Rapture's Slave

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Acte was not the only one pondering that very question as the emperor arrived. Messalina’s palms grew sweaty at the sound of clattering sword sheaths and the flap-flap of the gold-banded leather strips covering the skirt of his driving tunic as Claudius strode onto the terrace.

  Though the children ran to him in welcome, Messalina stood, as was required at the entry of the emperor, but did not go to him. Instead, she twisted her scarf nervously and studied his face, trying to decipher what was written there. Did he know? Of course! Her enemies had seen to that. But had he proof and the name of her present lover? His face glowed with smiles for his children, but his eyes did not meet those of his wife.

  Setting Octavia on her feet again after having hugged her affectionately, Claudius stroked her shining hair and asked, “And where is my daughter’s dark little shadow today? Why doesn’t Acte come to greet her emperor? I will be needing her healing touch shortly. My prize gladiator, Iron Face, has been clawed by a lion. My men are bringing him here for her to tend.”

  “She is changing, Papa.” As Octavia spoke, she cast an accusing glance in Nero’s direction.

  The Emperor Claudius turned to Agrippina, taking her into his arms in a fatherly embrace.

  “My dear Agrippina! It’s said that sorrow serves to heighten the beauty of a woman. Surely, you are the living proof of that theory. And this bronze-haired youth must be your Nero. Why, the last time I laid eyes on him he was but a babe. Now he is a young man, near grown.”

  Agrippina clung to Claudius, this great hulk of a man whom some called ugly. But to Agrippina, ugliness could easily be turned to beauty, if the proper amounts of wealth and position were present. The Emperor Claudius was, in Agrippina’s estimation, the most attractive man in the world.

  “Uncle, you are more than kind to take in a widowed relation and her fatherless son. I will do anything to repay this kindness.”

  As their eyes met, Agrippina raised her wine-flavored lips for a kiss of more than thanks or family sentiment.

  Claudius held her close.

  “Agrippina, you and Nero will always have a place in my household,” he said, and then he added, “and in my heart.”

  Messalina observed this tender scene in nervous silence. At last, she could stand it no longer.

  “Have you no greeting kiss for your wife, my emperor?”

  His cold glance told Messalina what she had feared—that he knew.

  “Of course, my wife, if you wish. But I thought your tastes these days ran to younger, sweeter wines. I can offer you only the bitter dregs from my aging cask.”

  Their kiss was brief and formal.

  Agrippina broke the tense silence. “Though my knowledge of wines is not extensive, I’ve found that the older the cask, the finer the wine.”

  Claudius’s searing gaze softened as he beamed at his niece.

  “Well put, my lady. You are a living example of the sparkling bouquet of a slowly aging wine about to ripen into its fullness of excellence.”

  Agrippina fluttered her dark-gold lashes.

  “So, uncle, are you now calling me old?”

  “Never, Agrippina, never!”

  They laughed together—but alone.

  Nero stood nearby watching and listening. He knew the signs. The Emperor Claudius was to be his mother’s next conquest. But how could even his all-powerful and ever-scheming mother surmount the problems in this case? She had relieved herself of the unwanted Crispus, but still, Messalina was the emperor’s wife. And even if her removal could be engineered, another obstacle stood in his mother’s path. Under Roman law, even the Emperor Claudius could not marry his niece.

  The emperor turned to go. “If you will excuse me, ladies, I will go and bathe. Have one of the servants send Acte to me.

  Agrippina and Messalina rose, as custom dictated, upon the departure of their emperor from the terrace. The three children went back to the garden for a noisy game of ball.

  Agrippina noted that Messalina now seemed even more nervous than before her husband’s arrival. Something was afoot, and Agrippina would make it her business to find out what.

  She kept silent, waiting for Messalina to speak. She did, at length, trying to conceal her trembling hands in her lap. “It—it is good to have the emperor with us.” Her tone belied her words.

  Agrippina put on her motherly mask and spoke soothingly. “Have some wine, my dear. Why, you’re quivering like a young fawn.”

  “Perhaps that would calm my nerves a bit.”

  Agrippina leaned back in her chair to watch the long-awaited spectacle, a smile of warm satisfaction on her lovely face. But as Messalina reached out to take the goblet, she tipped it and in trying to right it, spilled the entire contents—the precious, poisoned contents.

  “Oh, dear! Another gown ruined. Claudius will be infuriated by my wastefulness!”

  Agrippina covered her disappointment with a false smile.

  Messalina clapped her hands and called, “Nike, come and show the Lady Agrippina to her suite and have Leda come and clean up this mess before the emperor sees it. Then come to my chamber and help me dress for dinner.

  “Agrippina, if there is anything you need, I have put my personal handmaiden, Sutra, at your disposal. The boy, Doryphorus, will wait on young Nero.”

  So saying, Messalina fluttered away like a frightened hummingbird.

  Agrippina gazed out over the terraced gardens to the gulf, now bathed in lights of gold and vermilion. A calm seemed to settle over the whole villa with the setting of the sun.

  So her first attempt had failed, but through no fault of her own. And since there had been whispered rumors of her poisoning Crispus, perhaps it was just as well not to do away with Messalina in such short order. She would pace herself, seek exactly the right moment. Then if she had her way, Claudius would be hers and eventually all the Roman Empire would be handed to her by her son—Nero, the next Emperor of Rome.

  The emperor eased his aching body into the sunken marble bath—a bath large enough to hold forty, men and women, he reflected, remembering a bathing party and banquet he had once given while Messalina was visiting relatives in Pompeii.

  That night the bath had been filled with warm spiced wine. It had taken his guests, high-ranking army officers and exquisite slave girls, nearly two weeks to remove the purple stains from their bodies.

  He laughed aloud. “But no one complained. By all the gods, that was a fine night!”

  He relaxed and floated in the scented water, letting his mind relive the ecstasy of that evening. His generals had been divested of their banquet robes by his silken-gowned slave girls, who in turn dropped their filmy drapes to the floor. The choosing of partners for the evening had been a game devised by Claudius himself. Each general, in turn according to rank, had tossed a gold coin into the bath. The slave girls then went diving in a gleeful lot after it. The one who retrieved it was allowed to keep it and became the partner of its former owner for the evening. When all had been chosen, the pairs slipped into the wine bath for a night of voluptuous pleasure. Claudius remembered how much the lovely Sophia had delighted him.

  Sophia—he closed his eyes to see again her dark, mysterious beauty. Claudius felt an ache in his loins as he relived the night in his mind. But this would not do! Who would relieve the passion aroused by his memories? Perhaps the tempting Agrippina? But no. She was too recently widowed, and his own niece besides. A lady of the line of Caesar would never assent to advances even from her emperor, nor would he expect it of her.

  He opened his eyes to see two of his Praetorians standing at attention in the chamber.

  “Can I have no privacy, even in my bath?”

  The guards jumped at the emperor’s sudden thundering shout of rage.

  “Send in Acte. And, if you must guard my life even in my bath, stand your watch outside the doors!”

  The guards saluted and removed themselves from the chamber. Claudius closed his eyes once more.
The heat of the bath took the ache from his muscles, but not from his loins.

  The whisper of sandaled feet on marble alerted him to Acte’s arrival. He opened his eyes to stare at this miniature Sophia. Her great, dark eyes searched his face. He smiled. Any other slave entering his bath chamber would have averted her eyes, but not Sophia—and not Acte.

  She spoke before she was spoken to. “Welcome home, my lord. How may I serve you?”

  “First, Acte, hand me my robe so my nakedness doesn’t offend you.”

  Acte picked up the robe of purple trimmed with gold fringe, but hesitated, saying, “It’ll spoil the robe, if you put it on while still in your bath. I’ll lay it here and turn my back, if you wish.”

  Claudius laughed aloud. “How like your mother you are. So prim and proper, yet always with your own ideas as to how things should be done. Very well. Turn your back.”

  Acte heard a great splash and then the slap, slap of the emperor’s wet feet on the marble floor.

  His hands grasped her shoulders tenderly and he turned her to face him.

  “You weren’t there to meet me when I arrived, Acte. Aren’t we still friends?”

  She threw her arms about his waist and buried her face in the softness of his royal robe.

  “I’m sorry, my lord. Your arrival was unexpected and I was doing my chores. You know I’m glad you’re home.”

  He stroked her sleek hair, remembering her mother. Perhaps the greatest benefit he had derived from his marriage to Messalina was the acquisition of Sophia and now her lovely daughter.

  Looking up into his face, a serious Acte asked, “What can I do, to make up for not greeting you this afternoon?”

  Taking her soft hand in his, he played with her delicate fingers. “A good back rub might help. You are learning quickly and may soon be my best masseuse.”

  Acte beamed at his praise. “Very well, my lord. I’ll turn my back again. Remove your robe and replace it with a towel, then lie down on the rubbing slab.”

  He laughed good-naturedly. “Now I am being ordered about by my own slave! And a very small one at that!”

  As Acte rubbed warm oil into the taut muscles of his back and shoulders, she asked suddenly, “What was my mother like?”

  Claudius raised himself on one elbow and stared into Acte’s face, interrupting her work for a moment.

  His voice grew husky with emotion. “You have a good question there, Acte. Had I known her for a century—for a thousand lifetimes—I fear I would never have discovered what Sophia was really like. But I can tell you this: your face and body mirror her own. Her soul was wrought of love. She knew no hate or bitterness from within herself or from others. She was much loved.”

  Staring straight into his gray eyes, which now glistened with unshed tears, Acte tried to shake off the uneasy feeling within her as his hands clutched her to him. The warmth radiating from his body generated a disquieting response in her. Trying, in vain, to free herself, she asked, “And did you love her, my lord?”

  Claudius buried his face in her hair so that Acte could barely hear his next words. “Oh, yes, I loved your mother! And I love you, too, Acte.”

  Then his lips sought hers while he cupped her breast, sending a shiver through her body. Fear and confusion raged in her. This couldn’t be—this new feeling—not with the man who might be her own father!

  When no escape seemed possible, Claudius suddenly released her. “Listen!” There was the sound of horses arriving in the courtyard. “You must use your healing hands on my gladiator now.” Claudius seemed slightly disgusted with his warrior. “Like a fool, he tried to save another man from a lion and nearly lost his own life in the attempt.”

  Acte drew back. “My lord, you don’t mean Iron Face? I’ve heard that he feeds on the raw flesh of wild beasts, that his jaws can sever a limb from a body, and that he can kill with a glance!”

  “Have no fear of Iron Face,” Claudius reassured her. “The lion took its toll on him. And even at full strength he wouldn’t harm you. Go to the servants’ infirmary and see if you can give him some relief from his pain.”

  As Acte left the chamber, Claudius lay back on the table. His heart ached at what he might have done to Acte if Iron Face’s arrival hadn’t interrupted them.

  Staring at the ceiling, he spoke in a whisper. “I would not have done it, Sophia. It was only an impulse. Forgive me!”

  Timidly, Acte entered the windowless cubicle which served as a sickroom for the slaves. No sound came from within. Could the gladiator be unconscious? As her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the cell-like room with its whitewashed walls and rough furniture, so bare in comparison to most of the others in the villa, Acte saw for the first time the hideous Iron Face. This black metal mask-helmet, which the gladiator wore in combat, stared menacingly at her from a table dimly lit by the light of the open door. Razor-sharp spikes ridged the top like the bristles down the spine of a wild boar. Vacant eyesockets circled with glittering polished lava stones stared at her. The mouth was permanently twisted into a terrifying snarl showing jagged metal teeth painted blood red.

  Acte jumped as a gruff voice emanated from the cot next to the table. “Who’s there?”

  Summoning all her courage, she answered, “I am Acte, sent by the emperor to tend your wounds.”

  The figure on the bed tried to raise himself, groaned, and fell back. Forgetting her fright, Acte rushed to his side.

  “Iron Face, are you all right? Can you hear me?”

  A surprisingly gentle voice answered her. “A lamp, woman, bring a lamp. The room is spinning.”

  Hurrying to get a lamp, Acte tried not to look at the gladiator’s mask as she positioned the light to best advantage on the table.

  Her fear melted into pity as she saw the pallor of his cheeks, his unfocused eyes, and the bloody bandages wound tightly around his upper thigh. For several moments she hesitated, embarrassed at the thought of lifting his tunic higher to remove the soiled cloth. But when his eyes closed in a grimace of pain and a moan escaped him, she steeled herself and reached to unwind the linen strips covering the wound. Trying to focus her attention on her work and close her eyes to his male nakedness, Acte was not aware that her touch had aroused the gladiator. Suddenly, Iron Face seized her arm, sending a surge of heat through her own body, as she stared fascinated at what she had refused to see before.

  “You have a woman’s touch, but you’re only a girl! Why has the emperor sent a child and not a true physician to tend me?”

  Turning her eyes to her work once more, Acte responded, “I may be only a child in your eyes, but I have beeh taught the medical arts of the East. A physician will be here soon, but you need attention now, Iron Face. Please, let me help you.”

  His answer was another groan of pain. Acte winced as the last of the bloody binding fell away and she viewed the deep claw marks in the gladiator’s muscled leg and hip. As she wiped away the blood with a wine-soaked cloth, she saw the gladiator’s face go white.

  “Don’t try to hold back, Iron Face. You don’t need to prove your valor to me. The emperor himself told me that you got these wounds trying to save another human being.”

  A coarse laugh came from the fallen warrior. “And did he tell you also that I was unsuccessful? That my friend died anyway? I’ll never forget the sight of that lion tearing out his throat—” Iron Face couldn’t go on.

  Acte could think of no way to console him. “You did what you could, Iron Face.”

  Having cleansed the wounds on the lower part of his body, Acte touched her cloth to a minor injury on his cheek. He caught her hand and held it.

  “Does my face feel like iron to you?”

  Confused, Acte whispered, “No.”

  ‘Then call me by my name, Sergio.”

  Acte repeated the name as instructed.

  Still holding Acte’s palm fast to his cheek, he sighed, “It’s been too long since I’ve heard that name from such sweet lips. The
emperor gave me my freedom, but took away my being. I belong to him now more than ever before. As his slave, I was a man with a name of my own. Now, as his gladiator, I’m just a beast of the arena with a name to fit the game. Iron Face! It disgusts me!” Turning his head toward the mask, he spat, “That is Iron Face! I am Sergio Maximus! I am flesh and blood, not cold metal!”

  Wiping his brow with a cool cloth, Acte urged, “Calm yourself, Sergio. Drink this wine and lie still until I return. I need more supplies.”

  As Acte held the cup of wine to Sergio’s lips, their eyes met. She looked away as the smoke-colored gaze of this great warrior seemed to penetrate her soul. A shiver ran through her again, though not one of fear. What was happening to her this day? No man had ever touched her before, and now three had aroused her. The oracle had said that one would come whom she would love and fear. Surely, the Sibyl’s nobleman must be Nero. She would tend Sergio’s wounds, nothing more. She hurried from the room.

  Sergio’s ruggedly handsome features contorted in a grimace of pain as he lashed out to send the Iron Face clattering across the room. He closed his eyes to clear his mind’s vision of the morning’s horror in the arena—the gore, the anguish, the meaningless death of his friend amid the cheers of the mad throngs.

  A whisper of movement alerted him to Acte’s return. He watched as her slight but sensuous form moved toward his cot, and her nimble fingers laid out supplies on the table where the Iron Face had sat in angry repose. Then feeling her warmth close by, Sergio relaxed and closed his eyes.

  Kneeling beside the cot, Acte whispered, “Sergio, are you sleeping?”

  The sweet timbre of her voice stirred something deep within him—a feeling he had lost in his two years in the arena. His eyes flickered open to drink in the face before him, but he did not—could not—speak.