Mistress of Rome

by Kate Quinn

  “Hmm.” I tapped my lacquered scarlet nails against each other. “Who was he?”

  “Just a slave, Domina. Ganymede, his name is. Her body slave. All folded up around Lady Athena. S’what my friend says, anyway.”

  “Well!” I made a note to find out more about this Ganymede. “You’ve done very nicely. Take this, and tell your friend there’s another purse for her. Anything else she can tell me, of course—”

  “Yes, Domina.” My maid bowed out, already counting her coins. I sat down at my little desk, musing. A slave for a lover . . . not much to go on, really. I wished Thea had chosen someone a little more scandalworthy—say one of the Imperial cousins or even Paulinus. Bedding a slave wasn’t much of a sin; even patrician ladies frequently amused themselves with handsome slaves. Lollia Cornelia, that famous patrician hostess who was mother to Lady Flavia Domitilla, was well known to have borne two children by her body servant. But Lady Lollia’s husbands came and went, happy to let her do as she pleased . . . would the Emperor be so obliging? The Emperor who had once had some unassuming actor killed on the vaguest, most ridiculous rumor that the man was mounting his impeccable Empress?

  I thought not.

  Maybe Thea’s indiscretion would give good value after all. Phrasing would be everything . . .

  I began, delightedly, to compose a certain letter.

  Twenty-seven

  HEY!” Lady Flavia’s son stumbled backward, looking down at the welt across his ribs. “Not so hard.”

  “And the crowds roar as fi rst blood goes to Vercingetorix the Vicious!” Vix whooped, and he brought up his wooden sword again, circling in the practice ring of the gymnasium. Arius watched from the sidelines, chewing on a straw. Vix didn’t often spar with the two princes—“They’re too easy!” he scoffed—but the younger boy’s tutor was laid up with a fever and he’d begged a workout from Vix. Arius wondered if he might be regretting it: The boy was Vix’s age but a head smaller. A nice boy. He often sneaked meat scraps from his own plate for Arius’s dog after dinner.

  “The opponent begs for mercy,” Vix chanted, swinging two-handed. “The first games of October, and Vercingetorix the Vicious looks ready to take his fi rst kill.”

  The boy dodged, letting out a hiss of pain as the flat of Vix’s blade cracked across his shoulder. “Vix, this isn’t funny.” Arius was starting to think it wasn’t funny, either.

  “Vercingetorix closes in—”

  The young prince crumpled into the sand with a howl, leg streaming blood. “Vix, stop it! You’ve won, all right? You won!”

  Arius spat out the straw in his mouth.

  “The Colosseum erupts as Vercingetorix closes in for the slow kill!” Vix flung himself on his opponent and laid the wooden blade across his throat, digging the dull edge slowly into the soft flesh.

  “Vix—” Scrabbling.

  “The thumbs signal for death across the stands—” Vix pressed his fingers against the beating jugular—

  And slammed into the sand as Arius knocked him loose with the side of one fist.

  “He’s had enough,” said the Barbarian.

  Vix blinked, as if coming out of a dream. Flavia’s son was on his knees, rasping for air. A wide shallow cut lay across his throat. “He was—he was going to kill me—”

  “Go get patched up.”

  Lady Flavia’s son didn’t need to be told twice. He took one look and limped off.

  Arius took a deep breath and kicked Vix over onto his back.

  “Hey.” Scrabbling upright. “I was just playing! I was in the Colosseum; they were all cheering me like they cheered you—”

  The first blow knocked a tooth out of his head.

  VIX puked twice on the way back to his father’s hut. Both times Arius waited until he was finished, then picked him up again and hauled him onward.

  “I’m bleeding,” Vix said through puffy lips as Arius dumped him on the packed dirt floor of the vineyard hut.

  “You’ll live.” Arius took stock of the injuries he’d inflicted on his son: one side tooth lost, jaw swollen, both eyes blacked, bloody nose, ribs marked by sandal prints. He winced inside, but clamped his teeth on it.

  “You killed me,” Vix rasped. “You son of a bitch, you’ve killed me.”

  “You deserved it,” returned the Barbarian, tossing more wood on the fire. “Arrogant little bastard.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Fuck you, boy.”

  Arius stripped off his sandals and settled down with his back against the wattled clay wall. He cored an apple with his dagger, eating off the point and wondering what the hell he was going to do next. He’d gotten a beating or two from his own father as a boy, but his dimly remembered mother had been the one to follow it up with the appropriate stern but kindly words. That was a mother’s job, wasn’t it? He didn’t have the slightest idea what to say. I wish Thea were here.

  “Don’t I get any dinner?” Vix asked.

  “No.”

  “How about a bandage?”

  “You want to be a gladiator? Sit there and bleed, and hope you get better.”

  “Thanks.”

  Arius flicked the apple core at the dog.

  Vix dragged himself up, resting his back against the wall by his father. “I wouldn’t have hurt him.”

  Arius turned over a few responses to that, but decided on silence.

  “I was just playing!”

  “No more lessons,” Arius said finally. “Not from me.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  “I won’t have a bully for a son.”

  “You weren’t even around the first ten years,” Vix snarled.

  “I’m around now, and I don’t teach bullies how to fight.”

  Vix looked sullen.

  “Just tell me something.” Arius rotated the knife blade, looking at the fire. “Do you hear a voice in your head, when you fight? A little black voice?”

  Vix looked startled. Arius looked at him, searching for words, but found none. He was no good with words. They both looked away, stretching their legs toward the fire, and Vix groaned as a joint popped. “I hate you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “I don’t suppose Lady Flavia’ll take me to Rome with her, now.”

  “I don’t suppose she will.”

  “She’s going to a dinner party at the palace, she said. Next month, when the Emperor announces the kids as heirs. Said she’d take me, so I could see Mother afterward.” Vix shrugged. “Who cares about seeing the Emperor anyway.”

  “You ever seen the Emperor before?” Arius ripped a loaf of rough bread in half.

  “Once.”

  “What’d you think?”

  “I hated him,” said Vix. “Pass the bread.”

  Arius guessed the stern lecture part of the night was done. He passed Vix the bread, wishing he could ask Thea if he’d done it right. They chewed; Vix painfully, Arius quietly.

  “You heard from your mother?”

  “Not much. She sends a word to Lady Flavia now and then. She says somebody probably reads her letters.”

  They leaned their heads back against the wall, closing their eyes. They linked identical sword-callused hands around identical scarred brown knees.

  “Don’t listen to that voice,” Arius said, eyes still closed. “The one in your head. And you’re still leaving yourself too wide on that underhand swing.”

  Maybe he wouldn’t cut off Vix’s lessons just yet.

  THEA

  SO, Athena.” Domitian stroked my head as I sat at his feet. “Shall I tell you what I found out today?”

  “Will I be able to stop you, Caesar?”

  “Oh, Athena. Still so shrewish. I thought you would have learned better by now.”

  “All right. All right! I’ve learned.”

  “Then be quiet like a good girl, then, and listen. I have a certain spy out in Judaea. He must be quite industrious, because he’s managed to find something that slipped past all my other spies.”

  �
��And what’s that?”

  “Your origins. My dear, you’re looking pale. Some wine? It’s an excellent vintage. Confiscated from the estate of Lucius Aesernia . . . who may have been a traitor, but he certainly knew his wines.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Lucius Aesernia?”

  “Your spy!”

  “Oh, him. You know, I already uncovered most of your history—that Athenian merchant who taught you Greek and deflowered you, Quintus Pollio, your taste for gladiators. But the early years? A blank. Until a rather interesting report from a man of mine in Judaea. A cliff-top fortress, a hot night, a city full of dead Jews . . . and a few who survived. Need I go on?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know that there were six other survivors besides you, Athena? Two old women and four other children, all of them boys. I had them traced, out of curiosity. Do you know where they are now, your brother and sister survivors?”

  “. . . Where?”

  “Dead! Every one of them. Mostly killed for bringing bad luck to the families who bought them. The last Jews of Masada, spreading ill fortune to any they touched. You, it seems, are the only one left. And you’ve never brought me bad luck, have you?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “I remember Masada, you know. Titus the Golden wept—he had a fondness for Jews—but I laughed.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  Abruptly Domitian seized my head between his hands from behind.

  “No—no that hurts, that hurts—”

  “You said you were a goddess, Athena.”

  “I am—I am—”

  “No, you’re lying.” He squeezed my head like a walnut in a vise. “You slipped out of some Jewess in a desert, screaming and covered in blood like any other mortal, and you aren’t a goddess at all. I’m the god here, not you. Only one god in Rome. Got rid of Arius the Barbarian, got rid of you—”

  “But you haven’t gotten rid of me. Not yet. So stop babbling and do it.”

  “Oh yes, oh yes, but not until I hear it.”

  “Hear what?”

  “You know what. Say it.”

  “That I’m afraid? You’re afraid, Caesar, afraid of me, and I’m only a Jewess born wailing and screaming in a desert—”

  “Stop laughing. Stop it!”

  “I am Athena.” Laughing with a crazy suicidal glee, despite the crushing pain in my skull. “Before that I was Thea, singer and slave and lover of gladiators. Before that I was Leah, daughter of Benjamin and Rachael of Masada. I am as mortal as you, you common little man.” I raised my voice to a joyous shout for the slaves outside the chamber, for the Emperor’s hangers-on, for the whole world. “And I fear no one!”

  He stared down at me a moment. Then he laughed.

  It was eight days before I could leave my bed.

  I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.” Justina’s eyes touched warmly on

  Paulinus. “But here you are, and in all your finery, too.”

  “I go to the Domus Flavia in an hour.” Paulinus tucked his scarlet-crested helmet under his arm. “The Emperor is holding a formal banquet in honor of his niece and her sons.”

  They fell into step, perfectly synchronized as they walked along the pale marble corridor. Other priestesses hurried by in fluttering white veils, and Roman matrons come to whisper prayers in preparation for Saturnalia, the year-end festival where the household was turned upside-down and made ready for the new year. No one gave a second glance to the Vestal and the Prefect. The sight of their heads bent in consultation was a common one in the public rooms. In any case, those who might have been happy to speculate about a Vestal Virgin would not dare utter a word against the Emperor’s best friend.

  “I did something today.” Paulinus clasped his hands at the small of his back, a gesture copied from Domitian. “Lepida—she sent me a note at the Praetorian barracks, the way she does sometimes. ‘Tonight,’ that’s what it said. I always tell my centurions to take over for the evening. But today—”

  “What?”

  “I started to call them in. And then—I don’t know. I just turned the note over and wrote ‘I’m busy’ on the other side, and sent it straight back.” His eyes flicked up to Justina’s. “I’ve never done that before.”

  “So why now?”

  “I thought of what you’d say if you could see me. What you’d think.”

  “What did you think I’d think?”

  “I thought you’d be—understanding. And I don’t want you to be understanding. I want you to be proud.”

  “I am proud.”

  “Of me?”

  “Of you.”

  He blew a long breath. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old are you?”

  She blinked. “Twenty-nine.”

  “So you have ten more years of service to Vesta before you retire?”

  “Yes.”

  “When your ten years are up,” he said, “marry me.”

  Silence.

  When he dared to look up, her eyes were huge. “Paulinus—”

  “What?”

  “I—” She looked away, fidgeting for the first time since he’d known her. “It’s bad luck to wed a former Vestal.”

  “I’ll take my chances with Fortuna.”

  “Paulinus, it’s ten years from now. And I won’t break my vows before that—”

  “I know you won’t. I’ll wait.”

  “I’ll be thirty-nine years old by then. Too old to give you children.”

  “I don’t want children, I want you.” He moved to seize her hand, thought of the stream of passing worshippers, and contented himself with lowering his voice. “I’ve known you forever, Justina. Long before I ever set eyes on you. I don’t care how long I have to wait.”

  She pulled back. Her eyes touched his a moment, and then flitted away. She reached up to adjust her veil. “I can’t—I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say maybe. Think it over. You’ve got ten years to decide.”

  “But Calpurnia—”

  “She doesn’t want to marry me, either—we’ve traded one excuse after another these past years, any reason not to set a wedding date. Tonight I tell the Emperor I’m breaking off the betrothal. Calpurnia’s an heiress; she won’t have any trouble finding another husband. Say you’ll think about it,” he urged. “Just say that.”

  “All—all right.” Faintly.

  A mad rush of glory flooded his head. “Then I’ll go. That’s all I came to say—gods, it took me all day to work up the nerve! Even Saturninus and his Germans were better than this!” He laughed dizzily; wanting to shout, wanting to dance.

  Her veil fluttered back as she looked up at him, and he caught sight of a loop of hair beside her ear. It must have slipped free when she adjusted her headdress . . . pale hair, just as he’d imagined. He reached out and touched it.

  “It’s like corn silk,” he said. “Or Scythian gold.”

  She was still standing in the center of the marble room when he left her.

  ROME

  WELL?” Marcus smiled. “Do I pass muster?” Calpurnia adjusted the folds of his palla over his crooked shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

  “You look lovely yourself. Yellow suits you.”

  She looked down, fidgeting with a gold bracelet. “I’d still rather stay here and read in the library than go to any Imperial dinner.” Since the horror of the betrothal banquet she hadn’t set foot in the palace. Marcus could imagine what she must be thinking.

  He touched her chin, bringing her eyes up. “It won’t be like that this time.”

  “But what if it is?”

  He smiled. “Why, then I’ll bring you home. I did before, didn’t I?”

  “You did.” For a moment she stood still, cheek against his hand, before she turned away and picked up her amber-brown palla. “Well, I’m ready.”

  “Brave girl.”

  “Calpurnia!” Paulinus bounded through the door, a flash of gol
d and scarlet in his formal Praetorian’s uniform, and kissed his betrothed’s cheek. “Father! Are you well?” To Marcus’s surprise, he offered a hug instead of the usual awkward handclasp.

  “I’m very well.” Marcus looked at his son. “So are you, I gather.”

  A cool voice came down from the stairs above. “Paulinus. How little we’ve seen of you these days.” Lepida drifted down to join them, a bird of paradise in her gold-spangled scarlet silk, her hair caught in a net of rubies and pearls.

  “Lady Lepida.” He bowed. “You look nice.”

  “ ‘You look nice’? You ignore us all for a week and now you expect us to—” Lepida’s icy words dropped off as Paulinus stepped around her and took the stairs two at a time to grab up his little sister as she poked her head around the door of her bedroom.

  “Now here’s the lady I’ve been ignoring!” He ruffled her feather-brown hair. “How are those headaches, ’Bina?”

  “Better. And I’ve grown a whole inch.”

  “So I see.” Paulinus set her down, and she giggled. “I’ll have to take advantage of your company before I lose you to adoring suitors. Let’s go riding tomorrow. Your crazy aunt Diana has a mare quiet enough for you—”

  “I hate to break up this touching moment.” Lepida’s peacock feather fan twitched back and forth like a cat’s tail. “But we’re going to be late.”

  “Let me check Father first—”

  “I checked him for you,” said Calpurnia. “Do you think I’d let him go see the Emperor in rumpled linen?”

  “Back to bed.” Lepida took her daughter by the shoulder and spun her back toward her room. “It doesn’t matter what your father wears to see the Emperor. Because whether his ancestors used to be Emperors or not, he’s just a boring old cripple.”

  Sabina flinched. Disgust flickered across Paulinus’s face.

  Marcus shrugged. Just wait, he thought to his wife. Just you wait. “Go to bed, little one,” he told his daughter.

  “Well!” Lepida adjusted her gold silk veil over her hair as her daughter disappeared into her room. “Can we go now?”

  Calpurnia looked down, aligning a bracelet precisely over her wrist. “Lepida,” she said, “has anyone ever told you that you’re a cruel, spiteful, selfish slut?”