Mistress of Rome (30 page)

“You must come up and visit me at my villa sometimes,” she was chattering. “It’s no more than a fi fteen-minute jog by litter, and I adore company. I’m afraid I can’t pay calls on you, since my uncle detests callers.”

I blinked. Visit? A patrician woman, a Flavian princess, no less, inviting her uncle’s whore to drop by? Did she even know what I was?

“Oh, this is luck!” She clapped her soft hands. “I’ve been simply dying for a look at you. You’re quite lovely, aren’t you? I certainly didn’t hear wrong about that.”

“The Emperor—told you about me?”

“Of course not. He never tells anybody anything. But slaves talk, even the mute ones. I’ve heard so much about your singing, you must sing for me sometime. You play the lyre, too? Oh dear, is that a bruise?”

I looked at her sharply, searching for veiled curiosity. But she regarded the blue mark on my wrist without avidity.

“I fell out of my litter, Domina.” I pulled down my sleeve. How much did she know about Domitian, this patrician lady in yellow who wore her Flavian charm all around her like perfume from India? How much had her half-sister Julia told her?

“Ask Ganymede to make you his special salve.” Flavia gestured, and I fell into step beside her as she moved down the street with the blind confidence of one for whom crowds always clear a path. “He makes a lovely-smelling paste that’s very good for cuts and bruises. He was constantly mixing the stuff up for my half-sister Julia. She was always falling out of litters.”

I looked at Lady Flavia Domitilla, and her black eyes regarded me shrewd and unblinking from her cheerful Flavian face.

I curtsied again. “Thank you, Domina.”

“Oh, good heavens, just make it Lady Flavia.” Patting my arm. “Well, I’m afraid I must dash—far too much to do this morning. Do remember to drop in.”

Another flash of yellow, and she was gone, her Praetorians trailing behind her like a comet’s tail.

By evening the Emperor was back. “I’ll be coming and going all summer. Get used to it.”

“Yes, Lord and God.”

“I thought we had agreed on ‘Caesar.’ ”

“Yes, Caesar.”

“Because you Jews only believe in one god, don’t you? So when you call me ‘Lord and God,’ well, you’re either lying or you think I really
am
your one God.”

“Would you like some wine?”

“No, I would not. Which is it, Athena? Am I a god, or are you lying to me?”

“No matter what I say, you’ll tell me I’m lying.”

“Perhaps.” He lay back. “So what is this one true god of yours like?”

“He’s harsh. But just, too.”

“Does he take mortal wives, like Jove?”

“No. He is male and female both.”

“No wonder the Jews are such a crushed people. Tell me, do you fear this womanish god of yours?”

“Yes. I do.”

“But not me.” He took my hair in his hand and brought me down against the edge of the sleeping couch. I turned my face in time, so my cheek hit the sharp corner instead of my eye.

“Why?”

I had nothing to give him.

 

 

 

LONG
days. Sun burning. Mostly alone, as Domitian flitted back and forth to the city on Imperial business. I took endless shopping trips, endless baths. Worried about Vix, doubtlessly causing trouble for Penelope. Read my horoscope, drawn up by Nessus. The stars gave the same bad news as my palm. Nessus looked apologetic, and Ganymede stroked his hand and crooned wordlessly. Could they be lovers? Anybody’d love Ganymede, mute or not.

Domitian, in between working on new legislation, was writing a manual on hair care. Had thin hair himself, God help you if you mentioned it. I recommended an elderflower rinse to improve shine, but was told to be quiet. An Emperor penning hair advice? Well, we all need hobbies. Emperor Tiberius played with slave girls, Emperor Claudius studied the Etruscans, Domitian wrote about hair. His other hobby was lining the slaves up below the terrace and shooting arrows between their outstretched fingers. He was very good; never missed unless he wanted to. In a bad mood, he liked to be accurate. In a good mood, he liked to miss.

I sang songs for Larcius. Saw him large and pink and approving; Penelope, too. She said to get more sleep. Larcius said I sounded hoarse. Too much choking, I told him seriously, and he understood. Then he disappeared, and I woke up and realized I’d been dreaming.

A month gone already. Only a few more months of summer left, then Domitian would be returning to Rome and I would go back to Brundisium, back to my boy, back to Larcius and his gentle voice. A few months. Going very slowly.

“Nessus tells me you’ve met my niece, Flavia Domitilla.”

“Yes, I have.”

“A featherbrained girl, just like her mother. A Christian, of all things. Do you know what they are? A ratlike people who scuttle in catacombs and paint fishes on walls. I’ve contemplated removing Flavia’s sons from her care, but they seem to be good Romans thus far.”

“Are they to be your heirs, then?”

“Correct. Since my wife has failed to provide alternatives. Are you looking to provide one yourself? I hear you’ve had at least one child—”

“Farmed out,” I lied quickly. “I don’t like children. I’ve never even seen it.”
Oh, God, let him believe me.
The thought of Vix in this monster’s hands—

“Open your eyes,” breathed Domitian, “and tell me you’re afraid of me.”

“No.”

“I can smell it on you.”

“No.”

Long nights. Moon burning like hot silver. Never alone. Long, long nights, full of strange things. The sharp pen he used to spear flies out of the air; used for other things. Soft bracelets on chains, fastening my wrists to the sleeping couch. Questions. “It hurts? No? If I shift the edge deeper—” Blank-eyed and busy-handed, a scientist among his experiments.

Childish, to think the brothel was bad. Too unimaginative to be bad. Tiring, but not bad. Bad is a cheerful voice at midnight, saying, “Afraid now? Hours left to work on that!”

Jars and jars of Ganymede’s ointment.

“It’s not bad yet, Thea.” Julia scolded me gently in my dreams, robed all in white like a Vestal Virgin. “Wait eight years for bad.”
Julia, I wronged you. Believed you were mad. Might be mad, myself. Did he like to watch you when you slept?

A second month gone by. So slowly.

“You’re looking pale, Athena,” Flavia Domatilla greeted me. “Not enough sun. I don’t care what these die-away beauties say, sun is for soaking up, not fleeing from like a horde of barbarians. How is the Emperor?”

“Very well, Lady Flavia.” She never asked further than that, and I never elaborated. “How are the boys?”

She brightened. “Running wild, brown as Arabs, and declaring they’ll never go back to the city as long as they live.”

“And your lord husband?” I’d met Flavius Clemens, a pale gentleman who was certainly aware of my profession, but who accorded me the same exquisite courtesy he extended toward every woman, from his wife down to the lowest body slave.

“He’s much better for all this fresh air. I declare, I’m never going back to the city, either. I’m having such fun, ripping up this villa and putting it back together. I just had the mosaics done last week.”

I looked at the floor, finding the pattern of two iridescent-scaled fish repeated in circles. “Lovely,” I said. “The fish . . . they’re a Christian symbol, aren’t they?”

“I see my uncle’s told you about my little peccadillo.” A dimple appeared in her chin as she smiled. “Yes, I’m a Christian. My mother’s freedman Thrax was, and given the way my mother’s husbands came and went, Thrax was nearly my father, so I suppose something stuck. I embarrass the Emperor greatly, I’m afraid. It’s no secret, even though I make all the right genuflections in public.”

“You—you might want to be careful, Lady Flavia,” I said diffidently. I liked her, she was more than courteous to me, but the social gap between us was still enormous. “The Emperor said he might—might take the boys away, if they weren’t raised as good Romans.”

“Oh, but they are. Besides, he’d never take them away. Because where could he move them but into the palace with him? He dislikes children far too much for that. In the end, he’ll just dismiss my beliefs as an irritating little hobby. Really, that’s all it is. Who’s to care if I take food baskets to some of my poorer brethren now and then?”

Her placid tone aroused my immediate suspicion. Flavia went far beyond food baskets, surely. Were all the slaves swarming around her pretty villa really just slaves? Were all the ragged children begging at her door really just beggars? Secrets ran in the Flavian family, for its kindest members as well as its cruelest. But she never asked mine, and so I’d never ask hers. She was already chattering on about something more innocuous.

“—so you’ve had Nessus draw up your horoscope? It’s bound to be right; he’s the best astrologer in the Empire. A pity my faith doesn’t permit me to consult astrologers. Isn’t he a dear? I may consult him anyway. He’s always been thankful to me, ever since I lent him Ganymede for a massage. I never got Ganymede back, of course; Nessus spun some meaningless prophecy to keep him. My faith doesn’t permit me to approve of boy-lovers, either, but I must say they are happy—”

Did me good, listening to her. I think she knew it, too. Always urged me to come again, and never asked questions. Had she learned that lesson with Julia?

I thought about Arius.

A hard body blazing heat through a blue tunic. Hair a true red in the sun. Knotted muscles flowing like warm honey. Scars on the back of his hand, on his forehead, on his shoulder. I had nearly as many myself, now. Odd little white scars, made with odd little toys in places that wouldn’t show. Not visible scars made with swords.

A hard face. Broken nose. Cloud-colored eyes. Slash of a mouth. Eyebrow interrupted by a knife-line. Male smells: sun-warmed leather, iron, sweat, arena sand. But not blood, somehow—not blood. Blood washed off.

Hard hands, warm hands that gripped a wine cup sometimes, or a sword, or a throat. Or they just—touched. For joy’s sake, not for pain’s.

 

 

 

THREE
months had passed. Cool autumn breezes touched even the summer warmth of Tivoli. September around the corner. Fall was here. Fall was here.

“Time for Rome again,” Domitian remarked over dinner. “Pity. It’s been a delightful summer.”

“Delightful,” I murmured into my wine goblet.

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Athena.” He was in a good mood, however; my punishment was mild. “Well, sarcasm or not, you’ve served me well. A delightful summer companion. How shall I reward you?”

“You’ve rewarded me enough, Caesar.”

“With my divine presence?”

“And with all the presents you’ve let me buy for myself on your credit.”

“Yes, you did get rather greedy among the jewelry shops. The Jew coming out in you, no doubt.”

“No doubt.”
Send me home, oh please send me home.

Domitian pushed back his dinner plate, rising with a rustle of exotic silk and going to the naked edge of the terrace. He looked healthy and fit, color glowing in his cheeks, the hint of that charming smile rarely leaving his mouth. He regarded the river for a moment, then swung around. “Come here.”

I came.

He placed an absent hand on the nape of my neck, and I felt my toes curling over the marble edge. I wavered, and he smiled.

“Shall I pull you back?” he said.

I knew beyond a shadow of doubt that if I said yes, I’d go over the edge.

“No.” I looked him right in the eye. “I’m not afraid of heights, Caesar.”

For a moment I thought I was going over anyway. But as he’d done on our first night here, he swung me away from the brink and let me fall to the marble floor.

Then he stepped forward and lowered his sandal over my splayed hand—not hard, just firmly enough to hurt. My littlest finger, the one with Larcius’s slave ring, rested directly beneath his heel.

His last gift
, I thought frozenly.
All the lyre strings in the world, and no fifth finger to reach them. He’ll take my music—

His foot tapped on my finger a moment. Then he knelt with the swift grace that sat so oddly on his thick body, and when he picked up my hand I saw he had a dagger.

I struggled, of course. But he prisoned my hand in his hard fingers, and the blade flashed—and it took me a moment to realize that for once there was no blood and no pain.

The plain welded ring with Larcius’s name clattered onto the marble in two pieces.

I stared at it.

“Cheap thing,” said Domitian, sheathing the dagger. “Unworthy of a brave woman.”

My finger had a white band instead of a welded copper one. “You’re freeing me?”

“I thought you might care to wear this instead.” He flipped open a small filigree coffer by the dining couch, and turned with his hands outstretched, gesturing for me to turn. I caught sight of a silver band before he looped it close around my throat. Looking down I could just see a shiny black stone—jet, maybe—nestling in the base of my throat. “It’s—it’s beautiful.” He allowed me to buy whatever I wished, but since the lyre strings, he’d never chosen anything for me himself.

He made no reply, just beckoned over my head. When I looked up there was a blacksmith in the door, soot-stained and out of place on the elegant terrace.

“Weld it closed,” said Domitian. “It doesn’t matter if you burn her.”

“What?” I twisted my head to look at him. “Weld—”

“A more elegant version of that tawdry ring,” he explained genially. “I added the stone out of whimsy. A black stone. Consider it my eye upon you. I like to mark my belongings.”

I felt the blacksmith’s rough hands at my neck, hooking the silver band. “But—but you said—”