The Choice

“We will close soon, sister.”

The ticket girl stared at her from her alcove, her hands were gloved. 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 visitors lingered to take pictures along the Via Sacra. She walked effortlessly, with the standard half-heel, on the convex slabs polished by time. Lately, she walked that road whenever she had a few hours free.

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 porous veins.

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

“Licia?”

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

How to explain the shadow she was holding 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 attached to the cult, you know.”

Licia bowed her head, sighing, then looked up at her again and let her eyes wander over the red roofs of Rome.

“What’s wrong?” the superior urged her “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, Licia, 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, Licia. You know what happens to those who betray. You saw what they did to Drusilla. “

Licia 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 up alive inside a tomb. Because a vestal cannot be killed, she must die alone. Every evening, Licia found it hard to fall asleep, thinking of Drusilla, of her despair, of how she must have scratched the stone until she skinned her hands, calling for help, asking for the grace of a little water.

Licia shook herself, 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.”

Licia started, took a step back. She understood that the superior was so hard on her because she feared her confusion.

“I only want your good, Licia”, 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 reflected on the hills inflamed by the last rays of the setting sun. The imposing facades of the temples seemed to mirror it, they were gilded and blushed in the sweetness of that warm evening.

“Be happy, Licia, 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 the renunciation, Licia. After a while, you’ll see, it won’t hurt anymore. “

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

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

Sister Maria walked all the way back 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 Licia, the young vestal. She didn’t question for a moment that the girl really existed. Her feelings had been too vivid, her memories too clear. In an inexplicable way, something or someone had guided her over and over again to the ruined temple, so that Licia could get in touch with her.

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

Her 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, more and more strong, pressing, painful. And she could no longer deny them, she who, unlike Licia, had still 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 of habit and mechanical gestures, now experienced as meaningless and repetitive, devoid of authentic momentum.

As she got off the bus, she thought that, that evening, in the confines of her cell, she would meditate for a long time. She would ask Jesus for humility and the strength to look inside her, to question herself as she had never done, to seek the authenticity of life and faith which she had always escaped, following pre-established paths perhaps not even chosen by her. And if that meant leaving the mother Church’s comforting bosom, 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 have done it for Sister Maria. And for Licia.