by LYDIA STORM
He regarded the map with its territories clearly marked out. Not all of them belonged to Rome.
Yet.
His eyes fell on Alexandria. The jewel of the Mediterranean. Gateway to the endless riches of Egypt. Such a rare prize could not be passed over merely for the sake of family sentiment. But even more pressing, he could not endure Cleopatra wielding such great power. Power almost to rival that of Rome’s. A woman who dared to set herself equal to the kings of all the other lands in the world simply could no longer be tolerated in the empire he was methodically constructing. Nothing, not even Octavia, could stand in the way of destroying Cleopatra and the throne of Egypt.
He stood decisively and rang for his steward.
The servant came swiftly, his eyes cast nervously to the floor.
“See that my things are packed. We leave tomorrow for Brundisium,” ordered Octavian.
“Yes Caesar,” the old steward bowed and beat a hasty retreat.
Octavian paced restlessly towards the table where his map stood. He noticed his sister’s handkerchief which she had left behind on the wooden bench. Stooping to pick it up, he held the fine linen in his palm. It reminded him of a dove, so soft and purely white. A stab of guilt tightened his chest, but he quickly balled up the handkerchief and shoved it in the drawer of his cabinet.
She would get over it. After all, he could not keep Octavia sheltered in innocence forever. Rome would not become as great as he knew it could be if he allowed his love for her to stop him from accomplishing his plans. With a will like cold steel he shut the drawer firmly and locked it.
Everything was exactly as it should be.
***
Crisp sea air prickled Octavia’s cheeks as she and her brother disembarked on the beach which lay shadowed by low volcanic hills and the towering acropolis of Mount Cumae. Her trunks had barely been packed before they set sail for their appointment with Antony, but before journeying across the Tyrrhenian Sea, they traveled down the coast to this remote Greek colony.
She hung back, but Octavian firmly took her arm and led her forward across the beach.
“Come dear, you have nothing to fear in this place. In truth, I have a rather pleasant villa with a fine view of the sea where you can rest.”
“That sounds very nice.” She gave him a searching glance. “I was only wondering why we have stopped here on our way to Brundisium?”
Octavian’s face stretched into a thin smile. “The sooner you
have betrothed yourself to Antony the sooner you will be over your anxieties, is that it?”
She nodded.
“Well, I suppose I don’t mind telling you I have a special reason for coming here. Perhaps you do not know that Cumae is home to a most important temple of Apollo and his twin sister Artemis.” He pointed towards the towering acropolis. “You can see it from here.”
Winding stairs hewn into the rock of the mountain led up to a sharp cliff where she could just make out the pillars of a temple hanging in a veil of silvered sunlit clouds. “I can well believe the Gods would dwell in a house so near the vault of heaven.”
“Indeed,” muttered Octavian scanning the mountaintop with his pale eyes. “We will, of course, visit the temple and make the necessary sacrifices. But that temple is not my true purpose in coming here.” He dropped his voice to keep out of earshot of the legionary guards who flanked them. “At the base of the acropolis lies a grotto. The Antrum of the Sibyl. There, in the darkness, lives a priestess of Apollo. She speaks his oracles in verse when the God wills her too. There have been Sibyls here since time immemorial, divining their mysteries from within the cave, reciting the fortunes of the rise and fall of great kings and lands not yet discovered.”
“Are these the same oracles in the book of prophesies you have secured on the Palatine Hill?”
Octavian arched a brow. “Yes, they are. I’m surprised you are aware of them.”
Octavia looked down, pretending to avoid the low seaside brambles which caught at her skirts. Her brother would be even more surprised, and certainly displeased, to know the unfair rumors which circulated through Rome pertaining to the Sibylic Prophesies. It was said that Octavian had snatched away over two thousand such scrolls and burned them, claiming his belief that many of the prophesies floating around were not true Sibylic word but the forgeries of traitors. He had consolidated all the prophesies he deemed to be genuine, or to his liking, into his own book and locked it away in his fortress.
Octavia had never been privileged to read the Sibylline Oracles, but she had heard many wild tales of prophesies come true and believed, as most Romans did, in the power of these mysterious priestesses to divine the future.
She gently touched her brother’s elbow. “Octavian, do you think I might go see the priestess? It would relieve me of my silly fears about this betrothal to know what the future holds.”
Octavian’s face went still for a moment before he looked away. “Such things are not for women.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that the Sibyl herself was a woman. But instead, she swallowed her disappointment and said no more as they started up the first winding steps leading to the twin Gods’ temple in the sky.
***
Perhaps she had become lightheaded from the thin mountain air. Or maybe it was the defiant stance of the Virgin Goddess, her bow at the ready, restless hounds braying at her feet, but a rebellious idea was beginning to take hold of Octavia. She had climbed the road to heaven and accompanied her brother to the shrine of Apollo, making the necessary sacrifices to the God, then retired alone to the adjoining temple of Artemis to pray for the blessing of children in her marriage.
A flock of orphean fluttered around the vaulted ceiling as Octavia entered the airy sunlit temple. White marble bas-reliefs of fierce Amazons gleamed from the colonnade of Ionic columns as she passed by, row after row, making her way towards the Goddess.
As she knelt before the altar, something of the Virgin’s independent spirit was transmitted to her, and she became possessed by a need to see the Sibyl herself and know her own fate. She could not marry Antony unless she was certain it was the right decision. No matter how much she wanted to please Octavian.
Her heart fluttered in her breast as she removed a silver bangle from her wrist and placed it on the altar before Artemis next to a skein of woven thread and a small bouquet of lavender and rosemary bound in ribbons which had been left by previous supplicants.
Octavia turned her eyes up to the Virgin Huntress and prayed. “Goddess, lend me a bit of your courage tonight and help me discover the answers I seek.”
She sat back on her heels and let out a long breath, trying her best not to think of what Octavian would do to her if he discovered her plan.
***
As the new moon rose crisp and clear in the autumn sky, Octavia did something she had never dared before in all her seventeen years. Tripping over her words, she lied to Octavian, her servants and even her trusted duana. Her brother, luckily, had been too preoccupied with his own plans to notice, but Crescentia had stared her straight in the eye, as if she were still small and fibbing about how many honeyed dates she'd eaten, until the blood rushed to Octavia’s cheeks and she snapped an uncharacteristic order for the old nurse to leave her at once.
Wrapped in her duana’s purloined cloak, Octavia slipped out of her bedroom window. Her sandals touched ground in a dark meadow filled with the scent of wild flowers. Stuffing her mane of golden hair under the hood of her cloak, she kept her face down so that no late travelers might recognize the illustrious Octavia sneaking around in the night.
As she tripped across the meadow and found a path to the sea, she felt as giddy as a child. It was thrilling, almost intoxicating, to be out in the night alone like this with the briny scent of the ocean and the whisper of midnight winds fanning her cheeks until they tingled.
Even if she did jump at every cricket’s chirp.
Octavia reached the shoreline and stopped to search the b
each for the opening which led into the Sibyl's grotto. She could just make it out, nestled above a cluster of volcanic boulders at the far side of the bay overlooking a point where the rough ocean waters rushed in a brew of foam, crashing salty spray across the rocks.
Pulling off her sandals, she trotted across the beach towards the cave. As she reached the stony outcropping below the grotto, she had to cross away from the waves which splashed dramatically against the crags of the jagged rock-face. Grabbing hold of a small overhang she began climbing. It was hard going on the slippery algae-covered boulders and she had to move slowly for fear of stumbling to her death in the churning riptide below.
The air grew cold when she neared the top of the rocky trail and as she stood shivering in the darkness, Octavia began to doubt she would ever reach the Sibyl's grotto. But a few paces ahead there was more of a distinguishable path, which turned sharply along a shallow ledge and she soon found herself staring at the mouth of the cavern, its flickering torchlight barely making a dent in the velvet blackness of the shadows within.
Her flesh crawled as a wild animalistic moan echoed from deep inside the chamber, followed by the barely audible strain of strange singing floating out to her on a ribbon of darkness.
They said the Sibyls were mad.
Rome was filled with wild stories of the priestesses and their terrible power. Though she knew their insanity was a gift from her own Apollo, somehow this darkened cave, which reeked of sulfuric fumes, did not seem to have much in common with the God of sunlight and order. Perhaps Octavian had been right in trying to keep her away. Maybe it was only her safety he had been concerned with.
Octavia stood shivering in the night’s chill, listening to the waves pounding the rocks below, unsure of what to do. She had come this far. If she did not enter now, she would sail for Brundisium ignorant of her fate. Besides, wasn’t she the sister of Apollo's chosen son? Surely she had nothing to fear from his oracle?
Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders, and with a wildly beating heart entered the cave.
All was silent but for the scrunch of gravel beneath her feet and the sound of condensation dripping onto the rock floor. The faint sour smell of sulfur made her vaguely nauseous but she walked on through the wide tunnel, the moonlight slipping away as she followed the glow of torches dancing in a maze of shadows on the jutting rock walls of the cave.
As she entered the grotto’s inner chamber, she found a woman half hidden in shadow singing quietly to herself as she rocked back and forth, twining disheveled locks between her fingers. Octavia strained to see her better in the flickering light.
The priestess jerked her head up revealing eyes which seemed permanently rolled up into their sockets, the whites swirling like raw egg under fluttering lids.
“Enter, daughter of Rome,” commanded the Sibyl.
Octavia took a few faltering steps toward the priestess until she stood as close as she dared. “I have come bearing gifts for you.” With shaking hands, Octavia laid a small bag of gold at the woman's dirty feet. “In return, I ask for an oracle. I wish to know what the future holds for my marriage to Lord Mark Antony.”
The Sibyl nodded and her eyes continued to roll drunkenly in their sockets. Her body swayed, as if to some remote music only she could hear, as she rocked murmuring and humming to herself incoherently. Her hands played, like pale spiders crawling among a pile of oak leaves in her lap.
Octavia held her breath, waiting. Had the mad priestess heard her request? Her blood was pounding in her ears as her heart began to hammer faster. She didn’t like this dank claustrophobic cave. Why hadn’t she trusted Crescentia and told her she was coming here? If something happened, no one would know where to search for her.
Octavia was just turning to creep back through the tunnel when the Sibyl sang out:
“The daughter of Rome the God shall wed,
She shall tend his children, though not his bed,
From this Rome's glory is sealed.”
Octavia almost went limp with relief. Though she was not skilled in translating the words of Sibylline oracles, this one could not be more clear. She smiled at the priestess. “Thank you, I am greatly relieved.”
The Sibyl paused in her unheard song and fixed her sightless gaze directly at Octavia. “Are you, daughter of Rome?”
Octavia stared back. A shiver ran up her spine. Suddenly the cave felt deathly cold and the stench of sulfur made the bile rise in her throat. Covering her mouth with her hand she took a step back.
“Indeed, I am very pleased.” Her voice sounded hollow and small in the dark cavern.
But the Sibyl was no longer paying attention, and resuming her eerie song, began to distractedly scribble strange symbols on more oak leaves which lay at her feet next to Octavia’s untouched gold.
The rotting smell of sulfur was overwhelming. Octavia’s throat constricted as her chest seized up. She couldn’t breathe.
Backing away, she turned and ran through the cave, stumbling on the rubble of the stone floor, scrambling up and running again through the menacing shadows that seemed to leap out at her, until at last she broke out of the tunnel into the clear air of the cliff outside the grotto.
Standing on the rocks she gulped in breaths of the fresh breeze until her heartbeat slowed and her claustrophobic terror subsided. Pressing her back against the cool stone boulders she looked out at the beach. The crescent moon shone a shimmering path across the waves to a sky bright with stars.
Nervous laughter bubbled to her lips, dispelling the tension she had wound up like a coil inside. She pushed a few locks of hair out of her face, smoothing it back behind her ears. How silly she had been in the cave. Running away like a frightened child.
Over what?
The prophecy could not have been better if she divined it herself. She would marry Antony and bear him children, but not be overly troubled with his amorous nature, and Rome would benefit from the union. Surely, she could not have hoped for much better. It was only the priestess’s strange eyes and the fumes from the sulfur pools, which must lie somewhere within the grotto, that had made her feel unwell.
She gazed up at the face of the moon, serene and detached, glowing her silver light over the sea, and vowed there and then before this crescent moon of Artemis, to be a faithful and loving wife. Perhaps, in time, she would even come to enjoy her new role.
Octavia gathered her cloak and prepared for the treacherous climb back down. She must return home before someone discovered her absence. But her adventure had been worth it. Now she could journey to Brundisium, and Antony, with an easy heart.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A cold driving wind carried Antony's boat into the crowded harbor of Brundisium. He and Germanicus fought their way through the bustle of warships and dockworkers to their awaiting chariot. Antony snapped the reins setting a brisk pace along the Via Appia towards a remote temple which lay just outside the city’s perimeter.
When they reached their destination, the temple seemed almost a child's miniature compared with the soaring palaces Antony had left behind in Alexandria, but its simple white columns and the olive grove surrounding it were not unattractive. As they climbed down from the chariot, Antony took in the gray sky of clouds filled with rain which hung over the landscape and he felt in tune with nature’s brooding temperament.
The temple was lit only with a single sacred flame in the center of the room. The corpse of a dove lay split open on the altar, its delicate breastbone crushed.
Octavian's sacrifice to his patron God?
Antony scanned the room. The temple appeared empty, but as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw Octavian and his guards emerge from the naos at the rear of the building. Months had passed since Antony set eyes on the young leader. He was struck anew by Octavian’s cold beauty, so different from the sensual grace of the Egyptians.
Octavian gave him a thin smile and extended his arms. “Welcome home,” he gripped Antony’s shoulders with his slender hands. �
�It’s good to see you again. Rome, and I, have missed you sorely.”
“Indeed. It’s been a long time,” observed Antony, taking in the rosy glow of Octavian’s cheeks. “You seem in better health than when I left you.”
“It’s my pleasure in seeing you, Antony, that restores strength to me. I have been distressed by your long absence. In this time of uncertainty, Rome needs her leaders near her and on good terms.” Octavian smiled with seeming genuine relief. “When you left for Egypt without so much as a message to me, I could not fathom what you were about. But now that you’ve returned, I see my fears were unfounded.”
Antony’s brow darkened. “I did nothing wrong in going to Alexandria. The East is my province. How can I govern it if I spend no time there?”
Octavian shook his head. “You misunderstand me. I didn’t mean to imply you did anything wrong by inhabiting your share of the Republic. Certainly your territory must keep you often from Rome's shores. It's only that the citizens begin to wonder when they see you away for so long and setting up perceived alliances with foreign monarchs. I have no doubt of your loyalty, but there is only so much I can do about the gossip on the street…and in the Senate.”
“The Senate? Do they dare speak ill of me in the Senate, when I’m the one who fought the battles to ensure their survival?” Antony turned to Germanicus, who stood silently at his side. “Germanicus! Is it true?”
“There has been some whispering behind closed doors,” confirmed the legionnaire.
The blood washed through Antony and he squeezed his fists tight to maintain control. “Cowards! They whisper behind their closed doors, eh? But they wouldn’t lift a sword to avenge Caesar or protect Rome! Who has spoken ill of me? Tell me their names!”
Octavian laid a cool hand on Antony's shoulder. “No one of any importance has dared to slander you… yet, but you see, I have a plan that will quiet the idle tongues that wag in Rome and would unite us in such a bond, our relationship will be cemented forever and the stability of the Republic assured.”
