The Four Emperors

by David Blixt

  Two years after Antonia's death, Agrippina had been part of a plot to kill her brother Little Boots, to replace him with her sister's husband (also Agrippina's lover). The plot had failed and she had been sent into exile, during which time her husband had died, leaving her only with her son Lucius, who one day would be called Nero. Her one comfort, her one path back to power in a man's world, the only man she could fully control, dominate…

  “His own mother,” said Epira, shaking her head.

  Sextilla, still sitting perfectly straight on the edge of the couch, clucked her tongue. “Agrippina was one of those women who only understood controlling men with sex. Before her marriage to Crispus, she tried to seduce Galba. Fortunately he was far too much a stick-in-the-mud even then to consider being unfaithful to his wife. His mother slapped Agrippina in the face.”

  “And paid the price for it,” added Caenis warningly, “when Agrippina married Claudius Caesar.”

  Sextilla shrugged. She was too old to care what consequences loose talk might bring. Neither of her sons were going to rise high on the cursus honorum in any case. “My point is, when it came time to control Nero, it's little wonder she seduced him. It was all she knew.” She pointed at Acte. “Which is why she was so threatened by you.”

  “She was threatened,” admitted Acte. “Though she needn't have been. I was no danger to her.”

  “Rubbish. Of course you were. If he was lying with you, she lost her best hold on him.”

  “He loved his mother.”

  “Yes, right up to the moment he killed her.”

  Caenis was beginning to panic. They were well-beyond the bounds of acceptable talk. Other guests were now listening, and any of them might deem it to their advantage to tattle about the loose tongues at the house of Caenis. Which would endanger Vespasian. Calmly she said, “Pastries, anyone?”

  “He has certainly grown,” insisted Acte.

  “Yes,” agreed Epira. “He no longer wanders the streets of Rome by night vandalizing shops and assaulting both men and women.”

  “Because he got his podex kicked up and down the street,” snorted Sextilla. “A soldier he isn't.”

  “No,” agreed Acte. “He's actually a gentle soul. At heart, he is an artist. It is his eternal misfortune that he was made Caesar.”

  “Rubbish! He hasn't got an artistic bone in his body. He could never survive on talent alone. If he were not Caesar, he'd starve.”

  “Sextilla,” said Caenis, “the mulsum stands by you.”

  Even as one widow passed the wine, another kept stirring the pot. “My husband once told me a tale,” said Epira. “Agrippina had taken Aulus Plautius as a lover. You all remember.”

  “I certainly do,” said Acte. “He was most handsome.”

  “Well, it seems Nero Caesar did not like his mother having relations with this man. So he – he…” Epira blushed.

  Sextilla rolled her eyes. “He turned his mother's lover into a fellator. He made Aulus Plautius fellate him.”

  “Yes,” said Epira, relieved she did not have to say it. “Then he said, 'Let my mother come and kiss him now.' ”

  “And then Nero had him killed,” added Caenis in yet another warning.

  “Precisely,” said Sextilla. “He's like a dangerous child.”

  “Yes, that is the heart of it,” said Acte softly. “He is forced to be too many things. He is Princeps, artist, god, and child all at once. Is it any wonder he feels torn? Like the four horses that draw his chariot, he's all four of those things at once. Four competing imperatores, all daring to be the victors on the field of his all too-human frame.”

  “That is very fanciful,” scoffed Sextilla. “My answer is much simpler. He is the man his mother made him.”

  Acte bowed her head. “She degraded him. So he wants to see the world degraded to prove there is nothing wrong with him. That all humans are low, base creatures. He once told me he could forgive anything, any fault, any transgression, so long as the man admitted his base nature. That admission alone would have saved so many. Because, of course, it's true. Men are base creatures.”

  “Man may be base,” said Caenis. “But there are good men.”

  Acte shook her head vehemently. “I disagree. There is no man who is not, at his core, base. I do not think there is such a thing as a good man living in the world today.”

  * * *

  Sabinus walked down the stairs to a small chamber lit by a single brazier that smoked and glowed red. It was a small room, and water lapped up through the wooden slats of the floor. On either side he could see, between the woolen hangings, the sides of the massive air bladders that kept this monstrosity afloat. Roman engineers are the best in the history of the world, he reflected idly.

  After scanning the whole chamber, his eyes at last rested upon the central object in the room, the bed. In it, under a blanket, was a figure. She was obviously slightly built, the shape of her skinny legs clear beneath the silken sheet. She was also hiding.

  “Ave.” His voice was huskier than he would have liked.

  At first the figure in the bed did not move. Then, as if reluctantly dragging her body against her will, she sat up and peeked out from under the blanket.

  Sabinus frowned. He knew those eyes. He just did not know from where. More, she knew him. There was a flicker of recognition from her. But then, hadn't she been expecting him, or one of his family? Or were these women as unwilling as the ones along the shore?

  “I am Titus Flavius Sabinus,” he said, feeling like an utter fool. Did one talk in these circumstances? Or just get about one's business?

  Again the girl paused for a seeming eternity before answering, “I am Perel.” With that, she lowered the blanket enough that he could see her face.

  At once he knew her. How could he forget Domitia's slave-girl with the sorrowful, fallen face. Was this part of Nero's jest? Was this his vision of Apollo's oracle? Someone touched by a god? What did this mean?

  The girl was clearly no courtesan. She was still huddled under the blanket, fixed as if carved from stone. But her lip did not quaver. She did not recoil. Her eyes were dry. But it was clear by her very essence that being here was not a choice.

  It was not in Sabinus' nature to take his pleasure with an unwilling woman. He had never slept with a slave, never partaken in one of the more wild Saturnalias. He had loved his wife, and after her death he had occasionally visited one of the more high-end whores available in other towns, though never in Rome. He had never forced a woman to do something against her will. He was not about to start now.

  Just as he opened his mouth to tell the little Jewess not to be afraid, she dropped the sheet.

  * * *

  Climbing up into the topmost chamber, Domitian was excited to make a conquest that was entirely his. Here he could be the man, restore himself to what he'd been before Greece. Oh, he'd had women there. But they'd all known. Even as he'd pressed himself into them, he could see it in their eyes. They'd known he'd been unmanned, made into a weak vessel for another man's passions. The ultimate humiliation.

  But here he would take whichever noblewoman resided in this curtained chamber and fuck her raw. As Catullus had written, he would give her nine non-stop fuckifuckations. He would make her scream, and by the end she wouldn't know if it was joy or pain. He would prove he was a man, once and for all.

  As he reached the top, he heard noise. A feminine voice. It was sighing and moaning, breathing in quick little gasps of pleasure. Had someone beaten him to this room, deprived him of his conquest?

  Wrenching the curtain aside, he beheld a naked teenage girl with dark hair on her head, in her armpits, at her groin. She was seated on the floor, arching her back against the bed, her knees bent. Both her hands were between her legs, one stroking the damp patch of hair in quick short movements, the other reaching inside her with two fingers, pressing in and out in slow, unhurried movements. Head back, Domitia Longina's eyes were closed in ecstatic pleasure.

  Domitian could not k
now this was a first for her. Having studied the murals in her own house, she had decided this was what men wanted – for women to degrade themselves, make themselves their own partners. So often she had heard stories of men who liked to watch women make love to each other, or themselves, or a household pet. Desperate to win Nero's approval, she had decided to make herself the most desirable woman at court by being willing to do anything. As she touched herself, the noises she made were for whichever man had entered the chamber, and most of her delight was feigned. Most. But aware that she had an audience, she increased her noises and writhing, eager to impress whoever Nero had sent.

  Domitian knew none of this. All he knew in that moment was that she did not need him to reach climax. She did not need him at all. He was useless. Superfluous. Unmanly.

  Suddenly Domitian could not breathe. He felt his heart hammering, his knees weak, his lungs burning. He felt like a band of pressure was upon his sternum, squeezing him. Horrifically, he could not stop himself. Falling to his knees, he burst into tears, weeping as he had not since he was a child.

  Domitia opened her eyes, a welcoming smile on her face. But that turned into a puzzled frown as she beheld Titus Flavius Domitianus curled into a ball by the door to the chamber. Her first thought was disappointment that it wasn't his uncle Sabinus. The second was, What did I do wrong?

  * * *

  Verulana Gratilla raked her nails down Tertius' back, making him gasp. From the moment he'd entered they had thrown themselves into love-making with real urgency, pushing and pulling at each other, flipping from one position to the next. When she had reached down to pinch his scrotum he had slapped her backside so hard she'd have a bruise. Laughing, she had gone to work with her teeth on his manhood, making him gasp and pull her head away by the hair. That had been when he had started hammering at her gates with his battering ram, grinding down on her with all his weight.

  As she scratched him he cried out, grasping her wrists so tightly it was painful. She shrieked and pushed her pelvis hard against his, urging and daring him on even as she bit his chest.

  * * *

  Clemens entered his curtained chamber in the second floor already hearing squeals from both above and below – Domitian and Tertius were already having fun. He wished the synthesis was a little less close-fitting, as his obvious arousal was embarrassing – he was no Mark Antony, who reportedly wore tunics so short he could expose his manhood just by raising his arms.

  Inside the chamber was a figure with long black hair seated facing the opposite direction. The perfume that filled the room was intoxicating. Clemens decided to put his best face on this, his first sex act. Boldness! He walked over and began stroking the hair. He felt a shudder beneath his hand, and for a moment he thought due to the chill air. But no – a second shudder was followed by a long, resolute sniffle. Then the figure turned, putting on a brave smile.

  The face was beautiful, expertly painted with rouged cheeks, blue-tinted eyelids, crimson lips. But some of the stibium from the eyelids had trailed down the cheeks in tears, marring the perfection. Nonetheless, the face was the spitting image of Nero's late wife, Poppaea Sabina. It was also a male.

  Clemens took a step back, and the boy Spiros smiled seductively through the tear-stained make-up. “Forgive me. I had something in my eye.” His voice was a high purr, and he formed his words in Greek with a very Latin accent – he had been well coached on how to emulate the late Poppaea, who had hailed from Pompeii. “Come, sit down. I am to be your priestess. Call me Sabina.”

  Erection embarrassingly still evident, Clemens did not move to sit. “It's, ah – a pleasure to meet you. I've heard a great deal about you.”

  Spiros' smile was so wan it was almost a grimace. “I'm sure. Come, sit with me. You look tense. There are ways to mend that.”

  Clemens was half-tempted to comply. Not only to satisfy his loins, but also for fear of Nero's wrath if he did not. But the idea of touching another man's penis, even if it no longer worked, was finally having the effect he wanted. He was no longer aroused. Now he simply had to find something to say.

  Seeing the obvious wane of interest through the folds of the synthesis, Spiros gave another smile, even as his eyes misted. “You are a man for women. And I am not yet enough woman for you, I see.”

  “I'm afraid not,” said Clemens, adding, “Sorry.”

  Spiros shook his head. “No need to be sorry. I'm the one who will be sorry when you tell Caesar I could not please you.” His eyes misted and he had trouble swallowing.

  “I won't tell if you won't,” said Clemens seriously. In that moment he realized that this poor Greek lad was barely younger than himself. Taking a seat at the far end of the bed, Clemens said kindly, “Are you well?”

  In a moment Spiros' false smile evaporated and he began to weep again, turning away to hide his face. Clemens was left utterly confused as to what he should do next.

  * * *

  The Jewess was a breath-taking beauty. Whatever had touched her face had left no mark upon her flawless body. For someone so small, her breasts were full and deliciously heavy. Though her skin was darker than any Roman hue, the areolae around her nipples were a deep brownish-pink. The blanket had fallen to her waist, tantalizingly hiding her womanhood, but revealing her hips and just a hint of curve to her pert teenaged buttocks.

  Sabinus had a moment of pure lust, a wave of desire that nearly had him pulling off his synthesis and exploring those curves with his hands, his mouth. At the same moment he thought, She's young enough to be my child. Hideously, that did not quell the desire.

  Seneca! What would the great Stoic say? 'A gift consists not in what is done or given, but in the intention of the giver or doer.'

  On the other hand, 'True happiness is finding enjoyment in the present, without anxious dependence upon the future.' The girl was ripe and tempting.

  'Shame forbids what the law does not.' Also, 'Do not ask for what you will wish you had not got.'

  What Sabinus was wishing for was a toga to drape over her. Also to hide his own embarrassment. Confronted with this naked teenaged girl, his thirty-five year old body was reacting of its own volition. When he walked forward, hands outstretched, he wasn't quite sure what he would do.

  It was the look in her eye that made up his mind. She was steeled, ready to endure something dreadful. She was brave and defiant. She was also frightened.

  Entirely unbidden, the final words of the Pythia returned to him:

  Alone, unsung, all but Forgot,

  Save by the Jew who lays a plot

  To defeat a dreaded Despot.

  Gazing at her naked curves, Sabinus thought, Is this girl the Jew? Does she somehow have a hand in overthrowing Nero? And if she is the one soul who keeps me alive in history, is this how I want to be remembered – a despoiler of frightened young girls?

  Lifting the blanket, he wrapped her in it, covering her nakedness. She looked at him curiously, not daring to hope. He smiled and patted her shoulder paternally. “Not today. I've seen enough of Apollo's priestess to know better than call down her wrath.”

  Perel relaxed a little, but it was a brief respite. As she glanced at the door, Sabinus could read her thoughts. Would the next man be as kind?

  Am I protecting her, by not taking her for myself? Or am I simply saving myself from humiliation? If another man comes down those stairs, he'll have his way with her and never give a fig if I spared her. If I leave her here, this act of selflessness on my part is without meaning. She'll be just as ravaged, just as humiliated.

  So am I doing this for her? Or for myself?

  “Get your dress on. I'll be back in a moment.”

  * * *

  Domitian was blubbering, his breath coming in fits and starts like a frightened child. Domitia was kneeling beside him, utterly bewildered and vaguely ashamed. Wasn't what she had done what men wanted? What had she done wrong?

  She stroked his hair, tentatively at first, then more soothingly. He pressed his eyes together as he b
it down on his lips, trying to control himself. Snot poured out of his nose. He hadn't realized how ashamed he felt, how deep his pain, until just this moment. He couldn't bring himself to look at this woman, much less do what he came in here to do. And what would happen when she told her friends? Told the court? Told Nero? He curled tighter.

  Domitia looked down on him and wondered what was happening. Clearly he was unmanned by her masturbation, but it couldn't be that alone. Something had happened to him, something that took him by surprise – his penis had obviously been erect when he'd entered. It was still partly engorged, even as he curled around it to hide himself. He had expected to have sex, and had been eager, climbing to the top room. He was obviously not uninterested. Is it me? Am I that unattractive?

  But no, that made no sense either. Disgust at her would have been different, not prompted tears. What on earth was wrong with him?

  That question answered another. There's nothing wrong with me. There's something wrong with him! He's as broken…

  As I am.

  With that thought in mind she got up on her knees and reached for Domitian. “Shhh. Shhhhh.” Lifting his face with both her hands, she pressed her forehead against his. “Shh. It's alright. I won't tell. You're safe. You're safe.”

  * * *

  On the Aegyptian barge floating across the lake, Nero was enjoying himself immensely as he watched the frenzy on the shore grow even as the sun set. The rabble had come out in force, not only drinking greedily but also quarrelling and wantoning riotously. The noble women had been hauled out into the open air for all to see. From their vantage on the water, the Princeps' party laughed at a slave debauching his mistress under the eyes of his master. And there was a gladiator humping a noble Roman lass while her father took his pleasure on the next couch. Over by the professional whores, one woman was being carried off into the new-planted woods, kicking and screaming, by a party of men. Another limp feminine figure was tossed into the lake to float facedown, having been suffocated by the bodies atop and around her.