One Nation, Under Jupiter

FEBRUARY 13, 2766

The feast of Parentalia is always an unusual sight for the New Antioch National Cemetery. For most of the year, the cemetery's a barren place, reserved only for the best of the dead, and whatever family stops by to mourn them. The National Cemetery marks the permanent home for past Emperors, Senators, priests, war heroes.

I don't consider it bragging to say that the Cinna family is among the buried at New Antioch. My grandfather was done in by a sniper back in Nanking. No doubt my father was somewhere among the crowds, stirring himself in a foul mood among the dead. This is why I'm staying by the neglected grave of a forgotten Emperor by the name of Romulus Lindum instead of my grandfather's.

On the beginning of Parentalia, the cemetery is the liveliest spot in the city. Throngs of families crowd the area, carrying offerings for their departed ancestors. I've brought a loaf of bread and bottle of Falernian myself. After a while one of the Vestals will appear in the center, officially beginning the feast. The Emperor himself might be there too.

"Who are you hoping to interview here, sir?" asked Servius, his eyes constantly wandering around the scene. So many people had crowded the cemetery that it was near impossible to see them as individuals anymore. They were just an indeterminate blend of life.

"No interview today. Hold this." I handed Servius the loaf of bread. "Just observation. There are things you can learn just watching the way people act on holidays that no interview will ever give you."

"What's wrong with Parentalia? I thought you cared about family."

"You know I care about family," I put my hand over my eyes to block out the sunlight as I peered at the crowd. "But I don't think your family turns into little gods after they die. You really think ever since Grandpa Buculus was shot, he's been living next to that horrible statue of ours and watching all the times we jacked off back in our school days? How horrible do you have to be to get an afterlife like that?"

"T...that's not what Parentalia's about, sir," the slave stammered. It's for honoring the dead."

"Honoring the dead's great, I'm all for that. The middle part of Parentalia where people just do their little sacrifices in private? No complaints. It's the beginning and end that I'm not a fan of." A vendor walked past us, hawking potential offerings to the ancestors.

"I'm going to let you in on a little secret, Servius. All this spectacle isn't going to please a single person in this cemetery. They're dead, they don't care. Parentalia's not about honoring your family, it's about twisting the concept to go hand in hand with religion so nobody questions it. 'Oh, you don't think the gods are real? I never knew you hated your family!' Bullshit. Absolute bullshit. Help yourself to the bread if you want."

"Didn't you bring this bread for a sacrifice?" asked Servius, looking down at the food.

"No, I brought it to blend in. You want something to eat, go right ahead." I turned my full attention to the crowd.

Soon a woman emerged onto the stage, and every last one of us fell silent. Her face was half-concealed by a heavy cowl, but underneath there was clearly a youth of intense beauty. She was one of the Vestal Virgins, the priestesses of Vesta who care for the flame said to keep the Roman Empire alive. We revere these women in a way otherwise reserved for the Emperor and the gods themselves. They have the populace's unwavering trust. If a Vestal said two plus two made five, we'd get to work revising the math books instead of accuse a Vestal of lying. If you so much as slap a Vestal in the face, you get moved straight to the front of death row. Unless she decides to pardon you, in which case you're free, no questions asked. The Vestal Virgins enjoy privileges available to few other Romans, all at the cost of being forbidden from ever experiencing the touch of a man.