44. VirginWhore

Virgin or Whore

Rose

Tristan sends a litter to carry my things. I don’t have many, and it’s almost embarrassing to see the half empty cart moving towards his domus. When we’re practically there, a commotion near the forum stops us. The crowds are shouting something and I strain to hear it.

“What is it?” I ask one of the servants.

He shakes his head, craning his neck to see. I follow his line of sight until I see it, too.

It’s a large iron box, big enough for a woman, a couch, and some food. My stomach flips, and I hear them then, the virgins weeping.

“The vow-breaker,” the servant says, although I’ve already guessed. The women following the box are in white stolas and headdresses, their cheeks streaked in tears as they follow the disgraced priestess. The box itself is silent and I wonder if she’s already run out of air and food. The Vestals are given more than any of us, sacred in and of themselves, but it means they have the most to lose.

By breaking their vow of chastity, willingly or not, they forfeit everything. Not just their status, their relationship with Vesta, or their ability to be free from men’s claims on their bodies or their time. No, they lose their lives, too.

“Where do they bury it?” I ask. I can’t bear to think of the her inside, shrouded in darkness when she’s spent her entire life tending and worshiping the flame. Every day she’s seen the red and gold of the hearth and in the end they plunge her into absolute dark.

“Edge of the city,” he says. “Can’t spill the blood here, and if she were to cut herself in there, it would curse us all.” I doubt he’s worried about the city. Just himself.

I swallow and tell them to find a way around, so that I don’t have to see.

It’s always better if you don’t have to see.

I haven’t forgotten the priestess, but when my litter arrives at the domus I feel safer, less exposed. As if the Vestal would curse me for even seeing her torture, for seeing and doing nothing. What I see now is the opposite. The domus is all extravagant rooms, beautiful art, and a plethora of flowers. Instead of weeping, it’s silent in its majesty. Almost nothing could make it seem more magical except, perhaps, Tristan. He’s a golden god, welcoming me on the steps.

It’s a whirlwind of being shown my rooms, the grounds, and then hours later I sit on Tristan’s right.

“I’m happy you’re here.” He leans over to kiss my hand. While I hated leaving Daisy, I know that the sooner I fit in here, the sooner I can bring her. Tristan’s right; I don’t understand his familia. I don’t understand the patricians at all. As a plebeian I’ve worried over food, money, and marriage. With two of those removed, I can’t fathom what occupies his class.

Once I study them and understand, I can figure out how to carve a space for my sister, or hope Augustus finds her a suitor to whom Tristan won’t take offense.

“I can’t believe it.” I smile. My freedom is weighted. Each breath away from my pater takes me further from Daisy, and I hate that they're linked. But for tonight, I decide to enjoy it. To bask in Tristan’s golden glow.

“You look beautiful,” Tristan says, eyeing the hair piled on top of my head, the golden ringlets stacked so high I have the urge to duck when stepping beneath archways.

My smile widens. “I’m glad you like it.” I wish he preferred a less time intensive style, but it’s worth it for the way he looks at me now.

Tristan shifts in his chair. Sips his wine. “I will have to send a seamstress tomorrow, though.” I look down at my tunic.

“A seamstress?”

“You’ll need more tunics, and gowns and stolas for once we’re married.” It strikes me then, how much everything is about to change. My domus, my name, my pater, and even my clothes. It’s all going to be different.

The nervous energy coils in my gut, so I just smile.

Tristan stands, coming in front of me. “I love you, Rosebud. I love you so much it makes my chest ache. All I think about is you.” He reaches out to cradle my face in his hands, and for some reason I think back to the garden, to the way he gripped my arms so painfully, the shattering glasses. A flash of fear, like Jupiter’s lightening, strikes through me, gone as quickly as it came.

He plants a tender kiss on my forehead, so warm and sweet that I feel myself lean forward, despite my wariness. “I love you, too, Tristan,” I say, and I mean it. Tristan is complicated, but that’s how love is.

“I’m sorry,” Tristan murmurs against my skin. I think he means for his jealousy over Augustus, but I can’t be sure.

“It’s okay. We’re learning,” I remind him.

“Yes,” he says, his hands coming to my waist. He lifts me onto the table, shoving back my plate. “I’ll learn to control my temper.”

He kisses my neck, and I can’t help the small whimper that breaks free. “And I’ll learn what I need to do, what it means to be a part of your familia,” I gasp beneath him.

“And you’ll need to learn how to thank me,” he says, voice gruff as he breathes into my neck. His hands are roaming across my back, my hips. Desire fights with uncertainty, I know this isn’t ladylike. I know we should wait.

“The servants,” I say, helpless against his passion. He kisses me hard, teeth crashing into mine. He wants me so badly he can hardly control himself. Perhaps I shouldn’t have worn my hair this way, my tunic so loose.

“They know better than to come in,” he says, dropping to kiss above my breasts. “Say you’re mine.”

“Tristan, we should stop.” I’m not sure if I want to. I’m on fire, my skin burning and smoldering beneath his touch, his lips.

“Say it,” he groans, hands wrapping around my ankles as he presses himself between my legs, our clothing the only thing separating us from breaking propriety.

“I’m yours,” I whisper. “But, Tristan. We can’t.” White dresses. White sheets. If I don’t bleed on our wedding night, there will be questions.

“I won’t ruin you for the wedding, but I need to show you how to thank me,” he says, pausing.

“What do you mean?” I’m panting, confusion and want and uncertainty making my heart gallop in my chest.

He takes my hand and puts it between us, so it’s resting on his hardness. I try to remove my hand, but he grips my wrist tighter. “I could have anyone, but I love you.” He kisses my forehead again. “I want you . So, give me what I want. Thank me. And Daisy can move in the day after the wedding.”

A strange sort of numbness moves through me. I expected this on our wedding night. I thought I’d have more time to be ready, to understand.

I’ve heard whispers of the transactional nature of intimacy, of course. Women gathering water telling each other how they shared the bed a few extra nights for this or for that.

I didn’t know love worked that way, too.

Tristan slides me off the table, and I obey, standing before him, chest heaving. His hands come up my waist, resting on top of my shoulders. Then he pushes me down onto my knees, leaving my tunic in place. He brushes a curl off my cheek and says, “So beautiful, Rosebud.” His thumb rests on my lips, tugging tenderly at the bottom one. “Let me show you how to say thank you. Let me show you how to be my wife.”

Tristan keeps his word, and I know I’ll still bleed on our marriage sheets. Afterwards he kisses me everywhere but my mouth.

My swollen lips feel numb, tingling after so much friction. He says he loves me, wants me, that I’m perfect. There is an odd sense of pride that I undid him. That he wants me .

I just wish it hadn’t been for something. I wish it hadn’t felt like a trade.

I wish my pride wasn’t warring with shame.

There is much to learn about marriage, I suppose. Will Daisy have to learn all of this, too? Will her marriage be different?

I’d assumed her dichotomy had been a metaphor for those who marry and those who don’t, but now I wonder if she meant exactly what she said.

You can be a virgin or a whore.