“Are they drinking wine in the Curia now?”
“I think it is more serious than that,” Veiento replied, narrowed eyes bright with suppressed rage. “The mob about the doors of the Curia cheered the measure and raised quite an angry shout about it when it was put down. They’re oddly disposed to sympathy for these Germanic beasts.”
Another ostrich strode confidently into view, blithely oblivious to mortal danger. Domitian raised the bow and squinted, his forehead gleaming with perspiration in the autumn heat. But the muscles of his arms were rigid with frustration. He shot and missed for the first time that day.
“A plague on Nemesis!” His face contorted with disgust. He thrust the bow at Leonidas.
“Of course, mobs swarm round silly futile causes like ants about honey cakes,” Veiento continued smoothly with a small, tight smile. Stew in your anger, you strutting, lowborn tyrant.
“That was today,” Montanus spoke up like an eager schoolboy desperate to join the game, his voice sweet as ripe melons. “Tomorrow they will have forgotten the whole matter, and all that will concern them is if Scorpus the charioteer wins his next race.”
Domitian hoped this was true, but he did not want to hear it from Montanus. He turned to him coldly. “Go and change that tunic, Mountainous. It looks like it was worn by a blind beggar at Saturnalia.”
Montanus sputtered half-coherent apologies, but quickly saw it was useless; Domitian continued to glare at him as he spun about with ponderous agility and scurried back to the banquet, the Egyptian boys hurrying to keep apace.
Domitian wondered—how had those barbarian animals managed to win the very thing that was always maddeningly just out of his reach—the unprompted love of the mob? A polite, muted clap was the best he could ever draw from them. After finally winning the army’s adoration and deriving a brief moment of pleasure from it, he learned it did not satisfy. He yearned now for love freely offered, inspired by his person, not by his deeds.
I want this stinking city to sacrifice in secret to my health, as they did for my cursed brother.
Leonidas returned as unobtrusively as a cat. Bowing gracefully, he announced with aristocratic humility, “My lord—she is here.”
Domitian gave him the rough scowl he reserved for menials. “Well then, you tell her to pack herself right back off to the Palace. She was not summoned.”
Leonidas looked bewildered for an instant. Then he said quickly, “Not your wife, my lord.”
Domitian’s scowl melted away, and a look Veiento had never seen there, akin to childlike wonder, came into the Emperor’s face. “In the garden? She is here already?”
“By the Serpent Fountain,” Leonidas answered smoothly, bowing again to conceal a faintly amused smile.
“Excellent,” Domitian exclaimed, smiling and rubbing huge hands together. “Why are you two hovering about like horse flies? Leave me.”
Leonidas slunk away with dignity, like a cat. Veiento whipped about and crisply walked off, lost in angry puzzlement.
Domitian set out at once into the garden. The sun illumined the tops of the fan palms, then sank swiftly behind the garden’s walls, suspending all in unearthly blue-gray mystery. Low lamps held aloft by capering bronze fauns were set at intervals along a path no more than a hunter’s track; as he advanced, their firefly-lights loomed large, then melted back into numinous gloom. Occasionally he startled a peacock. A wind tugged anxiously at the cypresses, bowing them; he fancied nature herself paid him homage. He was a young Hercules out on his first hunt. A marble Satyr half clad in ivy leered at him, approving heartily of the lusty adventure he set out on now. Though a detachment of Guards was posted so close he barely had to raise his voice to summon them, they had been carefully placed out of sight—and Domitian easily imagined himself lost in some remote fastness of nature, trapped in mythic time.
Here I am just a man, coupling with a primeval woman whose mind is not poisoned with the vices of cities. She cannot have learned our women’s varied and deft ways of belittling a man. With this wild creature who knows nothing of me except that I rule, I’ll prove this cursed infirmity is their doing, and no fault of mine.
He found himself conscious of his body in a way he never was with his wife or with poor, frightened Carinus. Would the musculature of his chest and arms, well-formed from his frequent practice of archery, be pleasing to a lover?
Perhaps I am wrong to waste myself on this primitive woman who will not fully understand the honor I confer upon her.
He heard the urgent sound of rushing water. Before him was the Serpent Fountain. From the center of an oval basin of black marble rose a great, silver serpent, its muscular body coiled round a many-branched tree of bronze; at the height of a man the serpent’s body separated into five parts with as many evil-looking heads. Each gaped mouth emitted a moon-bright stream of water into the pool below.
Behind it, half hidden in oleander, was a small temple to Sylvanus, the forest god, carved in soft, white Luna marble so translucent that the lamps within caused the whole to glow with gauzy, incandescent warmth in the dusk; it was a fragile wonder promising dreamlike contentment to all who entered. A scent of frankincense drifted from the altar.
A woman stepped from the door and faced him boldly.
Auriane stood still as a deer, her whole body braced as she watched the approaching stranger. She had been abandoned to her wits in this eerie wood that thrived within a house. Small birds taking flight from the scented trees first warned her that someone approached. Then she heard the heavy tread of a solidly built man—a step that seemed to combine aggressiveness with hesitation.
The intruder halted when he was little more than a horse’s length from her. Who was this richly robed, overproud man? She tried to halt her trembling, but found she could not.
Domitian flushed with rage.
Those imbeciles brought the wrong woman. Some reckless fool just played his last prank.
Before him was a sophisticated young maid with knowing eyes and a bold, delicate beauty that spoke of southern blood; from her shoulders a pale silk stola fell with studied grace. Her hair, styled precisely in accordance with young patrician women’s fashions, gave her a look that was polished, serene, unapproachable. It seemed those artfully shadowed eyes observed him with amused doubt.
Was this civilized beauty in on the joke?
Scowling, he took a step closer. She took a measured step back.
Then he knew suddenly this was Auriane. No woman of his own nation and class would be so unaware of her own startling beauty. And her stance was less that of a woman, more that of an alert leopard. She looked at all about her as if she stood outside it, facing him as if they were predators of different species. She was possessed as well of a most unwomanly self-confidence.
And she was tall—her gaze met his almost levelly. A brief fear seized him and passed, to be replaced by a deeper, fiercer excitement than he ever felt, even during his first fevered couplings with Carinus. Never had a woman looked at him like that. It was a fearless, exulting, almost masculine look of challenge.
His voice husky with desire, he spoke to her in the soothing, singsong voice he might use to quieten a half-broken horse.
“Be calm, pretty creature. That’s good! Did those animals that spawned you ever tell you how pretty you were? But then who would know, when you were all covered in hides and encrusted in mud? Who would have thought such a pretty, pretty creature would have caused me such endless trouble?”
She edged farther away, head lifted warily while she took in the smells of civilization—a confusion of flower-scented oils, an astringent perfume, breath heavy with garlic and wine. And then she understood.
This was their Emperor.
Of course. He even resembled the crude image on his coins: There was that stubbornly thrust-forward chin, that mouth that just missed being feminine, set in the familiar smug smile.
Auriane’s courage fled. The city of Rome, that dwelling place of gods sensed if not yet seen, a
nd this omnipotent man fused into one. She was sharply aware that the jewels on one of his hands were worth more than all her father’s herds. This was the mind behind the machines that crushed nations, the will that moved the legions, the divinity set over the string of mighty cities she had passed on her journey. She could not look at him; it was like gazing into the rising sun.
I am but a weed to be trampled beneath his foot.
Then she heard her own words to Eota the musician—beware of reverence; it is a trick of the mind. She strove to feel the earth beneath her feet, to still her soul so she could look with remorseless clarity at the man.
And she saw before her a quite ordinary man of middle years, whose height rendered him awkward rather than formidable—a man well padded with the cushioning of flesh that was the bane of these city-bound foreigners. He had never gone without cover in winter or lived on what he could kill in time of war. However he obtained his kingship, he had not won it with the sword. Even if she had not already known, she would have guessed he was of a mind to use his people as a shield against enemy blades. That arrogant stance was oddly at variance with the uncertainty in his eyes—this was a man who could not draw strength from the earth-born gods and so leeched it from fellow men. She did see penetrating shrewdness in that face—but sensed it served the purposes of deviousness, not the rigors of truth-seeking.
I see a man who lives to deceive and dazzle others with wonderment, which he never does so well as he deceives himself. How can it be that this all-powerful people who have overrun the earth are ruled by such a faithless, small-spirited man?
With her head slightly lifted—the sensing, testing gesture of a wild creature—and the barest glint of mockery in her eye, she spoke the words of the formal challenge. Her voice surprised Domitian; those alto tones were somehow sensuous and naive at once.
“I challenge you, Emperor of the Romans, to single battle. Wodan, witness my words. Choose a weapon. May victory fall to the one who walks with the sun.”
Domitian broke into the light, amused laughter he reserved for children.
“We would have welcomed you at dinner tonight!” he replied. “You’re far more amusing than the usual idiotic mimes and the tired old jokes about Circus prostitutes and our longtime favorite, watching Montanus eat. It’s a gift.” With sensuous slowness he gathered up the silk of the stola and drew her close.
His tone shifted to that of practiced seducer. “I accept your offer, my pugnacious nymph—but I alone shall have a weapon, and the combat will take place in the bedchamber.”
She transfixed him with soft gray eyes.
“Do you find willing women in such short supply, ruler of the whole world?”
It happened so swiftly Auriane thought one of the bronze snakes might have flashed out and struck her. Domitian lunged, hitting her with either a fist or a shoulder, knocking her backward. She fell onto goosedown cushions; feathers exploded upward.
Then he produced a small riding whip he carried always and struck her hard across the face.
Bright blood sprang to her cheek. The pain brought tears to her eyes. He stood over her, straddling her. Auriane’s breath came in deep gasps; her wine-darkened lips trembled. But still she looked at him with bold eyes.
“How dare you, you mulish vixen. One more insolent word and I’ll see you branded and flogged.”
I was wrong to try gentleness, Domitian thought. A barbarian respects only naked force.
“You live on my sufferance. I granted you a chance to atone for your crimes and repair the insult you gave my majesty. And you fling it in my face.”
For a moment their gazes were locked in mortal combat. Then to his surprise the look of challenge gradually melted from her eyes, as though, he thought, she could not withstand the heat of his wrath. Her face softened, and her gaze wandered uncertainly down to his feet. Her arms and legs were splayed awkwardly; she seemed trapped in this humble posture like some small creature caught in a snare. Sobs gently shook her shoulders.
For an instant he thought it the work of a well-schooled actress. But are rude barbarians capable of such deception?
When she spoke, her voice convinced him she was not playing with him; it was breathless, tortured, frail.
“I beg you do not harm me…. Terror has stolen my wits. I have shamed myself. I have shamed my people.”
“Who am I, then?” he prodded sternly, lifting her chin with the coil of the whip. She looked at him with frightened doe-eyes, then dropped her gaze.
“A divine ruler over rulers,” she whispered. “A king of kings…our Lord and God.”
He felt a flush of pleasure that embarrassed him with its intensity. Lord and God. That sounds well. Germanic women are all prophetesses. She senses much that others cannot—my importance in history, how near to divine is my reign. Perhaps I should, from this day forth, insist all provincial petitioners address me so?
He watched her for a time, drunken on her fear. All nature cowered at his feet. The pleasure he failed to obtain on the day his forces broke into the Chattian fort he received now in a pure, warm stream. It is odd, he thought, that I feel it more distinctly with this single specimen of their race than when presented with the sight of thousands of them under the yoke.
In a voice that was a stern caress he ordered her to rise. She struggled up on foal’s legs, her face turned shyly from him.
Yes, she is truly broken.
He buried a greedy hand in her fine, soft hair, loosening the strings of seed pearls, taking mischievous pleasure in ruining the stylish coiffure as some boy might in crushing intricate pastries. She cringed slightly but submitted, eyes downcast.
“You must realize I cannot forgive you completely,” he breathed. “Smile for me, now. That is better. But if you please me on this night, my pretty thing, I certainly might be moved to lighten the sentence I intend to impose on you.”
One huge hand took possession of her shoulder; the stola slipped from it at his touch. Slowly he kneaded the flesh, devouring it with his hand. Then he moved so close she felt his quickened breath on the back of her neck.
“A woman should not develop her muscles like this…but on you, somehow it is comely,” he mumbled into her hair.
“I am pleased if it pleases you,” she said softly. She turned round then and reached for his neck with shy hands. He looked carefully into those clear gray eyes, still probing for deception, but saw only gratitude and naive adoration.
He smiled intimately. “Do savages kiss?” he whispered when their lips were close. “I’ll wager they know nothing of the art of it, if they do. I’ve more than one sort of fine cuisine to show you.” Languidly he pressed his lips to hers, slowly applying more pressure, crushing his body against hers until she could scarcely breathe. In a panic she wrest herself away, chest heaving as her breath came in gasps.
“Pretty thing, I hurt you…. but there is pain in love…in careful, measured amounts…it can multiply the pleasure.” He drew her close again, staining his fine purple and gold-bordered tunic with her blood, then once more he seized her mouth while one hand traveled down her back, getting a bruising grip on her buttocks.
To Auriane the touch of dead flesh could not have been more loathsome than the feel of him, but she imagined that she watched from a distance while another woman’s mouth yielded to his.
He pulled back slightly, looking down upon the finely molded nose, the delicate bloom of her lips, and was suffused with protective feelings. He kissed her gently. Poor sparrow, he thought. She trembles as though her heart will burst.
From somewhere quite close, a Guard coughed.
By Nemesis, why did I post them so close? I do not need them at all.
Auriane held in her breath, overcome by the rich scent of myrtle oil, through which penetrated the sharp tang of sweat. She let her body go limp, and they sank together onto the cushions.
He moved his hands down her body, fascinated by how its lean contours were yet silken and soft. His touch was gentle enough o
n the surface, but she sensed a long-stored hunger close to savagery just beneath. Auriane knew the threat of greater force was always there, standing guard like a sentry alert to the barest sign of insurrection.
Then slowly, deliberately, as she lay back on the cushions, he began tearing the silken stola down the front, meaning to save her the trouble of having to rise. He smiled significantly when he saw the faint surprise in her eyes.
Auriane could not help remembering the dressing-maid’s warning— It is worth its weight in gold.
“This is the most extravagant sound your ears will ever hear,” he breathed. “A sound my women can hear every day if they wish. Satisfy me and you shall live in golden rooms with a different maid for every task…one to wash your pretty feet…one to pare your nails…another to catch the parings… one to tell you the hour, another to announce the quarter-hour…and they’ll all mop their noses with silk.”
The stola fell away, leaving her in the thin undertunica. This, too, he eagerly tore. Then abruptly, he stopped. She looked at him, baffled.
After a long silence he said, “I have seen twenty-year veterans with fewer scars.” He ran his gaze over the dark crisscrossed lines on her belly, her thighs, the legacy of dozens of close encounters with enemy swords.
“A pity. A true pity,” he said, shaking his head. “There are some clever physicians who can make these less visible.”
He looked at her quickly. “But do not worry—I still find you comely.”
His eyes said otherwise, however. For a moment he seemed like a man who lost his appetite, as if he had been served a dish at a banquet from which a bite had already been taken. Finally he moved to the bronze candelabrum and snuffed out all its flames but one.
Auriane realized he dimmed the light so he could not see her scars. In spite of her contempt for him, still she felt a small, vicious stab of hurt surprise. She concealed it by lifting her chin in defiant pride and moving a fraction farther away from him.
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