Claudius suffered even more from a lack of bodily love. Agrippina had abandoned their bedroom for private quarters. When he ordered her to his bed, she invariably sent back word that it was her time of the month or that she didn’t feel he was up to such exertion in his present condition.
In her own quarters, Agrippina fumed. She would have her way or he wouldn’t have her. Three months had passed since Claudius agreed to the betrothal between Octavia and Nero and still he hadn’t ordered it. Until he did, he could suffer the chill of March in a lonely bed.
With the dawning of spring, all Rome came alive, and with it the emperor. No longer confined by the rigors of cold dampness, he regained his spirits and some control over his empire.
One particularly enchanting spring evening he burst in on Agrippina. Dismissing the servants, Claudius glowered down at his wife as she sat at her dressing table preparing for bed. She remained calm and alluringly beautiful.
“You call yourself a wife?” he demanded. “What do I have to show for it? An empty bed, an ache in my guts, and a jealousy such as I’ve never known! Even Messalina didn’t treat me with such cold indifference. I will have you tonight!”
Agrippina turned her green-flecked eyes on his towering rage. Her smile weakened him. Reaching out a delicate hand, she stroked his arm lovingly.
Claudius couldn’t contain his confusion. This was the old Agrippina. The niece he’d loved, the wife he’d desired and who had desired him.
Her velvet voice broke the silence. “My dear husband, do you think I’ve denied you without causing myself pain? No. Fve hungered for you all these weeks while you suffered through the winter. I see now that the spring air has restored your youth and your health. I’ll be with you tonight. I want your strong arms around me, your love flowing through me.
She sighed. “How spring makes hearts young again, doesn’t it, dearest?”
The emperor smiled. “Yes, love.”
Agrippina’s eyes brightened in pretense of some new thought. “Why, soon it will be the perfect time to carry out your promise.”
Claudius cocked his head and squinted his eyes, trying to remember the promise she spoke of. “But haven’t I given you jewels, gowns, and everything you desired?”
“My dear emperor!” Agrippina laughed. “I’m talking of the betrothal. Your Octavia and my Nero. Don’t you remember, you promised me on that sweetest of nights?”
A light dawned in his bloodshot eyes. “By all the gods, it completely slipped my mind.”
“Then you still approve, my husband?”
Anxious to be once again in Agrippina’s good graces, and in her bed, he thundered, “Of course I approve. I’ll see to it the first thing tomorrow.”
Agrippina reached for a contract and a seal and wax. “Do it now, this very minute,” she said eagerly, “so that nothing will distract our minds from love this night.”
Claudius hastily affixed his imperial seal to the document and breathed a sigh of relief. “It is done.”
Taking the paper from his hands, Agrippina put it away and then dropped her scarlet drape.
“So it is, my husband. And now my bed awaits.”
For Acte the winter months had stretched on in a tiresome succession of uneventful days. No longer a slave, she missed the forced activity of being called on for one chore after another. Instead she supplied Octavia with companionship—a dull and fruitless pursuit at best. On many days the sullen girl didn’t stir from her bed, and hardly ever did she leave her apartments. But Acte was expected to watch over her around the clock.
Through endless hours in Octavia’s room, Acte let her mind wander again and again to her longing for Nero and their last meeting in the garden. How much time did she have? When would the day come that Octavia would demand that they both be taken to the Temple of Vesta? The question froze her heart.
Then on a cold gray morning as the wind howled about the palace like some agonized spirit caught between worlds, a guard appeared at the door of Octavia’s chamber to summon Acte. A thousand fearful thoughts flashed in and out of her brain as she followed the guard to a reception hall.
At first sight of the man who waited there, all of Acte’s fears died away. Her heart filled with grateful warmth. She ran and threw herself into his arms.
Circling her small figure with his massive arms, Sergio chuckled. “Well, little one, I had hoped you’d welcome my visit, but this overwhelms me.”
He sought her lips. Acte didn’t refuse him, but smiled and clung to his arms, feeling some of the cold of the long winter melt away.
Then Sergio led her to a couch and directed Acte to sit beside him, all the while holding her hands in his.
Acte’s pleasure at seeing her friend again bubbled out of her. “Oh, Sergio, Sergio, how long has it been? You aren’t wounded again, are you? Tell me some news from the outside world. I’ve been a prisoner at the palace for so long.”
Laughing at her questions coming all at once, Sergio put up his hand for silence. “No, Acte, I’m not injured, though a bit out of my head at the moment from seeing you again, I fear.”
Then his expression turned serious, causing Acte some concern. “Acte, I’ve come here on a mission—a mission dear to me. I have good news—the best. My new duty has been announced. For the next year, after the upcoming combats, I won’t see a public arena. The emperor has granted my request to be assigned to the school at Pompeii to instruct his new gladiators. For the year that I’m there I’ll be provided with a luxurious villa for my family.”
Acte looked at him oddly. Perhaps she didn’t know Sergio Maximus so well after all. She asked hesitantly, “You have a family? I never knew.”
Unaccountably nervous, he continued. “I have none as yet.” He paused again, and then rushed on. “That’s why I’m here, Acte. I want a family. I want you, little one. I know you’ve never said you love me, but you must care for me. I’ll give you all the comforts and all the love I have. You among all women are the only one I’ve ever truly longed for. At first I thought it was a passing thing—a feeling of love brought on by your charming innocence and tender care of me. But my feeling for you grows each day, each hour that you’re out of my sight. I’m stricken with love for you. I can’t fight it. Promise me you’ll be my wife and bear my children.”
His pleading tone stirred Acte deeply. She stared into his eyes and reached out to touch his face with her fingertips. What could she say? Indeed, what did she truly feel for this man? Then she remembered that her fate didn’t rest in her own hands.
Shaking her head, she whispered, “I can’t promise, Sergio. I may no longer be a slave, but I’m not free either. The emperor would never permit it. I’ll be Octavia’s servant until she marries or we come of age.”
Sergio’s voice rose with urgency. “But I’ve already spoken to the emperor and he told me that I could take the freedwoman of my choice from his household as my wife.”
Acte looked at him sadly. “And did you mention my name to him specifically?”
He thought for a moment. “No. But he was specific in that the choice was mine.”
“Believe me, Sergio, he would never consent.”
His voice trembled as he asked, “Would you consent, Acte?”
She hesitated, uncertain what her true feelings were. This was all so unexpected—being loved by a man, such a new experience for her.
Before her answer could take form in her mind, Sergio swept her into his strong arms and crushed her body to his. She felt all the strength drain from her as his lips covered hers.
At a sound in the hall, Sergio released her. Nero stood there glaring at the two of them. Suddenly confused and shocked by his appearance, Acte jumped from the couch.
“Nero, we didn’t know you were there.”
His voice cut through the heavy silence. “That’s obvious! Don’t you think it’s time you checked on Octavia?”
Acte looked from the thundercloud on Sergio’s face t
o Nero’s accusing countenance. Torn between the two and thinking both out of her grasp, she raced from the room in confusion.
She heard Sergio’s question following after her, “Your answer, Acte?”
She called back over her shoulder, “There isn’t any!”
As Acte disappeared, Sergio stood towering over Nero. They stared at each other in silence for a long moment before Nero turned and left the gladiator alone.
Nero had spent a dull winter of studies and loneliness. His mother always seemed busy with the affairs of state. Acte remained elusive as ever. And Britannicus, whom he was learning to detest, had been far more ill than his father all winter. Only Seneca seemed to have time for him. And in spite of his mother’s specific directions to Seneca that he teach Nero only what she wished, Nero could at times lure his tutor into conversations on other subjects.
As spring brought the hills of Rome to life with the fragrant haze of lupine, Nero felt the swelling of desires renewed. On one particularly languorous day, Seneca noticed that while Nero answered his questions, he seemed absorbed in something in his lap.
In disgust at what he supposed occupied his student’s interest, he ordered, “Nero, stand up!”
Nero jumped to attention at Seneca’s unusually stern tone. Instead of the rise beneath Nero’s tunic which Seneca had espected, a scroll fell to the floor and unrolled between them. Nero felt a blush creeping over his face as his teacher bent down to retrieve the parchment.
Seneca couldn’t hide his amused smile as he recognized one of his own favorite works. “So, the young lord is beginning to develop a new interest.” He read the title, to Nero’s renewed embarrassment. “The Art of Love by the poet Ovid. What have you learned, my young romantic?”
Nero fumed, “Don’t make fun of me, I warn you, Seneca!”
Seneca paced across the room and placed Ovid’s work on his desk. He propped himself against the edge of the table and asked, “You have questions in this area, then?”
The man-to-man tone in Seneca’s voice reassured and encouraged Nero. He nodded his head vigorously.
“Ask. I’ll answer you honestly.”
Nero’s enthusiasm waned, and his head drooped as he realized he didn’t even know enough on the subject of love to ask questions.
Seneca moved nearer, sensing his student’s reluctance to begin. “Have you ever known the love of a woman, Nero?”
Nero shook his head, then answered, “But I love one now, really I do.”
Seneca’s eyebrows shot up as he thought to himself: This one is surely the son of Agrippina to crave the flesh so early in his life.
Aloud he said, “And does this young lady know of your feelings for her?”
In a troubled tone, Nero answered quickly, “She knows and claims to love me in return, but still she refuses me. What’s wrong with me, Seneca?”
Seneca slapped Nero on the shoulder reassuringly. “Ah, my young friend, there’s nothing wrong with you. This is the manner in which the game of love is played. The maid must always run away—until she catches you.”
Nero eyed his tutor skeptically. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s so simple, Nero. The oldest game in the world. Were she to throw herself into your arms at your first declaration of love, your feelings for her would cool. Women are born knowing instinctively that the longer the chase, the sweeter the fruits in the end. Think about it. Isn’t this what she’s playing?”
Nero thought, then shook his head in frustration. “No, Seneca, this is no game with Acte.”
Seneca drew back, frowning. “Acte? You don’t mean the freedwoman servant to Lady Octavia?”
“One and the same. She loves me as I love her, but she says she can’t permit herself to be taken until the ice of Octavia is thawed by some man.” Then in a sudden burst of anger, he shouted, “It isn’t fair, Seneca! What can I do?”
Seneca was stunned by Nero’s revelation. This could turn into a serious situation, especially after what Agrippina had told him in strictest confidence.
“But, Nero, she’s no match for your royal blood!”
Nero’s blue eyes blazed at his tutor. “What has blood to do with love? If a dagger pierced my throat, wouldn’t my blood be the same color as that of any other man or woman? Don’t talk to me of blood and love when my own mother married her uncle!”
“Very well, Nero. Calm yourself. I see that I must entrust a secret to you.” Seneca paused for breath, closing his eyes and visualizing his own uncertain fate should Nero divulge this confidence. “If you love your teacher, and don’t wish to see his head on a pole on the Via Appia with his eyes plucked out by vultures, you won’t tell anyone I’ve told you this.”
Nero grew impatient. “What’s all this got to do with my love for Acte?”
“Everything!” Seneca sighed. “Last night the emperor signed the documents for your betrothal to Lady Octavia.”
Nero stared in disbelief and then shouted, “No! I won’t have her! I love Acte!”
Seneca clamped his hand over Nero’s mouth at his sudden outburst and looked toward the door to see if anyone was there to overhear.
In a soothing tone he reasoned with the young bull. “Don’t you see, Nero? This will seal your fate.”
Nero stormed about the room. “A fate that’s like death to me! I don’t care for Octavia as either a cousin or a stepsister, and I’d hate her as a wife! What’s more, I’m sure the marriage would be as odious to her as it is to me. She’s shown her dislike for me since the first moment we met. She’ll never consent to such a marriage.”
Seneca crossed the room and placed his hands on the youth’s shoulders. “You’ve missed my meaning, Nero. Hasn’t Acte refused you because of her mistress?”
Nero nodded, too outraged to speak.
“Then it seems you must accept one to have the other. Your betrothal to Lady Octavia will prevent her from joining the Vestals, so releasing Acte from a destiny she would never have chosen for herself.”
Nero calmed down and gazed into Seneca’s wise eyes. How did his teacher know so much? Of course, this was the way, the only way he would have the woman he desired.
“Seneca, you are my best friend!” Nero threw his arms around his surprised tutor in a strangling embrace.
“Then you’ll accept the betrothal without protest?”
“What other choice do I have, if it’s been decreed by the emperor?”
“None, I’m afraid,” Seneca replied.
Nero’s eyes glittered with happiness. He asked, “May I tell Acte that Octavia is to be betrothed soon? Of course, I won’t mention the name of her intended.”
Seneca hesitated. Perhaps he’d said too much already. But how could he refuse those pleading eyes?
“Tell her, and with my best wishes for the both of you. She is a delightful creature. But never mention my name in connection with this secret. I’ve grown so fond of my head, you know.”
Nero’s face grew solemn again. “Now, Seneca, you must tell me what to do. I have no experience in these matters with a woman.”
Seneca rested his bearded chin on his hand. What should he tell the boy in this regard? It had been so long since he’d dealt with virgins.
“Nero, tell me what you find pleasing about Acte.”
Nero’s whole being seemed to glow. “Acte possesses all that is gentle, sweet and beautiful in this world,” he began. “Her face shines with the beauty of Venus. Her lips taste like the first fruits of summer and her body fills my own with the heat of passion I’ve never experienced with any other. But at the same time, she’s as untouched and pure as the day she first saw the light of the sun. Her voice combines the sweetness of the flute and the lyre and is enough to make a strong man weep. The very sound of my name on her lips makes me weak as a baby and defenseless as a warrior without his weapon on the field of battle. Her touch is like lightning tingling my very soul.”
Seneca held up his hands as he spoke.
“Enough! Enough! Another word of her wondrous charms and I’ll be tempted to try to steal her from you. Only once in my lifetime have I known of such a woman, and she’s now beyond my reach. Go to her! Make her your own! One who speaks so eloquently of love needs no instruction in how to go about it. Follow your instincts, Nero. Please her and you will please yourself. Oh, to be young and enthralled with first love once more!”
Nero spied on Acte at every opportunity, and knew her daily routine. At this hour of the afternoon she would be in the garden of the palace gathering flowers for her mistress’s chambers. He found her on the far hill in the garden where the spicy wild sweet peas blossomed in a profusion of pinks, purples, lavenders and creamy white shading to yellow.
Not wishing to surprise Acte and have her flee from him once more, he called out her name when he was still several yards away.
She turned, a gentle smile lighting her face.
“Nero, what a pleasant surprise!”
He moved close, drinking in the fragrance of her body, mingled with that of her pungent bouquet.
“I have news, Acte. Good news!”
She touched his brow in a seemingly involuntary move to brush back a stray lock of his copper-gold crown.
“What news, Nero, and for whom?”
He took her delicate hand in his as he answered, “The best possible news, Acte. And for us.”
She lowered her head and a sad look came over her. “What good news could there be for us? We have no say in our destiny, and it is sealed. There is no ‘we,’ but only ‘he’ and ‘she.’”
The bouquet fell about her feet as Nero put his arms around her. “Never say that again! We’ll be together forever.”
As his mouth sought hers, she whispered urgently, “What’s happened, Nero, to bring about this change in our fates?”
He pulled himself away to answer. “Your Lady Octavia has been betrothed.”
Her hand flew to her mouth and her dark eyes stared in wonder. “But how could that be? She was determined to join the order of the Vestals.”
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