Virginia Henley (28 page)

“There is an office next door to the library. I’ll inform them you must write some letters for me.”

“Lady, I cannot read and write,” he said miserably.

“They don’t know that,” she pointed out.

Diana summoned Livi, who was idling behind the pillars, waiting for her to enter the library. “I need Tor to handle some correspondence for me this afternoon. Take your girls upstairs and tidy my chambers.” She winked at Tor. “Rest while the opportunity presents itself.”

Diana found Titus in a talkative mood, full of reminiscences of his own marriage, the birth of his firstborn, and what Marcus was like as a boy. Diana could have listened to him praise Marcus forever, and hoped she would be able to give her husband a child in his own image.

She poured Titus a glass of Setinian and sat down on a stool beside his couch. She was wearing a deep magenta-colored gown that made her eyes a darker shade of amethyst
and contrasted so beautifully with her pale gold hair. Titus was admiring her over the rim of his glass. Suddenly, his throat burned like fire. He clawed at it and the glass fell from his fingers.

Diana’s eyes widened in horror as she watched the wine stain his snow white toga and heard the hideous gurgles that came from his throat. She felt paralyzed. She knew he needed immediate assistance, yet she knew also it was too late. She tried to cry out, but it was a silent cry she emitted. She stumbled toward the door to summon Lucas, but it was Petrius who strode into the library with an accusation already on his lips.

“You have poisoned my father!”

“Nay!” she gasped, turning back to Titus, who lay still upon his couch, a grotesque grimace of pain frozen on his face.

Petrius drew his dagger and advanced toward her.

“Tor!” Diana screamed. He burst through the door immediately, his hand upon the hilt of his sword, but before he could even draw it from its sheath, Petrius plunged his long dagger into Tor’s belly and ripped it open.

Diana screamed again as she watched the nightmare unfold before her eyes. As Tor writhed on the mosaic tiles, desperately trying to prevent his intestines from spilling out onto the floor, Petrius knelt and slit the boy’s throat.

Lucas and a dozen household slaves crowded in at the door. Petrius turned to them with cold deliberation. “She poisoned my father! Her slave tried to kill me.”

“No!” Diana sobbed. “He did it!”

Lucas knew that Marcus’ bride and Titus loved each other. “Nay, she would never harm him!” Lucas protested.

Petrius was unbelievably calm. With unnerving calculation, he said, “If she did not poison the wine, it must have been one of the slaves. You know what happens when a slave murders his master … the entire household is put to death.”

Lucas stepped back in horror. Only last month a household
of two hundred were crucified for murdering their cruel master.

“Lucas, send immediately for the
Praefectus Vigilum.
I will secure her in the strongroom until he arrives,”

Diana was grieving for Marcus. He would be devastated over his father’s death. Petrius grabbed her by the hair. He brandished the knife still dripping Tor’s blood.

“When my brother learns what you have done, it will break his heart.” Petrius smiled.

“Marcus would not believe such unspeakable evil of me.” Tears of pain and distress streamed down her cheeks. He dragged her to the cellars where the strongroom was located. It had a heavy door, barred windows, and a set of stocks and manacles for locking up disobedient slaves.

He forced her to her knees and manacled her wrists to the floor. Then he took her chin in his hand, compelling her to look at him.

“You were too fine to spread yourself for me. You and Marcus conspire to rob me of my father’s land and wealth, but I shall get it all, and you, my beautiful bitch, will get your just deserts.”

When he locked the door, fear almost suffocated her. She knew now that he must be insane. He had poisoned his own father for gain and planned it so she would be blamed. When she thought of Tor, lying dead because he had run to her aid, her burden of guilt doubled.

She tried to swallow her fear and think rationally. Marcus would have to be informed of his father’s death. Of course Petrius would fill his brother’s ears with his filthy lies, but Marcus would know she was innocent of murder. Diana could not rid her nostrils of the metallic smell of blood. A sob escaped her lips. Marcus would come. Marcus would protect her, from the entire world if necessary. Hadn’t she told Titus that Marcus was all the protection she would ever need?

Diana couldn’t stop trembling. Her throat was raw from screaming her innocence, her head throbbed from Petrius’ vicious hair-pulling, and her hopes of being delivered from her nightmare were fading away.

When the
Praefectus Vigilum
arrived, he believed every word the vile Petrius Magnus uttered. Diana made so many denials she began to babble. Petrius insisted she was his brother’s slave, and as a result she had been transported to the
ergastula,
the underground slave prison where the very scum of slave criminals were fettered each night in what could only be described as kennels.

The stench of human misery made the air fetid. There were hundreds of prisoners, some no more than children, but most of them were men either sentenced to hard labor or sentenced to death. They stared at her elegant magenta stola and her pale golden hair as if she were some sort of freak, and within the first hour she was thanking God for her manacles and those of the other slaves. They were the only things that stood between her and total violation.

Petrius returned to Nero the moment he left the
ergastula.
The blood rushing through his veins was almost singing. This had been the most exhilarating day of his life, and
it was not yet over. When he anticipated tomorrow, his blood rushed even faster. It was exactly like a play unfolding upon a vast stage, which had all the elements of a Greek tragedy. Not only was Petrius the leading actor, he was also the author!

He threw himself upon the emperor’s breast, allowing the anguish to flow from him. His suffering and pain seemed so real, it greatly excited Nero.

“I cannot tell my brother of our father’s death, I cannot … I cannot!” he sobbed.

“She shall be sentenced to death. Her suffering shall be greater than yours. I can have her brought here tonight, if you wish. Torture her, and as you watch her die, it will assuage your pain.”

Petrius was sorely tempted. He’d like to fuck her to death! But Diana’s suffering was not his ultimate goal. Petrius wanted revenge against Marcus. He wanted his brother’s suffering to be purest agony.

“Nay, my pain matters little. It is the thought of my brother’s pain that consumes me. He is to attend the races at Circus Maximus tomorrow. He has looked forward to seeing them for years. I cannot tell him of our father’s death unless I can assuage his pain. His need for revenge upon the woman he brought into our father’s home must be satisfied immediately. If I could give Marcus this gift, it would help me repay him for all he has done for me.”

“Petrius, that is an excellent suggestion. She shall be put to death in the morning at Circus Maximus. It will be spectacular. Half of Rome will be there to witness justice. I will turn her into a living torch!”

“And lions, I should like lions.” Petrius could see that Nero was becoming aroused.

“Yes, yes. It shall be another race the people may wager upon. Which will reach her first, the starving beasts or the flames?”

“How may I thank you, Emperor?”

Petrius need not have asked. Nero was already on his knees.

Magnus found that sleep eluded him. Earlier, he had spoken before the senators at the Curia and had done so with eloquence. When he spoke of Britannia and Aquae Sulis, his words were from the heart. He felt passionately about that corner of the empire, where he had spent so many years, and every senator present felt that passion and knew the sincerity of his words.

After his speech, Julius Classicianus, Britannia’s procurator, added the weight of his own words, and as they mingled with the senators after the meeting, they felt confident that they had accomplished their mission in persuading the senate to recall Paullinus as governor of Britannia. Already they were suggesting names of men who could replace him.

Over dinner, Julius told Marcus he was well pleased with what they had accomplished. He was acquainted with Petronius Turpilianus, the name that had been put forth most often. He had long experience in the military and had been a successful governor of Nimes in Gaul.

“It won’t happen overnight, the mills of officialdom grind slowly, but we have set the wheels in motion and a change for the better is inevitable. I deeply appreciate your help, Marcus. If you hadn’t accompanied me to Rome, it may have taken forever. How can I repay you?”

“By attending my wedding. You will be one of the few guests Diana knows.”

“I expect you are anxious to return to your lovely bride.”

Anxious doesn’t describe what I feel I am empty without her.

“After the races tomorrow, I intend to return to my father’s villa. I can wait no longer to be married. If you need me further, I will be happy to return,
after
the fact.”

“How impetuous you are. Still, love is so fleeting, you must grab hold and savor it while it lasts.”

As Marcus lay abed, he reflected upon Julius’ words and realized he disagreed.
True love, the land of love I have, is everlasting,
Marcus thought. I
will love Diana throughout eternity.
He stretched his limbs. The bed was so empty without her. Not only the bed; he, too, was empty, almost bereft.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply in an effort to assuage the ache of loneliness. Her scent stole to him and then a vision of her face filled his head. She had a radiance about her that was unique, special. The ache became sharper. Now he wished with all his heart he had gone to her tonight. He could manage without Circus Maximus a lot easier than he could manage without her. In the quiet of the night he imagined she called to him as he drifted into a light sleep. “Soon, my love, soon,” he murmured.

As Diana crouched in fear and misery, gradually she heard the words of the slaves about her. They spoke of beatings, lashings, and brandings. She saw that many had letters burned into their foreheads. At dawn each day coffles of slaves were taken to grist mills, chained to the grindstones, and driven by the lash to toil like donkeys. Other chain gangs, many of them male children, worked the fields until darkness fell. Others hauled concrete, stone, and marble fifteen hours a day to fill the constant demand for new buildings.

They spoke of loaded whips with leaden balls on the thongs and flesh-eating carp, kept in ponds behind the slave pens. There was also talk of a slave revolt. The one led by Spartacus over a hundred years ago had never been forgotten, but Diana heard the apathy and hopelessness in their voices and knew a revolt would never come to pass.

All wished they could be sold to train as gladiators, for most of them knew that this way they would only end up in
the arena to give sport to the bears or lions. At least as gladiators, they would have a chance of victory. Finally, they spoke of crucifixion and the more common death on the
furca,
where the victim’s head is placed at the opening of two V-shaped beams and the professional floggers lash them to death.

Diana could bear no more and blocked out their voices. Did Romans not realize slavery’s brutality was soul-destroying to master as well as slave? She should never have come to Rome. She had known it all along. The refined luxury of the fortunate few was purchased by the squalor and lifelong suffering of the brutalized many. How could Romans close their ears to the discordant sounds of misery, the clink of fetters, the snap of whips, the groans of human cattle?

“Marcus … Marcus,” she whispered, hope still flickering in her heart.

At dawn the slave pens were emptied except for the handful who were to be executed that day. When two Praetorian guards came to fetch her, hope soared inside Diana’s breast. When she told them she was to wed Marcus Magnus and begged them to take her to him, they replied, “We know you are a special prisoner. The emperor himself has given us our orders.”

They took her to the prison bath, where she was allowed to bathe and brush the tangles from her golden hair. She had no choice but to don the magenta stola once more, and when she was dressed, the guards placed her in a litter and set off with the crowds that were streaming toward the Palatine.

“Where are you taking me?” Diana asked uncertainly.

“Circus Maximus,” came the curt reply.

Circus Maximus? Marcus would not attend the races with his father lying murdered. There must be some mistake!

“You must take me to the villa of Titus Magnus on the slopes of the Esquiline.”

“We have orders from the emperor,” was the only reply they gave.

Perhaps Marcus had gone to Nero himself to get her released. That must be it! Again hope soared in her breast. But once again it was dashed to pieces as she was taken to a cell beneath Circus Maximus and locked inside. The air was heavy with the pungent odor of horse droppings.

She was filled with dire apprehension and could not comprehend why she had been brought to this place. Her throat was so parched and sore, she could not swallow. She longed for a sip of cool water. Because she did not know what was going to happen to her, her imagination had begun to conjure the most terrifying scenarios.

As Diana clung desperately to the bars of her cell, she saw magnificent chariots embellished with silver and gold being pulled along the wide underground passages. She called out to the men, but they would not even look in her direction. They avoided eye contact as if she were somehow loathsome.

Next came majestic horses in teams of four in every color imaginable—jet black, bay chestnut, roan, gray, cream, and pure white. The animals were restive and hard to control. She dimly realized these were the horses used in the chariot races. They could not wait to unleash their pent-up energy in the vast arena.

Would she be taken in one of these chariots to Nero? It seemed such a remote possibility, and yet all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours seemed remote and impossible.

Marcus arrived at Circus Maximus early. Some of the most famous charioteers were racing today and he greatly admired their skills. He knew firsthand how difficult it was to control a team of four horses as they thundered down the
track and took the turns. To win a race, so many factors came into play. Not only the temperament and training of the horses, hut the weight of the chariot, the grease on the axles, the length of the reins, and the condition of the track were vitally important.

The prime element necessary to win a chariot race, however, was the attitude of the driver. It not only took skill, courage, and determination, it took recklessness and an iron will to never accept defeat; it took balls!

As Marcus watched the chariots and horses being brought up from the underground stables, he felt his excitement build. Though it was only morning, it promised to be a glorious day. When the races were done, he would leave immediately and surprise Diana. This definitely promised to be one of the most exhilarating days of his life!

Because he lingered with the charioteers, he was late arriving at the Imperial Box. All eyes were focused upon him as he entered and hailed Nero. He flashed a smile of apology. His features were so strong and darkly powerful, Nero wondered how he had thought Petrius the one with beauty.

Diana gasped at the size of the guard who unlocked her cell. He was naked, save for a loincloth and a burning torch. The muscles on his massive body gleamed with oil, and she shrank back in alarm when she saw his face. He had an ugly, hard face that was totally devoid of emotion. His eyes looked dead, they were so impassive. He looked like an executioner!

And suddenly, she knew her nightmare had only just begun. So that he would not lay hands upon her, she stepped from the cell and nodded to him. As she followed him into the arena, she began to pray. Deep in her heart she knew her cause was hopeless and so she sought the help of Saint Jude.

The size of the crowd staggered her. The babble of their voices was so loud it hurt her ears, and then it faded away and all she heard was the pounding of her own heart in her eardrums. She could not swallow, and the pain in her throat had spread to her heart.

Diana walked as if she were in a trance. She had nowhere to go but forward. Even if she were able to cry out, no one would hear. If she ran, she would be cruelly dragged back. She knew that if she begged and groveled, it would avail her naught. All she had left was her dignity. She approached the waiting stake with every shred of it she could muster.

She lifted her chin with disdain as her guard lashed her wrists and ankles to a seven-foot, tarred stake. But when he set the top of it ablaze, she began to tremble like an aspen leaf. Though she faced the Imperial Box, the sun mercifully blinded her and she closed her eyes to block out its brilliance.

The great unease in Marcus’ breast escalated to alarm as he saw the look of pity on the faces around him. Finally, Nero spoke. “We are sorry to give you tragic news on such a glorious day, General. Your father is dead, poisoned by the woman who betrayed you.”