“Now nobody has any hesitation about feeling that you are all a Vestal should be, a priestess whose prayers are certain to be heard and answered.”
Brinnaria made a wry face.
“My prayers were not heard yesterday,” she sighed. “Almo was not killed. I was praying hard to have him dead and have it all over with and done with forever.”
Lutorius turned on her a slow, benignant, indulgent smile.
“Daughter,” he said, “you must remember that you are not the only Vestal. Four Vestals were praying that Almo be saved, each praying not only with her lips but with every fibre of her being. And your heart and soul were praying silently with them and against the fierce prayers of your lips.”
“It is not so,” she denied. “Every fibre of me was praying as my lips prayed. My prayers were genuine.”
“I am sure you thought so,” Lutorius agreed. “It was natural for you to feel that way. You were very angry. But your anger will wear off.”
“My anger may,” Brinnaria admitted, “but never my resentment and my disgust.”
“Only time can prove whether your forecast is correct,” the Pontiff soothed her, “but are you justified even in being resentful? Ought you not rather to be thankful that chance or fate or the direct intervention of the gods working through Almo gave you the precious opportunity to free yourself from the shadow of an imputation that lay upon you from your entrance into the order? Rome vaguely suspected you of too warm an interest in Almo. Much of Rome had seen and all Rome had heard of your theatrical rescue of a gladiator totally unknown to you. All Rome knew your impulsive nature. All Rome has now seen you perfectly controlled and outwardly calm with Almo on the verge of death before your eyes. Everybody has watched you ignore him and show less interest in his fate than you once manifested towards a casual savage. Your outward observance of the conventions under such trying circumstances has abolished any qualms the people felt because of your many past unconventionalities. This puts you in a very strong position toward any possible accusation or trial. You know how earnestly you have talked to me of your dread of such contingencies. Ought you not, after thinking it over, to forget your anger against Almo and to feel positively grateful for the opportunity so to exalt ourself?”
“Perhaps I ought,” Brinnaria mused. “The value to me of the results I had not thought of, but admit it now that you expound it. But I am not grateful. I suffered too much. I am still smarting with indignation.