by LYDIA STORM
As Antony's irritation cooled, it was replaced with a gut feeling of mistrust. On a battlefield no one could get the better of him. He knew where he stood and what his next move should be, but when it came to the delicate game of politics, his over-trusting confidence had led him astray so many times, he no longer knew what to believe.
“What is your proposal?”
“It’s simply this,” said Octavian, excitement lighting up his face. “You cannot always be in Rome, as we have agreed. But if you had some bond, some uncontestable tie, the people would not doubt you and things would be settled.”
“What sort of bond do you speak of?”
Octavian smiled. “I’ll show you.”
The younger man reached out to take Antony’s arm, but Antony stepped back glaring at Octavian.
“We’ll follow you,” interposed Germanicus smoothly.
“As you like.” Octavian nodded and led them through the chamber into a little garden behind the temple. They crossed through the quiet woodland terrace. Antony paused to clear away a tangle of overhanging ivy from his pathway before he passed through the twin columns which marked the formal entrance to the garden.
Silhouetted against the cypress trees stood a young woman, a carpet of bluebells nodding at her feet. She was dressed in the Greek fashion in a chiton of purest white, her golden hair streaming down her back as she waited patiently by a bubbling fountain at the garden’s center.
She raised innocent blue eyes to meet Antony's and he felt as if he had stumbled upon the secret abode of the Virgin Goddess, Diana. He stared stupidly as she cast her lashes down, a delicate pink rising to warm her snowy complexion.
“Octavia,” beckoned her brother. “Come and greet Lord Antony, who has sailed all the way across the sea for the privilege.”
Antony took in the graceful movements of her body as she came to his side. Taking her hand in his, he held it for a long moment as he looked down at her bowed head. “Lady,” he whispered, “this is an honor I did not expect. I must confess, I had forgotten the beauty of Rome's daughters.”
Octavian looked pleased and clasped their hands between his. “Now Antony, do you see the alliance I speak of? Your marriage to my sister, Octavia, would create a bond of kinship between us and keep your heart in Rome, where it belongs, even if your duties must take you abroad from time to time.”
Something deep inside Antony sounded a warning, the whisper of Cleopatra in his blood surged up for a moment and he dropped Octavia's hand. He could not betray his love, no matter how enchanting this untouched girl before him was, or how canny a political move it would be to marry her.
The soft, rain-filled clouds pressed in over the garden and a needle fine rain touched his face and bare arms. He must tell Octavian he could not marry his sister but a strange drowsy feeling was stealing over him. Shaking his head, he attempted to clear his mind as a gentle fog clouded his senses. He tried to call up Cleopatra and Egypt but they seemed remote, an eternity away, almost not even real––a dream that dissolved like moonbeams at dawn’s first clear light.
He looked back at Octavia. She was the dawn with her bright dewy complexion and streaming yellow hair, the silver crescent moon dangling on a chain almost hidden between her small high breasts.
Germanicus’ clear voice called him back. “Antony, is anything wrong?”
A broad smile spread across his face. “Quite the contrary.” He lifted Octavia's chin so he could look deeply into her eyes, losing himself in their sweet blue light. “I think you have struck upon an excellent idea, Octavian. Your fair sister has bewitched me with her beauty and your plan makes sense.”
Germanicus shot Antony a warning look. “Antony, surely you wish to think on this at your leisure. There are many factors to consider.”
Antony didn’t even see his friend’s face. He traced his thumb along the delicate curve of Octavia’s cheek. “There is nothing more I need to consider. Let the wedding take place as soon as possible.”
The rough grasp of Germanicus’s fist closing around his arm forced Antony’s eyes from his intended bride. His friend turned his body away to block Octavian and he spoke in a low urgent voice. “Antony, this is not some pretty servant girl you can take and discard without any consequences. Let’s return to Rome, rejoin with our friends there and think about this proposed alliance when you’re head is clear and your blood cooled.”
Antony smiled and absently patted Germanicus’s shoulder. “You’re a loyal friend, but I have made my decision.”
“What other possible decision would a sane man make?” Octavian’s cool voice filled the little garden. “My sister is not only beautiful, but virtuous, chaste, compliant and faithful. She is, in fact, the very flower of all that is desirable in a Roman wife.”
Octavia smiled, but cast her gaze down modestly under her brother’s praise. Antony gently placed his callused hands on her bare arms, feeling the soft skin beneath his fingertips and pulled her closer to him. “Sweet maiden, as is traditional, let our betrothal be sealed with a kiss.”
He leaned in to brush her lips with his, but blushing furiously, she lowered her head and all Antony could do was press a kiss on her brow. He stood with her body only a heartbeat away, the tips of her girlish breasts just barely pressed against his chest and he felt her rapid breathing and fluttering heartbeat, quick and light as a hummingbird's. Only the knowledge that he would soon take her on their own marriage bed held him back from pulling her into a more fervent embrace and allowing his mouth to trail down the tender flesh of her neck to the more intimate areas of virgin skin hidden beneath the folds of her snow white chiton.
Over the couple’s bowed heads, Octavian’s pretty face beamed like the sun. “You see, this is a pact that solves everything for every one of us. May the Gods bless our union and Rome.”
A chill sent a shudder through Antony as the sudden bitter wind of late fall swept through the garden, and the lengthening November shadows brought to mind the dark face of Anubis in the gnarled branches of cypress trees whose twisted limbs surrounded the garden like an impenetrable fence.
“My lord, are you well?” Octavia asked.
But the vision evaporated in the clear blue eyes of his fiancé looking at him with such sincere concern.
“Yes.” His voice was husky as he, once more, took her hands in his and kissed them. “Let us marry soon, Octavia. Very soon.”
***
The day of his engagement until the morning of the wedding passed like a dream. Antony could not seem to shake the otherworldly feeling that had taken hold of him in the garden and try, as he certainly did, to conjure the image and deep feelings he had felt for Cleopatra in Egypt, her face, their conversations, the feel of her skin on his, shimmered and shifted and fell away like desert sand scattered by the wind. The time they had shared in Egypt, and all that happened there, was lost, a long distant time out of time. Somehow, no longer quite real.
How could he think of Cleopatra anyway, when the air around him buzzed with Octavia’s presence? She slipped into his dreams, illusive as a woodland nymph, her body lithe and graceful, her hair as pale as spun starlight and just tantalizingly out of his feverish grasp. The scent of lavender that whispered up to him from the pulse points at her wrists and throat clung to his consciousness like a magic spell. The deep pure blue of an autumn Roman sky only reminded him of her beautiful eyes. All he could think of, touch, or see was the enchanting loveliness of Octavia. And how refreshing it was to be in the presence of a female who deferred to him on every issue, looked to him for guidance and protection, and this virgin goddess, like the chaste Diana, was soon to be his alone––untouched by any other man.
The lusty cheers of the citizens as his chariot passed through Rome’s gates sent a rush of affection for his homeland through Antony. His old friends' and fellow senators’ warm greetings, and obvious joy at his proposed marriage, only confirmed what a wise choice he was making. In a celebratory blur of merry-making, prenuptial feasts and much
good wine, the days passed until at last he found himself clothed in a ceremonial toga, a wreath of amaracus to crown his brow, nervously pacing the flower-decked banquet hall of Octavian’s palace at the Palatine Hill.
All of Rome’s nobility had turned out for the wedding but Antony was too distracted to talk to any of the well-wishers who tried to draw him into conversation as they awaited the entrance of the bride.
Germanicus made his way through the crowd and formally struck his heart in greeting before speaking quietly into Antony’s ear. “It’s not yet too late to postpone the wedding. The date is not an auspicious one. No one could fault you with wanting to wait for a more favorable time.”
Antony raised his brows in mock surprise. “Since when have you grown superstitious, Germanicus?”
His friend looked grave. “I don’t trust Octavian.”
Antony only laughed. “You’re jealous because I have captured the most beautiful bride in Rome.”
Germanicus uncharacteristically colored and was about to say more, when the doors at the far end of the hall opened and Octavian and Octavia entered, as splendid and goldenly beautiful as the twin Gods they had dedicated themselves to.
A hush fell over the room as they made their way to Antony, who stood before a large table decked with calla lilies and twining vines. Resting on the table lay the legal marriage contract awaiting Octavian’s signature.
As Octavia reached Antony’s side, shyly offering him her hand, the dreamlike quality took on the intensity of an hallucination. A low buzz droned in the air around him. The scarlet of her wedding veil flickered like flame against her glowing skin. Bright slants of morning sunlight streaming in the windows made his eyes tear up. The room loomed impossibly large, and yet pressed in on him as the buzzing in his ears grew louder and he felt too hot, his head spinning.
He turned to his bride and all the people and objects in the hall fell away. There was only Octavia, as if she stood in a bright white light. Everything else was shrouded in darkness. There was only her soft little hand in his, her trusting eyes gazing up at him with such faith, radiant as the new day.
Vaguely, in the chatter of background noise, Antony heard the blurred words of the pronuba, the priestess who oversaw Octavia on her wedding day. As if standing outside himself, he watched as first Octavian and then the other prominent witnesses came forward to sign the legal document giving Octavia to Antony as his own.
“Well,” announced Octavian, rubbing his hands together purposefully, “the contract is signed. Octavia, you are a married woman!”
All eyes turned to Octavia as she solemnly raised Antony’s hand to her lips, the formal sign of acceptance and submission to her new husband. “My lord, your hearth is now my own.”
***
The rowdy torchlight procession careened wildly through the twisted streets of Rome. Drunken wedding guests called out traditionally lewd jokes, which Antony could see embarrassed his new bride, but she was smiling as hand in hand they sprinted through a hail of walnuts and flower petals flung by the citizens who gathered on their doorsteps, or hung out windows, to witness Rome’s most eligible bachelor at last respectably married.
The gay party deposited the couple at Antony’s doorstep.
Antony turned to Octavia. All the color had gone out of her face, but she held his hand fast in hers. He gave her a reassuring smile as the revelers cheered around them.
“Welcome to your new home,” announced Antony, sweeping his bride into his arms. She felt light as a child as he followed the dictates of Roman custom and carried her across the threshold of his villa.
The inebriated wedding party reacted with a chorus of protests, as with a wicked grin, Antony slammed the door on them, cutting short the usual festivities that he traditionally should have continued to host at his home until the small hours of the night.
He watched Octavia as she knelt by his hearth touching a small torch to the wood that had been prepared for her ritual lighting of his hearth flame. White-gold hair streamed down her back beneath the crimson veil, her ivory skin glowing in the soft firelight. He could just make out the silhouette of her slim figure as the fire caught and the filmy muslin of her tunic became almost transparent.
Antony sucked in his breath. Yes, he would save revelry with his drinking comrades for another time. Tonight, he could not stay away from his beguiling new bride a moment longer.
“Come Octavia,” his voice was husky with desire, “our wedding chamber awaits us.” He held out his hand to assist her, feeling the feather soft touch of her fingertips against his skin as she took his hand and rose.
Antony dismissed the servants for the night and led his silent, pale bride to their chamber. Small lamps flickered soft light across the wide bed, which had been strewn with delicately scented verbena. In the glowing light, as Octavia stood with her eyes fastened to the floor, she was as breathtaking as the young wood nymphs who had haunted the tangled nighttime forests of his dreams.
With slow sure fingers, he untied the intricately bound knot holding her girdle in place, then lifted the scarlet veil from her bowed head, letting it fall to the floor. She stood perfectly still as he ran his hands through her fine baby-soft locks, for a moment marveling at the pure gold which coiled round his fingers.
“You are truly beautiful,” he breathed as the desire mounted in him and he took her into his arms, crushing her in a passionate kiss.
But her body was stiff and cold, and she tensed her lips against his.
Pulling back, he looked down on her frightened face.
“Octavia, you don’t need to play the cool maiden with me now. Aren’t you pleased to have me for a husband?”
Octavia’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry to displease you, my lord. I know nothing of these matters and…I do not wish to displease you.”
He wiped her wet cheeks with the corner of his toga. “There’s nothing to be sad about. This is a joyful occasion. I will be gentle with you and show you what to do. I think you will find, soon enough, that love is a pleasurable pastime.”
“Very well,” she nodded, and brushed away a stray tear.
“First,” he kissed the tender skin at the pulse point just below her ear, “you must remove the rest of these clothes.”
Gently, he worked down the sleeves of her tunic to expose the tips of her pale pink breasts, which peaked out just above the pure white muslin.
Octavia sat rigid, her eyes cast down, as Antony carefully cupped her breast in his hand and teased one girlish nipple lightly with his tongue. But she pulled away when his other hand began to caress its way up her smooth thigh, getting closer and closer to her Venus mound.
He looked up.
His new bride was shrinking from him as if he were a minotaur.
“Octavia,” he said softly, “I won’t hurt you. Why do you pull away from me?”
“I’m sorry, my lord,” she whispered, her lips trembling, though at least she did not cry again. “Perhaps you should just do what…what it is that men do and then we can rest.”
She lay back on the bed looking up at him with frightened eyes.
Frustrated, Antony stood up crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I have never taken a women in my life who was unwilling.”
“I am not unwilling, my lord,” said Octavia, avoiding his eyes.
He knelt beside the bed and took her hand in his, passion burning him with its flame. How could he be so mad for a girl who resembled a cold marble statue more than a living, breathing woman?
How had this happened?
His head spun. He had not felt right ever since he set eyes on her. He shook his head and tried to get clear, then looked back as she lay trembling in all her virginal terror.
“Perhaps, a little more wine would help you?” suggested Antony, trying to check his frustration as he moved toward the cabinet where he always kept his libations at the ready.
Octavia sat up, her cheeks flaming as brightly scarlet as her wedding veil. “I don�
��t want any wine.” She quickly pulled her tunic over her head and lay back on the bed. Her golden hair fell over the swell of her small rosy breasts, which rose and fell with her quick nervous breaths, her long graceful body gleamed in the soft light. She looked at him unflinchingly as she parted her legs slightly, revealing the deep pink bud of her sex. “Please consummate this marriage, my lord. It is our duty.”
Antony stood paralyzed for a moment. She was his wife. His wife who had married him of her own free will. And she was asking him to take her.
His eyes roamed hungrily over her naked body, the damask rose flush of her cheeks and breasts, probably from shame but still becoming, her long supple legs, the promise of her secret untouched flesh open and exposed to him.
Antony unwound the elaborate wedding toga from his wide shoulders, flinging it impatiently to the ground. He sat on the bed next to Octavia and traced the curve of her slim hips up along her torso to her high little breasts. He cupped her flesh in his hands, groaning with desire at the softness of her white skin.
Her breath caught, but she was looking away and he couldn’t tell if her response was excitement or fear. But she did not try to stop him.
He lay down next to her, pulling her waist against his throbbing body and buried his head in her neck, into her soft lavender scented hair. He let his hand travel down between her legs and for the first time touched the virgin flesh no man had ever known before. He couldn’t believe how aroused the feel of her damp tender skin beneath his fingers made him.
“Open your legs wider,” he whispered his command.
Still not looking at him, Octavia obeyed and he slid his fingers inside her, feeling the tightness of her.
“Please, my lord, please take me,” whispered Octavia.
He didn’t need her to ask. He was already pushing up onto his elbows, his hard body forced against her white thighs.
