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The Choice

On impulse, she leaned her forehead against the marble of a column.

By Patrizia PoliPublished 2 years ago 5 min read
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The Choice
Photo by Massimo Virgilio on Unsplash

“We will close soon, sister.”

The ticket girl stared at her from her niche, with her gloved hands. But the sunset was not cold, at least not for her who loved walking in the sweet and clean air. “Don’t worry, dear, just a quick ride.”

The last few visitors lingered to take photos along the Via Sacra. She walked effortlessly, with the standard half heel, on the convex slabs polished by time. In recent times, she had walked that road whenever she had had a few free hours.

Here are the tiring steps. And then immediately up, towards the temple of Vesta.

A little panting, she turned to look from that elevated position. Traffic noises were muffled by the pedestrian area. On the left the arch, the fluted, blackened columns, on the right the large collapsed stones, on which tourists still climbed to pose. In the background, the imposing mass of the Colosseum far away.

On impulse, she leaned her forehead against the marble of a column. She felt it warm, like memories absorbed in the porous veins.

Voices, a patter of hooves, a clash of wheels, of metals.

“Lycia?”

Lycia gasped, turning to meet the stern gaze of the superior. “What is it, Lycia?”

How to explain the gloom she held in her chest, the desire for another life. “How long have I been here, mother?”

“Almost ten years, your novitiate is at the end, you will soon be assigned to the cult, you know.”

Lycia bowed her head, sighing, then looked up again and let her gaze wander over the red roofs of Rome.

“What’s wrong?” the superior insisted, “Don’t you think about the privileges, the honor of serving the Goddess, who represents the life of the city itself? You are a vestal, Lycia, revered and venerated by all. Even the magistrates give way to you. “

“Yes, mother and, more than that, I confess that I love the idea of feeling part of a community. But…”

The superior approached, took her by the shoulders with both hands. “Doubt is not granted to you, Lycia. You know what happens to those who betray. You saw what they did to Drusilla. “

Lycia shivered, as if the air had suddenly frozen. Drusilla, her playmate, when they both entered the temple at the age of six. Drusilla with a sweet and shrill laugh, with a fast pace. Drusilla was dead, walled in alive inside a tomb. Because a vestal cannot be killed, she must die by herself. Every evening, Lycia found it hard to fall asleep, thinking of Drusilla, of her desperation, of how she must have scratched the stone until she scratched her hands, calling for help, asking for the grace of a little water.

Lycia started up, moved away from the superior’s grip. “I don’t want to think about it, I don’t want to remember anymore, it’s too painful.”

“So hold on tight, if you don’t want to end up like that.”

Lycia took a step back. She understood that the superior was so hard on her because she feared her upset.

“I only want your good, Lycia”, she confirmed, “think that you have roots, that you belong to this place. Look how beautiful it is. “

Yes, it was really beautiful. The light on the hills inflamed by the last rays. The imposing facades of the temples seemed to reflect it, they were gilded and blushed in the sweetness of that warm evening.

“Be happy, Lycia, be happy as much as you can, because you have no choice. Do you believe that I too did not suffer? Do you believe that I did not miss the arms of a man, the hand of a child in mine? But ours is a life of renunciation. And you get used to giving up, Lycia. After a while, you’ll see, it won’t burn anymore. “

Lycia nodded, feeling defeated and tired, tired as if, on her young shoulders, she had not years, but centuries.

She opened her eyes. She had seen and heard things she shouldn’t have seen or heard. She had felt the vibrations of the rock, the painful secrets enclosed in the casket of time. She took the crucifix around her neck in her hand and kissed it. “Jesus, I believe you are speaking to me through her.”

Sister Maria walked all the way back, up to the exit. She crossed the passage with her head bowed, her hands in her pockets, her step hasty. She got on the first bus that would take her back to the Vatican. All the way she thought of Lycia, the young vestal. She didn’t question for a moment that the girl really existed. The sensations were too vivid, the memories too clear. In an inexplicable way, something or someone had guided her over and over again to the ruined temple so that Lycia could get in touch with her.

And it was no coincidence, but a message that our Lord was sending her.

The doubts, which had never touched her when she had taken her vows many years ago, at the age of the young vestal, were now sprouting inside her. For days, for months, increasingly strong, pressing, painful. And she could no longer deny them, she who, unlike Lycia, had a choice.

Two women, she thought, united by the same destiny. A young pagan consecrated on the altar of renunciation, and a middle-aged nun, prey to habit and mechanical gestures, now experienced as meaningless and repetitive, devoid of authentic momentum.

As she got off the bus, she thought that she would meditate for a long time that evening in the lock of her cell. She would ask Jesus for humility and the strength to look within, to question herself as she had never done, to seek the authenticity of life and faith which she had always escaped by following pre-established paths, perhaps not even chosen by her. And if that meant leaving the comforting bosom of Mother Church, she would. She would reflect and pray until she was exhausted, until her knees were skinned on the wood, to understand if there was still a way out.

She would do that for Sister Maria. And for Lycia.

Fantasy
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About the Creator

Patrizia Poli

Patrizia Poli was born in Livorno in 1961. Writer of fiction and blogger, she published seven novels.

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