badlooking—when you can manage to coax a smile out of him, he is even cute. I am a Gaius addict, I think. But everyone has a guilty pleasure.

***

We do indeed work on the mola salsa that evening, as Cassius predicted. It’s an importantpowder, made of spelt flour and salt, that is used in many of our religiousrituals and all of our public sacrifices. The powder is sometimes also formedinto cakes. Making it is simple enough. Right now, we’re giving the grain,which has been brined and stored for months, one last toasting before we grindit into flour tomorrow. Tonight I’m supervising two of the youngerVestals-in-training, Aelia and Alypia, two girls both twelve years old.

Being with the younger girls is an unnervingexperience, because they won’t refrain from a forbidden behavior: talking aboutboys. At first, I scolded them sternly for their inappropriate behavior anddescribed the serious consequences if an elder Vestal heard them. But I’venever been very good at keeping children in line. They know there’s absolutelyno way I would tell on them, so they do it nonetheless, and I’ve finally givenin. At twelve, they’re more curious than romantically interested, and I tellmyself there’s not much harm. To tell the truth, I was the same way at theirage.

Tonight, Alypia is trying to rank all the Academyboys we know in order of attractiveness.

“I think Cassius is the cutest,” she confides tous, and Aelia agrees to it. I frown at them repressively, but it does no good.

“And after him, the next cutest one isTiberius,” she asserts.

“No way,” says Aelia. “His muscles are too big.He’s all muscly.”

“But women are supposed to like guys like that,” says Alypia. “And let’s see…Next there’sPetrus, Alanus, Mettius, and then Gaius.”

“Why is Gaius last?” I ask, too curious to keepmy disapproving act up.

“Because he’s mean,” Alypia says. “He never sayshi to me.”

“He might seem mean, but I don’t think that’sreally true,” I say, calling up my favorite memory of Gaius. He had been Sextus’sassistant for a few weeks before I began to really notice him, but at first, Iwasn’t impressed. He was so standoffish. Most times, when I delivered hisletters, he barely even looked up at me. One afternoon, I had finished myrounds at the Regia and walked to the Senate to deliver a package to one of theclerks. I heard a voice calling me as I reached the top of the Senate steps. AsI turned, I saw Gaius running up the stairs.

“You left this note mixed in with Sextus’sletters,” he said, holding a small piece of paper out to me. “But it’saddressed to the Flamen Dialis.” He was breathing a little heavily, whichsurprised me, as the Academy students do a tremendous amount of physicalconditioning.

“Thank you. You’re all out of breath,” I said,taking it from him. “Have you been running around looking for me for the lasthalf hour?

“I couldn’t replace you in the temple or theRegia,” he said, avoiding a direct answer. “So I thought I would try theSenate.”

“Oh, that’s so nice!” I said. “You could havejust taken it back to the Vestalis Maxima.”

“But wouldn’t that get you in trouble?” heasked.

“Well, yeah,” I said, “but that’s not your prob—”

I stopped myself. “I’ve been living with Martatoo long,” I said to him. “I forgot that people can be kind and considerate.Thank you.”

“No problem,” he said, flushing. I thought heseemed a little embarrassed, but maybe he was just heated from his run. Then henodded to me and started down the steps without another word. He never wants towaste time on pleasantries, it seems. But I was totally won over by hiskindness.

I would never share this memory with the girls,however. I can’t set a bad example. Romance is off-limits. And I’m lucky I holdmy tongue, because Lavinia walks into our kitchen the next moment.

“I’m here to observe, Olivia,” she tells me. “Iwant to see how the younger girls are getting on.”

“You’re very welcome,” I say to her, smiling.“Girls, let’s get started on the wheat.”

As we carefully spread the wheat onto the oventrays, making sure to chant the proper prayers over each one, my two youngcompanions gradually turn rather pale and complain of dizziness.

“I’m not surprised to hear it, as half thepontiff guards are down with flu,” says Lavinia. “I’ll help you girls to theinfirmary, and we’ll get you checked out. Olivia, you can finish this up alone,right?” she says, and then pauses to consider whether that statement isactually true.

“Yes,” I say. “I can finish it up.”

There’s nothing left to do but wait for thewheat to finish toasting. The wheat is baked in a small kitchen below thesacred fire itself, so divine heat from the everlasting flame will imbue itwith special qualities, although we also load up the oven with a big wood firesince the flame is too small to really cook anything. I clean out the kitchen,organize the storeroom, and try to make myself useful, checking on the wheatonce every half hour. Soon I’ve exhausted my cleaning options. Bored, I wanderup to the temple and decide to use this time for special worship.

In the quieter moments, when I get a chance toreflect, the hearth of Vesta fills me with awe. We teach it as a reminder ofthe importance of home and family, a woman’s highest calling. It has burned forover a thousand years without any human aid or intervention. Except for today, a tiny voice inside mesays. I immediately silence the thought and focus on more prayer.

As I worship, I reflect on my day. I begin towish I hadn’t risen to Marta’s bait this afternoon, even if it was only injest. It wasn’t faithful to Vesta’s calling for me. I also ask Vesta to removethe weakness for Gaius from my heart, because it isn’t quite Virginal, but evenas I think the words I know it’s a false prayer. I don’t want to lose my crush.It’s the most exciting part of my day, and there’s no way I would ever letthings go further than a simple conversation. So I offer a prayer of penanceinstead and then fall into a reverie of worship for my goddess, until theentrance of a pontiff alerts me that the temple is closing for the night.

Renewed in spirit, I step out into the coolnight air and close the doors behind me. The moon has risen, and it’s sobeautiful, I forget to watch where I’m stepping. The city is quiet, and Ilisten to the wind rustling the trees. As I step through the grove, I smell thesmoke from a small fire burning in the distance and think how peaceful thenight is. Suddenly I freeze. The fire. The oven. I forgot the mola salsa!

Gods. In a blind panic, I stumble back towardthe temple. It’s too late. They will have locked it for the sacred rites, whichare performed by the Pontifex Maximus or one of his crowd, and it is death fora woman to witness them. Death! I would rather be dead than be responsible forburning up that wheat. The three eldest sisters harvested it by hand last year. It was brined in saltcarried from the purest ocean waters. The ships had to sail miles for it. We’veprayed over it for hours.

I barrel through the grove and bolt straight fora side door of the temple I’ve used once or twice. I slam into none other thanGaius, standing watch outside it—he must be filling an empty space on theschedule caused by all the flu victims—and grab him by the front of his tunic.He looks at me in shock.

“The salsa!It can’t burn! It’s still in the oven!” I scream-whisper, and shove him to theside. I wrench the door open. He doesn’t even try to stop me, or maybe I’m justtoo fast.

As I fly down the side stairs and through a fewunused offices I can smell wheat that may or may not be dangerouslyover-toasty. I slam through the kitchen door, throw open the oven, and jumpaside for the super-hot blast of air. With protective gloves I ease the bakingsheets onto the main table, one by one. They look good. They look fine. Theyare a little brown, that’s all. I feel my body sag with relief.

“Olivia,”someone whispers from the end of the hallway. “Olivia!”

It’s Gaius. As quietly as possible, I creep tothe doorway and peer out. He beckons to me, and we slink around the corner,lurking in the shadows. I hear sounds and voices, and begin to seriously fearthe consequences of being found.

To leave the temple we have to pass perilouslyclose to an open door with a sightline directly into the main room. I don’tknow how I managed to do this the first time without detection, unless my bodyreached super-human speed. We’re almost through the passage when I throw out myarm, stopping Gaius in his tracks.

Through the open door I see Sextus Tacitus. Witha jar of oil. With a large jar of lamp oil, pouring it into a basin under thesacred everlasting flame.