by LYDIA STORM
Octavian narrowed his pale eyes in thought. Had Cicero failed him? Were Antony and that damned cult so popular here in Rome they could not be suppressed? Of course, he had known this might be a difficult battle whose champion might easily lose popularity. Why else should he have sent Cicero to plead the cause instead of taking it up himself? The uncomfortable shadow of guilt rose again, but stubbornly he pushed it away. He did what he must. He had worked too hard to lose his position, just as the pieces were starting to fall into place, on the count of one old man.
Octavian still remembered vividly the day, over four years ago, when the flame of his ambition had been ignited. The day Caesar first showed him favor. The famed general came for a few days sojourn at his father’s villa in Macedonia. Octavian was thrilled that Caesar himself had honored his family with a visit and gazed with hero-worship in his eyes at the rugged general throughout dinner, barely able to stammer shy responses to the few questions Caesar directed towards him.
The next day Octavian relaxed in the bright sunlight of the garden, as a servant massaged lavender oil into his skin after his morning bath. He lay there, soothed by the gentle strokes of the girl’s hands on his back, and with his eyes half closed, dreamed of Caesar and the great campaigns he had won. Octavian had overheard his parents whisper to each other that perhaps one day Caesar would become king of all Rome. As Octavian drowsed in the warm garden, he began to imagine what that would be like, to wield power that would grant one sovereignty over almost the entire world.
He envisioned himself on a throne hailed as a God, the monarchs of the fallen lands he had captured in chains at his feet. There would be a great perfect order to everything if he were king and all the nations would live under one Roman law.
His dreams of glory, and the pleasant feel of the girl's hands caressing his shoulders, made his cock stiffen and a wave of embarrassment flushed his cheeks. This sort of thing always seemed to happen when he least wanted it. He couldn’t control it and Octavian intensely disliked things beyond his control.
“That's enough,” he snapped. “You can go.”
The girl brought his clothing and stood waiting for Octavian to rise, but he was still slightly aroused and his shame made him short with the girl.
“All right, put them down. I can dress myself after all.”
She gave him a provocative little smile. “Of course, master.” Carefully laying down his garments, she left him to lie alone in the sun.
Why did she smile at him? Such a foolish girl, he thought to himself. He closed his eyes again and felt the warm rays heating his body. He was so relaxed he’d begun drifting into sleep when he heard Caesar's voice.
“You’ll make a good soldier, Octavian. In the field there will certainly be no slave girls to caress your sore body and I see you’re already preparing for such a time.”
Had Caesar been watching him?
Octavian sprang into a sitting position, his face washed in rosy color, his cold blue eyes flitting nervously across the garden. “I would do anything to serve you and join your legions, my lord.”
Caesar smiled. “Would you? I must discuss some sort of arrangement with your father.”
Caesar looked at Octavian with open admiration in his eyes. “I can see why they liken you to Apollo. You are all beauty with your golden hair and long smooth limbs.” He ran his finger across Octavian’s velvet cheek. “Bright beyond my telling. In thy grace thou shinest,” murmured Caesar, quoting Euripides. “Such rare beauty is a gift from Venus.”
Octavian managed to stammer, “They say my mother visited Apollo’s temple late one evening and…” he trailed off embarrassed.
“And Apollo, in the shape of a serpent, drove himself into your mother’s womb and sowed his seed within,” finished Caesar. “I have heard the tale.”
“Is it true?” Octavian’s heart pounded in his chest as he waited for the older man’s answer. Caesar would tell him the truth.
The general smiled. “Who’s to say it’s not? There are things I have seen…”
Octavian hung on Caesar’s words. “What have you seen? Was it here in Rome?”
The general’s deep gray eyes took on a faraway look. “No, not here. There are worlds and mysteries beyond what you know, Octavian. Places in the East…”
“In Egypt? In Cleopatra’s court?” Octavian had heard the rumors about Caesar’s unpopular liaison with the Egyptian harlot.
At the mention of Cleopatra’s name, Caesar seemed to come back to himself. “That’s for another time.”
Caesar gently worked the muscles along Octavian’s narrow shoulders with his callused soldier's hands. “Here you were half asleep, Octavian, and I have disturbed you. You must let me put you back in the state I found you.”
Octavian looked up questioningly, but did not dare resist as the general firmly pushed him back down onto his stomach. He felt the sweet oil on his back, which had grown hot sitting in the sun, then the strong sure strokes of Caesar's hands on him, so much more solid feeling than the light fingers of his slave girl. He wondered, through his confusion, how it was possible that the great Caesar could spare the time to notice him and serve him as the lowest of slaves might?
But Caesar's hands felt wonderful as they ran along his sides, then down to his hips, kneading his firm buttocks. He felt the callused palms lingering there, running sensually across his supple flesh. Then, to his utter shock, he felt a hot kiss pressed at the base of his spine.
Octavian spun around, swimming in confusion, but he was rock hard, and as Caesar’s eyes, brimming with desire, swept down the length of his lithe body, a little moan of longing escaped his cherry lips sending him into a panic of embarrassment, his face and chest flushing crimson. But Caesar only smiled and ran his fingers across Octavian’s smooth belly and then downward to trace a path of fire along the silken skin of his shaft.
Octavian gasped at the intimate touch, closing his eyes at the flash of sensations rising up from his cock. The thoughts raced through his mind, even as his body tensed up in arousal. Caesar, the most powerful man on earth, wanted him. Wanted to touch his body and sate his appetites on his flesh. Octavian felt dizzy with the power of his own pristine beauty as he watched the Roman general peel his tunic from his muscular body, then lying down next to Octavian, Caesar’s lips brushed his, setting off a flurry of sensations through his belly.
The general’s tongue explored his mouth, the soldier's hard body against his, their erect members pressed together, rubbing one another to ignite a spark of hot lust. He surrendered to the general's rough kisses and even found himself returning them, letting his lips part and deepening the kiss.
Octavian felt like he would explode with desire. His body was squirming for release as Caesar's mouth trailed down his neck and then his chest, biting his rigid little nipples, causing another small cry to escape, then moving even farther down across his abdomen.
Octavian’s ragged breaths were coming in gasps. He writhed in erotic agony as Caesar ran his tongue along the length of his stiff virgin flesh, then lowering his lips to draw in the tip of Octavian’s shaft, took his fullness into his mouth and sucked hard.
Never had Octavian felt anything like this. The pleasure was unendurable, and to his surprise, he found his eager hands pushing the general's head closer to him, until he felt as though he were about to release a torrent of his essence into the soldier's mouth.
In a blind moment of euphoria, he finally came, spilling his hot semen in violent bursts of ecstasy. Caesar, who had been pleasuring himself as well as Octavian, experience his own release and collapsed at Octavian’s side.
They lay in the sunlight listening to the tinkling of the fountain at the center of the garden as their breathing returned to normal. Then Caesar rolled over and sat up, mopping the sweat off his brow with his cloak and pulling his tunic back over his broad shoulders.
“I must go. My chariot’s been waiting too long.”
Octavian looked up, unsure what to do.
Caesar smiled
as he stood and brushed off his cloak. “We must talk to your father about that position.”
“Yes, Lord Caesar,” replied Octavian, unable to keep the excitement from his voice. “I would give anything for that!”
Caesar smiled again. Brushing a stray lock of pure gold from Octavian’s face, he said good-bye and headed into the cool darkness of the villa.
A few moments later Octavian heard the sound of a chariot departing and Caesar was gone.
In the years that followed, Octavian prayed at the temple of Apollo almost daily, or as his weak health permitted, sacrificing flocks of the white doves sacred to the God, and lived a life of carefully plotted order with Caesar as his mentor, lover and adopted father, as was the Roman custom for such relationships.
Caesar's death had been devastating, but even in the midst of his grief, Octavian’s keen mind quickly discovered that the great ambitions he dreamed of, had never quite believed could be fulfilled, had fallen into his lap. With Antony and Lepidus governing their thirds of the Republic, Octavian was left to preside over Rome. In time, he would court the Roman citizens and her senators, until he was at last made king––as Caesar should have been before him.
If only Cicero would send word of what took place in the Senate today!
A bank of fog was slowly rolling in, making ghosts of the statuary in the garden outside Octavian's window. He watched the thickening atmosphere with a feeling of apprehension. There was something strange about this mist which seemed to float down from the sky rather than rising from damp grounds. He caught a whiff of air and alarm shot through his body.
This was not fog. It was smoke.
Suddenly the house came to life as the sounds of shouts and slaves running throughout the villa caught his ears. There was pounding on his door. He sprang up and opened it. A burly giant of a Roman stood there.
Despite his surprise, Octavian managed to keep his voice cool. “Agrippa, why do I smell fire from the streets of Rome?”
The large man with the bushy beard, and arms as thick as tree trunks, struck his heart with his left fist. “Caesar, forgive me, but you must come immediately. Cicero has convinced the Senate to ban the cult of Isis and Dionysus. They have ordered all the temples destroyed.”
“And the Senate agreed to this?”
“My lord,” replied Agrippa, “Cicero could convince a dog not to chase cats. He drove the Senate into a passion against this religion and almost succeeded in turning some against Antony. But no one, or at least very few, would allow a bad word against Antony to go unreplied––”
“Yes, but the cult?” demanded Octavian impatiently.
“Cicero kindled the senator's fury, and he himself led them to the temple of Isis intent on setting the first torch to it.”
Octavian looked sharply at Agrippa. “He torched the temple of Isis?”
“When the senators reached the temple, and they looked up at the statue of the Goddess, many of them became uneasy, declaring it was blasphemy to destroy the temple. Cicero would hear none of it, and pulling a torch from the wall, began setting the building aflame. The priests and priestesses struggled to put out the fire, but the blaze spread throughout the building. When the people on the street saw what was happening, a riot nearly broke out.” Agrippa looked frightened now. “Many of the senators have been forced into hiding. The High Priestess holds Cicero and demands justice. Caesar, Rome has been left in your care. You must come!”
Octavian looked up at the giant of a man whose face wore a pleading expression. Octavian gave a brief nod, and leading Agrippa out of the house, climbed into the warrior’s chariot. With the snap of his reins, Agrippa sent his horses flying and the chariot rocked down the smoky streets in the direction of the fire.
The evening chill was dampening the air as they reached the charred remnants of the once great temple. Some parts of the building were still in flames, but the majority had been reduced to a smoking, black skeleton. In front of the temple, a mob of people stood silently watching as the roof at last gave in with a rain of molten sparks collapsing into the flames. Lit by the crimson glow of the dying fire, tears glistened on the women's faces and old men bowed their heads.
An ancient looking peasant woman in shredded clothes tore at her long white hair and raved in hoarse hysteria to the crowd. “What does it mean when the senators destroy a holy temple? Rome will pay! The Goddess will make them pay! And if the land fails, and sickness comes, we will all suffer!” But the old woman’s companions quickly silenced her as they caught sight of Octavian.
With quiet dignity, the rest of the onlookers moved aside as Octavian’s chariot made its way through the crowd to the blackened steps of the temple. All eyes were on him, waiting for some answer to this madness.
Octavian raised his gaze above the sea of people in search of Cicero. He spoke out in a crisp clear voice. “Where is Cicero who has done this?”
A low murmur went through the crowd and a woman in a charred linen tunic came forward. She was stained with soot from the fire, and even some of her long unbound hair was singed, but she stepped forward as proudly as any queen. Behind her, Cicero was held by two strong men, priests of Dionysus from their dress.
The woman looked straight at Octavian. “I am High Priestess of Isis, the leader of this temple which you see in ashes before you.” Her voice faltered as her eyes grew bright with tears. “Three of my people have died in this fire. We have Cicero and we demand he pay for his crimes with his life.”
Octavian looked dispassionately at the woman, then past her at Cicero, who appeared so pathetic now held between the two strong priests. The old senator raised his head and his gaze met Octavian's. What terrible questions he could see in the old man's watering eyes, the desperation, the pleading there.
Octavian did not avert his gaze, but instead let his eyes bore down on the old man like the points of two sharp spears.
“Why have you done this, Cicero?”
The senator fell to his knees and tears streamed down his lined face as he pleaded, “Caesar, I did this only for you! Is this not as you wished? I know that it is!” But the great orator appeared, for once, lost for words. He had been deceived. Used. How clear that was now as he looked up at the cold handsome face of Octavian.
Octavian turned his anger against Cicero all the more vehemently because the old man had troubled his conscience. He would see his will done. No matter how unpleasant the method. No matter who he must use or how. He gritted his teeth as he spoke, forcing himself to maintain control.
“I spoke nothing of burning temples or murdering innocents, Cicero. You have done that on your own. I spoke of truth and order, of the end of barbarism. Yet you create the very chaos and bloodshed I would avoid.”
Then he turned his eyes on the priestess. “And would you, Priestess, take the law into your own hands, and execute this man yourself, not allowing him, as the laws of our land clearly demand, a fair trial before the Senate?”
Hatred burned in her eyes as she looked back at Octavian in his chariot. He noticed her gaze linger for a moment on the massive warlord at his side before she spat her words back at him.
“As a woman, Caesar, I am not a Roman citizen, since this is a privilege only granted to men. Your laws are the laws of men, but our laws are divine. I must follow those, even if I am to be punished by death.”
“Even if you are to be punished by death,” murmured Octavian as he regarded her coolly for a moment, his eyes darting around the crowd, taking in the reactions of the mob which surrounded them.
All watched in silence.
“Well then,” said Octavian, “I leave Cicero in your care and it shall be your choice. You may see him safely to the Senate tomorrow morning, where he will receive a fair trial by the senators of Rome. Or, if you take his punishment into your own hands, be warned that you and your followers will indeed suffer the consequences.”
“And if we see that your senator is held safely and goes before the Senate tomorrow under Roman law, have
I your word that he will pay for his crimes?”
Octavian smiled thinly. “Priestess, you flatter me with greater power than I have or could wish to have. I am merely a servant of the Republic, not a king who may condemn or pardon citizens at my own whim. It is the senators who will decide Cicero's fate. That is the law of Rome.”
Then without so much as a second glance at the smoldering priestess, or her broken captive, Octavian nodded to Agrippa and the chariot broke through the crowd leaving all in an uproar behind him.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rosy-fingered dawn painted her tender light across the ocean sky as Cleopatra and her lover made their way on deck. Antony’s passion during the night left Cleopatra limp with luxurious exhaustion and she melted into the support of his arms as they stood with the warm air of the Mediterranean gently awakening their senses.
Her heart glowed with joy, as just on the horizon, she made out the towers of Alexandria rising up from the sea.
Home.
Cleopatra turned to Antony, pride shining in her eyes. “There’s Alexandria.”
The soft morning light colored elaborate temples and elegantly constructed palaces coral and seashell pink. The graceful needle of an obelisk shot up from the center of the city piercing the wisps of drifting morning clouds. Carefully tended vineyards sprawled along the perimeter of the palace walls, the lush greenery standing out against the glint of sparkling limestone fountains and mammoth carved statues of the Gods. In the clearing dawn mists, it looked as if Neptune’s own enchanted kingdom floated up from pale green waves to rest on shimmering sea foam.
“It doesn’t look real.” Antony turned to Cleopatra grinning. “This is some magic of yours to conjure such a city from the ocean’s depths.”
She smiled. “I have seen most of the great metropolis’s of the civilized world but nothing, not Athens, or Carthage and certainly not Rome, can compare with Alexandria. The architecture and craftsmanship, the sheer scale of our city is unparalleled, but it’s no enchantment.”
