Kevin Ashman - Mortuus Virgo

‘What are we looking for?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘I just need to get a feel for the place, to see where that poor girl spent the last days of her life.’

‘How old are you Brandon?’ asked India, as she examined her side of the room.

‘Thirty, why?

‘Aren’t you a bit young to be wearing Brut?’

‘Sorry?’

‘My father used Brut; I thought you would be more of a Paco Rabhan sort of guy.’

‘What are you on about?’ he asked.

‘Your aftershave,’ she said, ‘I recognise the smell.’

He spun around and stared at her, blinding her with the beam of his torch.

‘Oy,’ she said, ‘Get your light out of my eyes.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Your light…’

‘No, about the aftershave!’

‘Oh for God’s sake, there’s no drama here, you’ve just used a bit too much that’s all.’

‘India,’ he said,’ I’m not wearing any.’

A noise outside made them both spin around, but before they could do anything else, the door slammed shut into its frame. Brandon lunged for the door in vain.

‘What’s happened?’ shouted India, ‘Who’s there?’

‘Someone’s closed the hasp,’ said Brandon, ‘They must have dropped something through the staple, probably the shaft of the broken padlock.’

India banged on the door.

‘Let us out,’ she shouted, ‘Hello, whoever you are, open this door right now.’

‘You’re wasting your time,’ said Brandon, ‘Calm down.’

‘What do you mean calm down? Some creep has locked us in.’

‘I know, and do you think that just by shouting at him is going to change his mind. Anyway, he’s probably long gone.’

‘No, problem,’ said India, ‘The station manager said he would send someone for us in an hour and we’ve been gone half of that already. All we have to do is wait for him and we will be okay, right?’

‘Right,’ said Brandon, ‘May as well make ourselves comfortable. He pulled up the two benches and they sat opposite each other across the table. ‘Turn off your torch. We need to conserve our batteries.’

‘Who do you think it was?’ asked India eventually.

‘No way of telling. Obviously someone who doesn’t want us snooping around.’

‘Do you think it was the killer?’

‘No, Like I said, we know who that was and he is dead.’

‘Hang on,’ said India and fished out her mobile phone. ‘Shit, no signal,’

‘What did you expect you’re about a hundred feet underground?’

‘Well it works on the tube.’

‘Signal amplifiers,’ he said simply and silence fell again.

‘While we are waiting,’ said Brandon eventually, ‘Fill me in on this Isis character.’

‘I am not sure I want to,’ she said

‘Why not?’

‘We’re in the dark, locked in an underground room where a girl was murdered. Not a good place to discuss a long dead Egyptian Goddess.’

‘Not afraid of some long dead spirits are you?’ he laughed.

‘I know, it’s stupid, it just feels a bit, I don’t know, spooky I suppose.’

‘Humour me,’ he said, ‘None of this makes any sense. We may as well make the most of the situation. Fill me in on everything. Go back to the very beginning. Leave nothing out.’

‘Okay she sighed, ‘Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’

His smile at her sarcasm was lost in the darkness.

‘It all began,’ she said about ten thousand years ago!’

Rome 64 AD

The giant doors swung inwards opened by a pair of female slaves of eastern descent. They were bare breasted and wore simple wraps of pure white linen around their waists that fell to halfway down their thighs. Rubria ignored the impropriety and walked gracefully into the Emperor’s audience chamber. She had decided that nothing she saw today would get a reaction from her. At the end of the day, he was her Emperor and who was she to judge his actions?

She looked around in wonder. The Temple of Vesta was very ornate but this was something else altogether. First of all the room was enormous and was entirely clad in sheets of white marble ingrained with sweeping veins of colour. The floors were slabs of black marble interspersed with mosaics of exquisite design ranging from gladiatorial contests to feasts of the gods. Ornamental fountains sprayed coloured water from hidden spouts to disappear once more under suitably displaced marble sinks. Other pools of water rippled lazily and she was astonished to see multi coloured fish swimming within, something she could not have even imagined. More slaves were located throughout the room and watched in interest as the Priestess walked towards the empty throne. As she approached an official walked forward and stood in front of her, stopping her in her tracks.

‘Wait here!’ he said and disappeared into an ante chamber.

She stood for an hour, absolutely still in the sumptuous room, accepting the aches in her legs as a blessing from the Virgin. The monotony was briefly broken for a few minutes as she stared in astonishment when a white stallion walked lazily into the room, bedecked with jewels and flowers. No-one seemed to take any notice and the horse eventually disappeared though a side door. Finally a figure draped in a purple silk toga strode into the room accompanied by half a dozen officials. He made his way to the throne and sat answering questions with an air of boredom. Rubria stood up straight and awaited instruction. Eventually the Emperor spotted the Priestess and held up his hand to silence his entourage.

‘Be-gone!’ he said eventually and his staff duly disappeared into the depths of the building. He lounged back on his throne, staring across the marble at the Priestess fifty paces away.

‘Who are you, spirit lady?’ he called out.

‘I am Rubria, lord,’ she answered, ‘Humble Priestess of the Temple of Vesta.’

She lowered herself gracefully down spreading her gown out as she went and leaned forward, her head low and her arms outstretched with palms flat on the floor.

He left his throne to walk slowly towards her.

‘A Vestal Virgin,’ he said eventually, ‘How wonderful. Tell me something Virgin,’ he said, ‘Have you seen my horse?’

‘I believe he walked through this glorious hall not ten minutes since, Sire. ’

‘Ah, good,’ he said, ‘It’s almost time for his bath.’

Rubria didn’t flinch at the strange conversation, remaining prostrate at his feet.

‘You may arise,’ he said eventually.

Rubria stood but kept her gaze lowered.

‘Do you know me, Virgin?’ he asked.

‘Sire, you are Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, our glorious Emperor.’

‘Correct!’ he shouted, making her jump, ‘Look at me.’

Nero’s intake of breath was audible as the sight of her eyes caught him by surprise. He took a step forward staring into her gaze, astonished at the colour and the depth. Rubria breathed shallowly in order not to take in too much of his wine laden breath.

‘Are you a demon?’ he asked.

‘No Sire, I am a humble servant of the Goddess, keeper of the hearth and protector of the secrets.’

‘I have to admit,’ he said, ‘You are by far the prettiest of them. How old are you?’

‘Eighteen Sire.’

‘More wine!’ he shouted suddenly,’ making her jump again and a slave ran forward with a silver tankard. He took a deep draught and held it to be refilled from the waiting amphora.

‘Wine, Virgin?’ he asked.

‘No thank you, Sire, I am fine.’

‘Nonsense,’ he said, ‘Come with me.’ He turned and made his way back to throne followed by Rubria and dropped onto the soft cushions.

‘Bring the Priestess a glass.’ he ordered and within a minute a beautiful goblet filled with a scarlet liquid was brought by the same slave. An ornately carved chair, albeit far smaller than the overpowering throne, was carried out for Rubria to sit on. She sipped from the delicate glass, waiting for Nero to speak. Duly he obliged.