Mistress of Rome (47 page)

With his eyes still closed, he heard her bare feet against the makeshift steps. Imagined the Scythian-gold flash of her hair as she passed into the tomb. Saw in his mind’s eye the door sealing her up. Heard the dreadful shoveling of earth, the clods of ground quickly clotting the entrance to the tomb.

He opened his eyes. Domitian looked down from the dais, watching with impassive black eyes as his niece was buried alive. He smiled. “Some dice later, Prefect?” he suggested, and went back to his portfolios.

 

L
ET’S go,” Arius said quietly, putting a hand on Thea’s shoulder. “Vix looked all right,” Thea said in a thin, high voice. “He looked well. Didn’t he look well?” She paused, then added very softly, “She
looked
at me.”

“I saw.”

Thea didn’t say another word until Arius bolted the door of the tiny attic room in the slums that they’d managed to rent with the last of their money. Then she fell across the narrow fetid bed and lay shivering.

“Before she stepped down into that tomb—her eyes went over the crowd and she found me—like she knew I was there—”

“Thea—” Arius rested a tentative hand on her shoulder, and when she didn’t flinch, he crawled into the cold bed beside her and stroked her hair. No tears, but her body racked itself now and then in a great shudder. Arius thought of the man she had shared with Julia.

Careful. Careful.
He banished the demon, burying his face in Thea’s hair. He touched her temple with his lips, meaning only to soothe her, but his mouth somehow strayed to the curve of her ear, then to the hollow behind her jaw.

She stirred and he pulled away, terrified of frightening her. But with a ragged sigh she nestled against his chest, settling her head in the hollow of his shoulder.

For a moment he lay still, holding her as if she were made of glass. Then he slid his fingers up into her hair, tipping her head back so he could kiss her. She had as cool and sweet a mouth as she’d had at fifteen.

He could feel the tension coiling back into her body, but when he pulled back she clutched him fiercely. So he kissed her again, soft as snow, then kissed the weals around her throat left by an Emperor’s collar, and then the first of the white scars left under her breast by an Emperor’s games. He pulled her tunic over her head and loved the abused, luxury-whitened body underneath; loved it and grieved over it, smoothing the scars away with his hands and his mouth, doing his rough and imprecise best to give her back the sun-browned, work-hardened, unscarred body she’d once given him.

She closed her eyes, back arching with a tentative pleasure, and he touched her with all the eloquence his voice could never find, fighting with all his strength to make her stubborn, clever brain understand how much he loved her . . . and maybe something worked, because she kissed him with half a sob as her arms closed like a vise around his neck, and through every bone in his body he felt a thrum of quiet, quiet joy. They fell asleep knotted like a tangle of warm rope, without saying a word.

 

 

 

THE
Vestal Virgins gathered up the bloodied veil and laid it on their altar.

 

 

 

 

 

 

M
ARVELOUS,” I said lazily. “What is it?” “The juice from some flower or other,” said my Imperial lover. He took the goblet from my limp hand, excitement coming in blank flickers across his eyes.

Who would have thought that a flower crushed into old Falernian could produce this delightful torpor? I closed my eyes, letting the Emperor labor over my passive body. He had rather peculiar tastes, but nothing one couldn’t get used to. Nothing one couldn’t even grow to be excited by.

To be the mistress of the Emperor . . . that was exciting enough!

Oh, these last three months were everything I had ever dreamed of. The applause. The power. People bowing when I paraded past. People begging me to drop just one word in the Emperor’s ear. Power a thousand times magnified.
I
was the mistress of Rome now!

As for Domitian himself . . . well, I didn’t see what all the dark rumors were about. He was a man. Odd-tempered, mercurial, but still a man. I’d known how to handle men since I was fourteen. Emperor or no, I never let him be too sure of me. Sometimes when the Imperial freedman knocked on my door I told him I was “out.” Sometimes I hinted at rendezvous with unnamed men. Sometimes I threw myself adoringly at his feet, sometimes I just smiled remotely. Just to keep him interested.

“Cover yourself.” Finishing, he pulled away. “You look like a whore.”

He was already reaching for his folders, his tablets and slates. I lifted a languid arm and draped my body with a fold of silk. “By the way”—casually—“you really must do something about that astrologer of yours. He’s abominably rude. Three times I’ve asked him to draw up my horoscope, and he ignores me.”

“He sees the future as clearly as the rest of us see the past.” My Imperial lover never looked up from his work. “Eyes like that are worth all the gold in Egypt.”

“Very rude eyes. He’s always glaring at me.”

“Then look the other way.”

“You’re in a temper tonight, Lord and God.” I rolled over, propping my chin on my hand and letting my hair fall in a wave over my eye. “So you keep the astrologer for his precious eyes. Why do you keep Athena’s beastly brat of a son?”

That, of course, was what I really wanted to know.

“Do you really want a reminder of her underfoot everywhere you go?” I persisted when an Imperial silence answered me.

He turned a slate over, working rapid figures on the back.

“Lord and God?” I dandled my fingers along his wrist.

He jerked his wrist away. “Go home. And send in my secretaries.”

Crossly I slid off the bed, tugging my gown over my head with fingers still sluggish from the drug. I stalked out with my most enticing sway of hips, but he never called me back. Well, he was prone to odd little moods. More of them than usual, since the rebellious Vestal’s execution . . . but never mind that. Next time I’d make him forget all about it.

“Watch where you’re stepping,” said a voice at my feet.

I jumped. In the marble corridor outside the Emperor’s apartments, Thea’s son sat cross-legged on the mosaics. He rolled a pair of grubby dice in one hard palm, and he cocked his head back up at me. “Roll?” he suggested.

From the corner of my eye I saw the usual hovering freedmen and courtiers, pricking their ears at the sight of the Emperor’s two favorites. “Why not?” I said sweetly, taking the dice and dropping them as fast as possible. No doubt they were crawling with street-urchin diseases.

He whistled, looking at the dice. “Bad luck, Lady Lepida.”

“What would you know about luck?”

“I’ve got my mother’s luck,” he shrugged. “All Jews are born lucky, or we wouldn’t any of us still be alive.”

“But what about your father? Didn’t you inherit half your luck from him?” I smiled. “Perhaps gladiators aren’t so lucky as Jews.”

We regarded each other. For the benefit of the audience—an Emperor’s favorites always have an audience—I patted his head. He snapped at my fingers like a dog, and I took a step back. It wouldn’t do to be careless. Not with a boy who had been fathered by a man called Barbarian.

I took a quick look back over my shoulder, and Thea’s son put two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle that made every slave, freedman, and courtier within fifty yards spin around. “Better hope your luck changes, Lady Lepida,” he shouted. “Or you’re
screwed
,
screwed
,
screwed
.”

One or two titters reached my ears.

 

M
ARCUS?” Calpurnia slipped through the door of his library, smiling. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“Enjoying a pretty sunset on a spring night.” He smiled. “Enjoy it with me?”

“Of course.” She took a stool. “Though the sunset’s that way, and you’re turned away from it.”

“I’m arranging a journey.” Marcus rolled some papers out of sight.

“For yourself?”

“No, not for me.” For Flavia’s son, recuperating quietly at the house in Brundisium. From Brundisium it was a short sea voyage to Pandateria, where his mother had already been delivered. The Empress had assured Marcus of secrecy.

“I’ll see Flavia and her son cared for,” the Empress had said impassively. “It was Julia’s last wish. Marcus—she could not have falsified her own death and escaped to the House of the Vestal Virgins without help. Did you . . .”

“I did.” Marcus had shrugged. “She wrote to me in Cremona, after the madness had gone. After she tried to open her stomach. I hadn’t believed her before, but I believed her then. I helped.”

Something had gleamed in the Empress’s usually impassive eyes. “Marcus,” she’d begun—

“Keep your secrets.” Calpurnia’s voice broke his thoughts. She pulled a chair beside his, turning her face toward the orange sunset. “I’ll not pry.”

“You never do. You realize, Calpurnia Sulpicia, how unusual that makes you?”

She smiled. “I sent a slave to Paulinus’s apartments at the palace—they say he hasn’t come out of his bedchamber yet, except for his work.”

“How long has he been in there?”

“Since the Vestal’s execution.”

They were silent a moment.

“Sabina has a request.” Calpurnia leaned forward to refill Marcus’s wine goblet. “She asked me to make it for her, since she thinks I can persuade you to anything. She wants to go to the games with you tomorrow.”

“The games?” Marcus blinked. “She’s too young to go to the games.”

“She said she’s been before.”

“I didn’t allow her to
watch
. She was seven years old. She sat with her back to the carnage, playing with the slaves. That is, until the Emperor began tossing people into the arena.”

“Well, it must have made an impression on her because she wants to go back. She says it will be interesting. She also says Paulinus will be there, and she never gets to see Paulinus anymore.” Calpurnia smiled. “She means it. She looked just like you at the last Senate debate when you were determined to get the tenements in the south quarter shored up before they collapsed, and Publius’s claque was objecting.”

“I didn’t know you came to watch the Senate debates,” Marcus said mildly.

Calpurnia flushed. “I sit at the back.”

“I see.” He smiled, rotating a pen between his fingers. “You think I should take Sabina to the games, then?”

“You’re asking for my opinion?”

“I’ve come to value it.”

Calpurnia looked down, fussing with the folds of her dress, but Marcus saw her smile. “Take her long enough to visit with Paulinus—perhaps she can get a smile out of him. Then we can take her home before the blood starts to flow.”

“No. If she goes, she stays for it all. A Norbanus doesn’t cover his eyes at the unpleasant. Or her eyes.”

“Heavens, how grim. I suppose I’ll have to stay for it all, too.”

“You’ll go?”

“I’ll go, and you owe me for it. I hate the games.”

“What would I do without you, Calpurnia?”

She smoothed a tendril of hair behind her ear. “Dinner will be ready in a quarter of an hour. Pheasant and onions, in sweet pepper sauce.”

“Have you been browbeating the cook again?”

“She’s terrible. I’m going to buy you a new cook.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one to buy you a wedding present?”

“I’m not married yet, Marcus Norbanus.”

I
T’S his birthday today.” I propped my chin on my hand. “The ides of June. He’s thirteen.”

“I was going to give him a sword.” Arius’s voice muffled briefly as he pulled his tunic over his head.

“Encouraging the dreams of gladiatorial glory, Barbarian?” I teased.

Arius’s head emerged. “Thea, our son
wants
to be a gladiator. He’s an idiot.”

“Yes,” I agreed, scratching the ears of the dog curled on my knee. “He is an idiot. Must come from his father’s side of the family.”

Arius grabbed me around the waist, pulling me onto his lap. As I pummeled his chest, the dog slid to the floor, yapping shrilly. Arius dragged my head down to his, kissing me firmly, and my bones dissolved.

“There,” he murmured against my mouth.

I smiled, my lashes brushing his cheek. On days like this, blue and gold mornings when our bare little attic room warmed in the sun and Arius’s gaze made my whole body sing, the world brightened. It was possible to believe, not just hope, that everything might turn out all right.

“Your hair’s getting long.” I ran my hand slowly up the nape of his neck, feeling the flesh shiver under my touch. “Shall I give you a haircut?”

“Better leave it long. I look less like the Barbarian.”

“You don’t look anything like the Barbarian in that ridiculous disguise.” Whenever we set foot outside he insisted on donning a heavy cloak, a hat, and an eye patch.