Rapture's Slave

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “Now, my lovely, you will understand that I mean what I say. You’ll give me a son or pay a price for refusing me. Not until I’m guaranteed that an heir is on the way will I divorce Octavia. And, until that time comes, you’ll lie with no other man, including the lustful Tigellinus. If I have to beat you into submission and tie you up to take you, so be it. I find this rather to my liking.”

  He moved close to the couch and ran his hand up her leg, then over her belly and breasts. When a new kind of moan escaped her lips, Nero fell on her, forcing entry. He battered her brutally to force his point home. The next exclamation from Poppaea was one of exquisite pleasure.

  Nero untied her and carried her limp form to the bath. He spent the next hour cleaning her wounds. Poppaea seemed subdued and submissive, but her mind worked in other channels.

  Once she was laid in the emperor’s high bed, Poppaea purred to the now solicitous Nero, “You’ve convinced me. In fact, I find this new manner of lovemaking satisfying, though a bit painful. I wouldn’t wish it every day, but an occasional show of force is pleasant—a change.”

  Nero, feeling some remorse at his actions, lay beside Poppaea and stroked her hair as she went on.

  “I’ll give you an heir, Nero, but there’s another obstacle in the way of our marriage.”

  He looked at her, surprised. “Am I not emperor? No obstacle can bar my way.”

  “There’s one which might. What if you weren’t emperor?”

  Nero raised himself up on one elbow and spoke in a shocked tone. “What are you talking about? I’ll be on the throne until the day I join the gods, at which time our son will take my place.”

  A smile curled on Poppaea’s bruised lips. “There are plots afoot, Nero. That’s what Tigellinus and I were discussing earlier. If steps aren’t taken soon, you may be dethroned.”

  Nero flung himself off the bed and paced the chamber angrily. “Who would dare plot against me?” he demanded. “All of Rome loves me. Haven’t I given them fair rule, entertainments of the most artistic form, gifts of food and money? Tigellinus is lying to try to turn you against me!”

  “Tigellinus is loyal to you, Nero. He’s telling the truth. Your own mother is said to be behind the main plot, though there are others in the wind.”

  Nero stopped pacing and stared in disbelief. “My mother? Never! She’s the one who put me on the throne. Why would she want to replace me, and with whom?”

  Poppaea’s answer came calm and assured. “She helped you become emperor when she thought that she could control your every action. But now that she knows you intend to divorce Octavia and marry me, and she’s no longer here with her hand in every pot, she’s looking for someone else to use.”

  “And who might that be?” Nero bristled. “Since you seem to know so much.”

  Poppaea’s smile faded as she spoke the name. “Britannicus.”

  “Britannicus?” Nero’s shout and laugh echoed hollowly through the chamber. “Why, he’s a mere child, and so sick that he scarcely leaves his bed these days. Why would my mother, even if she were plotting my overthrow as you say, choose him?”

  Poppaea sat up and winced with pain. “A weakling is exactly what your mother requires. Don’t you see, Nero? She wanted to be emperor. She thought through you she’d have that position, if not the name. But you’re your own man. She hadn’t bargained for that. And there are others.”

  Fear began to creep into Nero’s voice. “What others?”

  “Sulla, that husband of Claudius’s daughter Antonia, for one. And Plautus, even though he’s been banished to Asia Minor. News of his plotting has filtered back to Rome. Tigellinus thinks it wise that both men be executed for treason. I agree. As for your mother, something must be done soon. She’s too close to be trusted.”

  Nero’s face went crimson. “Are you suggesting that I have my own mother put to death? That’s preposterous! I will not!”

  “The words weren’t mine, Nero, but yours. I suggest that you speak with Tigellinus and get the full story. I prefer not to mix in politics. I’m only passing the news to you because you seem so oblivious to anything that doesn’t have to do with racing, music or poetry.”

  The distress in Nero’s face let Poppaea know that she’d accomplished what she set out to do. Nero would have to free himself from his mother one way or another. Poppaea knew full well that, heir or no heir, Nero would never make her his wife as long as Agrippina lived to come between them.

  As Nero rose to dress, Poppaea positioned her aching body in an inviting pose and stretched her arms out to him. She didn’t want more of him, but to give herself freely now would secure her hold on him.

  “Come to me once more, Nero, before you go to see Tigellinus. If we’re going to have a son, it will take both of us.”

  Nero looked down at his body, spent with passion and rage.

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to plant your fertile field right now, my dear,” he answered wearily.

  “Come, Nero. I’ll give you new energy so that the planting season won’t be wasted.”

  He lay down again beside Poppaea on the bed. Nero moaned in a mingling of ecstasy and agony as he felt her moist warm lips restoring him. She worked expertly until he readily took her.

  When he dressed, he felt drained and utterly under the control of this witch-woman who could force anything from him anytime she wished. Yes, he would speak with Tigellinus, and yes, he would have to deal with his mother. The thought made him shudder. As he started to leave the chamber, he glanced at the now sleeping Poppaea, her bare back striped by his whip. The knowledge of the pain he’d caused her and the pleasure she’d given him stabbed at his heart.

  While Acte and her household moved into the spacious villa of Augustus, all of Rome seemed on the move as well. The season had arrived when the summer heat forced those who owned homes on the bay to seek them out for the comfort of a refreshing breeze and relief from the stench of the decaying city. Nero moved his household into a villa on the Bay of Baiae while Agrippina took up residence in a nearby family home at Lake Lucrina.

  The whole coast put on a holiday face. Families gave lavish entertainments for their relatives and neighbors. Hardly a night went by that Acte couldn’t stand on her balcony and watch the brightly painted barges with their colored lights and noisy merrymakers cruise by. She yearned to be a part of the happy throngs, but had to be content with watching from a distance. Still, she was happy. Sergio had promised he’d come soon. She could be content knowing that.

  To her surprise a runner from the emperor’s villa arrived with an invitation to attend a party three days later. The note, written in Nero’s own hand, explained it was to celebrate Britannicus’s birthday. Poppaea refused to go, since Agrippina would be there, and Octavia had especially requested that Acte be invited—a request Nero gladly honored. He himself would come for her, and he hoped she wouldn’t mind if he came early so they could have some time alone together after so long.

  Acte clutched her breast as she read the note. She anticipated Sergio’s arrival on that very day. Everything was ready for her lover’s visit. What would she do if the two arrived at the same time?

  On the morning of the appointed arrivals, Acte sent Nike and young Lucius to the seashore for an outing so that Nero wouldn’t see how much the baby had grown to look like him. When they were safely away, a nervous Acte dressed carefully. Her summer yellow gown draped in soft folds about her and swirled at her slightest movement. The bodice, though demure, showed off her figure to advantage. In her shining hair she pinned a yellow rose from a bush in the garden planted for her at Nero’s request. He didn’t know that her preference for the flowers held special significance for her and Sergio.

  As she heard the sound of horses’ hooves crunch the shell drive which formed a half-moon in front of the villa, Acte jumped. Positioning herself on a pale-green satin couch by the windows that overlooked the marshes, she waited, trying to exude a calmness she didn’t f
eel. Which of her lovers would it be?

  She heard the door open. Acte arranged her skirts to show her silver-sandaled feet and shapely ankles. A glance at the table nearby assured her that the wine was chilled and special delicacies were ready for her guest. When she heard footsteps nearing the door, she took a deep breath and lit up her face with a smile.

  At her first sight of Nero, she felt disappointment along with a familiar tug at her heart. He’d never looked so handsome as in his summer toga with his face bronzed by Apollo. He was truly a man now. They were no longer children playing at love.

  Nero stood gazing back at her. There seemed no words to convey what either of them was feeling at that moment. He saw her as a woman in her prime—his woman—whom he loved more than any living being. For a moment his mind was free from thoughts of Poppaea, worries over his mother, pain at the thought of plots and would-be assassins. His entire world existed within this room-—in this woman. Without a word, he went to where she sat and knelt beside her. His kisses covered her hands and quickly spread up her arms and finally found her lips. She didn’t resist.

  Then looking into her dark eyes, he whispered, “We don’t have much time. I must love you now, Acte.”

  She rose from the couch and turned from him in confusion. “Let the flames die, Nero. We can still be friends, but the days of our love are past. Please, don’t tempt me. I’ve given all I can to you, and you—you can give me nothing.”

  “Nothing!” he snapped. “I, the Emperor of Rome, can give you nothing? Name your price, if that’s the way you want it between us. I come to you offering my deepest affection, but if that isn’t enough, I’ll pay you as I would any common wh—” He stopped himself, but not in time.

  Acte turned a hard gaze on him. “Go ahead, Nero, call me what I am! Acte—the emperor’s whore! Why should you shy away from the word when everyone else uses it?”

  Nero went to her and, crushing her in his arms, demanded, “Take me to your bed, Acte. I’ll show you that I still care for you as I always have. Let it be as it was so long ago between us. Forget everyone else. The other women in my life mean nothing to me. Only you matter to me, Acte.”

  Her body shook with fury—fury that Nero could walk in and out of her life at will and expect nothing to change—fury with herself that she could still be stirred by him in spite of everything else.

  “No, Nero. I won’t give myself to you.” Her words were spoken without conviction.

  As if he read the confusion in her mind, Nero closed one arm about her and whispered love words into her ear while his free hand caressed her beneath her gown.

  She sighed and let her body go limp against him.

  “Your chamber, Acte, which way?” Nero urged.

  Her last defenses crumbled. She led him up the stairs to her gold-and-white room, which was perfumed by dozens of vases of roses. The bed with green satin sheets was ready—Nero thought for him, but actually for Sergio. Acte had turned the room into an imitation garden. Above the bed, instead of a canopy, a pair of white latticed arbors held a midnight-blue netting studded with silver to simulate a night sky filled with stars.

  Nero took Acte into his arms and whispered, “You’re a wonder! You remembered the garden where we first found love to the last detail. Come, my dear. Let me take you once again in the secret bower which is ours alone.”

  Acte’s voice was also no more than a whisper. “That garden is gone, Nero. This is only an imitation like the feeling left between us. We remember our love for each other, but we don’t cherish it as we once did. I beg of you, Nero, let it fade.” She pushed her way out of his arms.

  His anger flared once more. “Are you saying that you no longer love me—that there’s another? I’ll kill him!”

  Terrified by Nero’s words, afraid he might have heard of or guessed her ongoing relationship with Sergio, Acte stammered, “No, Nero. I only meant that we aren’t the innocent children we once were. You have Poppaea and—”

  He cut her off angrily. “And! And? You have whom? Tell me his name, Acte. Is it the gladiator? I know now that you’ve loved another. Tell me! I command you!”

  Nero placed his hands on her shoulders and forced Acte to her knees before him. Her mind swam with the horrors of what Nero might do to Sergio. She bit her lips to stay her cries against his cruel treatment. She would not tell him—ever.

  He tore off his toga. “Very well! I came here to love you, but if you won’t love Nero, you will pay homage to him. Repeat after me: I am Caesar’s to do with as he will.”

  With her eyes tightly shut against the horror of the scene, Acte opened her lips to repeat Nero’s words. As she did so, he rammed his ready cock into her mouth, gagging her with the force of his unexpected thrust.

  Holding her head in a viselike grip between his hands, he moved rhythmically back and forth while chanting with his eyes closed in ecstasy, “You are Caesar’s to do with as he will.”

  Acte felt her body go faint as his torture continued. There was no escape from him. She would strangle in moments. Already she could feel her breath coming in shallow gasps. Suddenly she clutched his testicles in her long-nailed fingers.

  With a scream, Nero withdrew from her, only to lift her from the floor and throw her onto the bed. He fell upon her like an animal on its prey, tearing into her until she begged and cried for mercy. When he had fulfilled his needs, he rolled away from her. Acte lay in shamed misery, her whole body aching from his abuse.

  When he regained his breath, Nero held Acte’s quaking shoulders to the pillow and glared down at her. “Now you see what it is like to be a whore. Never forget what’s happened here today, Acte. And never deny me again. Now we’ll proceed to my villa to celebrate Britannicus’s birthday. You’ll act pleasant and natural. I do love you. But you need a lesson in humility. Should you not meet with my approval during the day, you’ll have another before the night. You are mine to use as I will. You may accept my love or be forced into it. The decision is yours, my dear.”

  Without a word, Acte fled the room and vomited. Though inwardly she seethed, she put on a submissive face. She would not, could not, let Nero know she had another lover. Somehow she would get through this day, and then Nero would go away and forget her as he had so often in the past.

  In the closed carriage on the road, Acte settled back dutifully to listen to Nero’s running commentary. He seemed satisfied that he’d put her in her place and now acted as if the hour in her bedchamber had never taken place.

  “This party for Britannicus was my mother’s idea. She thought it would be a wise gesture to silence the waggling tongues. There have been differences, and Mater thought for a time that Poppaea might have driven me to a madness. It was then that she planned to oust me and put Britannicus on the throne. I learned of this in time to reason with her. She was angered past endurance with Poppaea, who she says has been spreading vicious lies about her. But all is well now, though the two still can’t stand each other.”

  Acte had heard more of this story than Nero guessed. So to seem interested, she asked, “What about Sulla and Plautus?”

  Nero shook his head sadly. “A nasty business! Antonia was the one behind that plot. She said that since her father was emperor, and she was the eldest of his children to survive, her husband should rule in my place. Poor, dull Sulla lost his head because of his wife’s tongue. She should have been the one to die.” Then casually he added, “You know, I never realized that Sulla had such a large nose until I examined his severed head.”

  Acte shivered, and Nero tried to put his arm around her shoulders. She pulled away.

  He continued, “Plautus’s death was a simple mistake. Word reached Rome from Asia Minor that he was plotting my overthrow. I discussed this with Tigellinus and told him that I felt no threat whatsoever from that quarter. But the message sent to the troops in that area was garbled and they took it as an execution order from Tigellinus. The poor man was accosted by a dozen soldiers in the garden
of his own villa and chopped to death in full view of his horrified wife. There wasn’t enough left of him to send back to Rome. They say his blood soaked his wife’s dress and now she vows to wear the stained garment until the day she dies. I always thought that Antista Pollitta was a bit off in the head, but to wear her husband’s blood forever—gruesome, simply gruesome!”

  Acte felt rather ill at Nero’s descriptive narrative and decided to change the subject. “You haven’t yet divorced Octavia to marry Poppaea?” Though she knew the answer, she asked the question hoping she might get some explanation.

  “No, I’ve issued an ultimatum to Poppaea. I won’t go through with the divorce and marriage until Poppaea is pregnant with my child. The idea repulsed her at first, but I persuaded her. What need do I have for another barren wife? I wouldn’t mention this to anyone but you, Acte, but I feel that I may be the one at fault. Until some woman shows me positive proof that I’m able to father a child, I won’t marry anyone again.”

  The pain in his voice filled Acte with guilt. How could she keep the truth from him? Didn’t he have a right to know? Lucius was growing up fine and strong. Nero would be so proud of him. And the boy needed a father. What better father than the emperor? And he might marry her, if he knew. She looked up into his face, now grown suddenly sad. Still angry with him, but feeling her obligation to her son, Acte made her decision.

  “Nero, I have something to tell you—something I should have admitted long ago.”

  His face brightened. He broke in, “It’s the boy, isn’t it? I knew all along. He’s mine!” He threw his arms around Acte and covered her face with kisses. “You should have told me before. Oh, Poppaea will be so pleased! I’ll bring him to live at the palace and she won’t have to ruin her figure by having my child. Believe me, Acte, she’ll raise him like her own and I’ll lie the best father he could ever wish for. What is he called?”