by LYDIA STORM
The girl’s expression hardened. “I have taken vows before Vesta. Do you think I would risk her wrath for a few pieces of gold?”
Still smiling, Octavian thrust the priestess hard against the wall. Her head hit the stone and he pressed the point of a dagger against the soft flesh of her womb.
“Would you risk the wrath of your dictator instead?” Octavian pushed the blade through her robes until the steel point pricked the tender vulnerable skin of her belly.
She met his gaze fiercely, her eyes burning with hatred, but said nothing.
“Do you know the punishment for a sworn virgin of this temple who breaks her vows and plays the harlot?” asked Octavian. “Would you enjoy being buried alive?”
Her voice trembled. “I have never broken my vow of chastity.”
Octavian murmured in her ear, as his free hand reached up to caress her breast, rubbing the tip of her nipple between his fingers through the fine linen of her tunic. “But I say you have sucked my hard cock until I spewed forth all over your pretty face…” he paused to look into her eyes, “unless you give me the key to this door.”
She tried to push him away, but his grip was firm.
“What will it be, Priestess? Are you willing to die for your precious scrolls?”
She shook her head and looked down, tears splashing her cheeks.
Octavian shoved his hand down the front of her tunic and his fingers closed around the key which hung on a chain around her neck. With a jerk, he ripped off the chain, leaving a burning cut across her skin.
She cried out, holding her hand to the wound and glared at him in outrage.
But she no longer existed for him. Now he would get what he came for. He turned the key in the lock and entered the depository.
Thousands of scrolls lined the shelves. Octavian looked around not knowing where to search. He hurried back out and grabbed the young priestess, who stood holding the hem of her tunic to the wound on her neck. He closed his thin steely hand around her wrist and pulled her into the room.
“Find the will of Marc Antony,” he ordered, pushing her towards the shelves.
The priestess spun around, gaping at him. “Lord Antony is much beloved! If I surrender his most private document to you, the people will tear our temple down stone by stone!”
Octavian's hand shot out and grabbed the back of her neck, pinching it sharply, as he pushed her forward. “Have I not already made my position clear to you? Are you willing to die for the sake of a piece of paper?”
Pure hatred burned in her eyes but the priestess reluctantly pulled a scroll from the shelf.
Octavian reached for the document but she flung the scroll at his feet. He looked down at the scroll then back up at the defiant priestess.
Quick as lightning, he slapped the side of her face so forcefully she fell to the floor, a bloom of blood blossoming on her lip. He calmly walked over and kicked her hard in the gut taking her breath away. Then he kicked her again, cracking her ribs. Picking up the scroll from the ground, he left her there, gasping in pain, her arms folded around her center trying to catch a breath.
Two priestesses, drawn by the commotion in the vault, hurried in to aid their sister. Octavian pushed past them before they had time to stop him and marched through the columned front hall of the temple into the cool rain which sprinkled down onto the Field of Mars.
He climbed into his litter, and snapping the silk curtains closed, eagerly unrolled the scroll. He had taken a chance breaking the laws of Vesta to obtain it. Even he could pay a very dear price for his action if things did not go as planned. Octavian scanned the lines of the will until his eyes rested on a single passage. He read it twice, then lay the parchment down.
He pushed open the curtains and called to his guards. “Take me to the Senate as fast as you can.”
Reclining back into the cushions, he looked down at the scroll and murmured a silent prayer of thanksgiving to Apollo. Antony and Cleopatra had lost the war before it even began.
***
Night was closing in and the heavens seemed to pour down in torrents, sweeping the dirt streets with sheets of cold rain as Germanicus burst from the Senate, his cape flaring in the high winds, his sandals sinking in the mire as he rushed to his chariot. With a flick of the reins he flew through narrow zigzagging streets, past the Temple of Mars, his chariot wheels slipping in the mud, the rain plastering his hair against his scalp, his troubled gray eyes matching the stormy skies.
He reined in his horses as he pulled up before Antony's villa.
Antony if only you were still here!
He tossed the reins to a servant and made his way into the house, trailing water on the bright mosaic floor.
He brushed past Maurus. “Where is your lady? It’s urgent!”
“She’s in her chamber,” said the old steward, trotting after Germinicus as the legionary commander quickly turned his steps in the direction of Octavia’s rooms.
When they reached her door, Germanicus paused a moment, then knocked. Maurus pushed the door ajar, poking his head inside. “Forgive me, Lady Octavia, but Lord Germanicus is here to see you.”
“You may let him in,” came her reply from inside the room. As Germanicus stepped past Maurus, he found Octavia frowning before her mirror with her hair unbound, hanging in golden waves all the way down to her waist. She held a small ivory comb in her hand.
Octavia rose and her frown was replaced by a light blush as Germanicus entered the room, drenched to the skin, but still taking her hand for a brief moment in greeting, his chilled fingers dropping hers all too soon.
“Germanicus, you’re soaked!” she exclaimed. “You must have hot wine and dry clothing or you’ll catch a chill.”
“Forgive me for bursting in on you, Octavia, but I cannot stay. I’ve just come from the Senate.” He dropped his eyes. “The news is not good.”
“What has my brother done?”
Germanicus looked up and was somewhat reassured by her calm steadiness. “Your divorce has become public knowledge and…” he hesitated for a moment. “And it has also become known that Antony has married Cleopatra.”
Octavia smoothed the lines of her tunic. “That was to be expected.”
Germanicus walked to the window and looked out over the little garden Octavia had so carefully maintained. “There’s more. Your brother has broken into the Temple of Vesta and stolen Antony’s will.”
Octavia shook her head in disbelief. “Even he wouldn’t dare!”
“He has stolen it. It contains a paragraph in which Antony states his final wish is to be buried in Egypt––by the side of Cleopatra. Antony has also demanded that Octavian give up his right as heir to Caesar in favor of Cleopatra’s son Caesarion, as well as handing over the eastern half of the Roman Republic to Egypt.”
The room was silent for a moment. He finally turned back to Octavia. All the blood had left her cheeks. “There was nothing I could say…Antony has lost all his supporters here in Rome. The Senate has declared war on Egypt.”
“You mean, on Antony and Cleopatra?”
“Yes.” He turned from the window and came back to Octavia’s side. “I must go to Antony immediately. He’ll need my help.”
“You’ll go to Egypt?” she asked quietly, looking into his eyes.
“No, the last communication I received said they had gone to Actium in Greece to prepare for the coming battle.”
“Then Antony knew there would be war?”
“He has forced it, Octavia.”
Anger kindled in her eyes. “I would too, if I were him!”
Germanicus nodded grimly. He didn’t like it. He was a son of Rome and had never fallen for the Mysteries of the East the way Antony had, but Octavian was not to be born.
“Antony will need all the help he can get.” Octavia carefully placed the ivory comb on her dressing table. “I’ll travel with you and bring an army, food and money to be put at his disposal.”
Germanicus gaped at her appalled. “Octavia
, you can’t even think of it! You’re a woman and Octavian's own sister. Besides,” the lines around his mouth hardened, “though it grieves me to say it, Antony has deserted you. He doesn’t deserve your support.”
Her face softened and she took his hands in hers, squeezing his wet fingers. “Germanicus, don’t you see that we have all been the playthings of my brother? I bear Antony no ill will. He has written to me asking for my forgiveness and nothing else, but there is nothing to forgive.”
Germanicus could barely speak. “You are too good.” He looked down at her white hands holding his, warming him. “Antony is a fool.”
She smiled and kept her hands pressed into his.
“But I must, once again, protest against you bringing aid to Antony. It’s open rebellion against Octavian. You’ll become his public enemy and he is not kind to his enemies.”
Her eyes hardened, for a moment looking frighteningly like her brother’s. “I’m not afraid of him. I know his games now and I’m as clever as he. Besides, he won’t touch me.”
“How can you be sure?” asked Germanicus worried.
“I can’t explain it, but he’s my blood and I know him. He will not raise a hand against me.” She smiled ruefully. “Besides, if he did, the Senate and everyone in Rome would turn against him so quickly, even he could not plot and scheme his way out of it.”
Germanicus could not help laughing softly. “I see you are as astute a politician as your brother.”
Her smile faded a bit and she dropped his hands. “No, Germanicus, I only wish to reclaim my honor and survive.”
Germanicus looked grave. “That’s all anyone can hope for now.”
“Then will you wait a few more days and allow me to accompany you with troops and supplies?”
He looked down at her face, pale blue eyes intense with the desire to fight back. He could read it in the flush of her cheeks and determined set of her chin. At that moment he wanted to do and say so many things, but all he would allow himself was a curt nod.
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Very well then, I’ll meet you at the port of Ostia in two days and we’ll set sail for Greece together.”
“I will be waiting,” he promised.
The room seemed suddenly to grow very warm and he was more aware then ever of Octavia standing so close to him, so close he could smell the sweet scent of lavender in her loose hair. Her excited flushed face and flashing eyes were like a current of light…and now she was coming with him to Greece…
His head spun.
Bowing politely, he took her hand to kiss it and bid her goodbye, but instead he found her trembling fingers interlaced with his and when he looked into her eyes again, her lashes were fluttering closed, her breath suspended as she turned her face up ever so slightly to his.
Their lips met, soft and sweet with suppressed yearning. Tender and tentative, before he circled her slim body with his arms and she yielded to a deeper kiss, passionate and warm, her hands clinging to his shoulders, melting together as the depth and heat increased. He could feel her firm breasts and thighs pressing into him, fueling his desire until his blood almost boiled.
If he didn’t stop, he would pull her down on her bed right here and now and ravish her as he’d longed to for so many years. But somehow his rational mind managed to pull him back, just enough, and with great effort he released her, mumbling stupidly, “I’ll await you in Ostia,” and he quickly fled from the room before he lost control of himself all together.
Weak-kneed and giddy, Octavia rushed to the front door and watched him go, his tall lean frame plastered still with wet clothing. She had allowed Antony to leave her, for his wine, his woman and his battles, but now that she had at last been touched by the magic of love’s pure spark, she knew as she watched Germanicus climb aboard his chariot and set his horses galloping away, if she had to follow him to the bowels of Hades itself, she would never let him leave her side again while she had breath in her body.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cleopatra wandered restlessly along the rocky point overlooking the Ionian Sea as night settled her cloak over the small Roman colony of Actium. She shivered in the damp ocean air as she took in the brooding landscape painted with long purple shadows falling across the promontory where they had set up camp. In the twilight sea below, her ships, armed by Antony's legions, prepared to make a stand once and for all against Octavian.
Antony was in council with his advisors and she was astute enough to realize the meeting with these military Romans would go more smoothly without her presence. She was under no illusions. These men fought for Antony’s sake, not hers. In time, perhaps, when they settled into the rhythms of Egypt, learned a bit of her people’s ways and saw with their own eyes and hearts who she was, perhaps then they would form an allegiance to her. Now all they knew was the slanderous propaganda Octavian spewed night and day from the Senate floor.
As she reached the end of the promontory, her attention was drawn to Apollodorus. He sat silently observing the spectacle of the legionnaires sharpening their swords and polishing their breastplates in the flickering light of the campfires. His eyes looked tired, and his usually proud posture gave way to gravity, as though he carried a heavy weight upon his shoulders.
Cleopatra made her way through the crowd of soldiers to the High Priest, where he sat now with his eyes half closed, separate from the bustle of preparation swirling around him.
She perched on a boulder beside her grandfather. “You’re tired, Apollodorus?”
The old priest opened his eyes. “I will revive presently, Queen of Heaven. I’m afraid, I am no longer young. The sap does not rise in my veins at the call of the pipes and a fresh sea breeze the way it used to.”
“You guide us all with the wisdom you’ve accumulated over the years,” said Cleopatra. “But…something more is troubling you?”
He laughed softly in the darkness. “It’s not possible to keep anything from you.” His laughter faded and his face grew pensive as he stared into the darkening scene. “I’ve had disturbing visions concerning the fate of Egypt.” He turned to meet her gaze with wide troubled eyes.
She could feel in the pit of her stomach the worry that had been eating away at him––the lost hope.
“What have you seen?”
“You have a battle to fight. Dark premonitions won’t help you any when your soldiers need a courageous leader. Besides, you know the visions are not always exactly as they seem. Their meaning shifts, like desert sand, and they trick you so you believe what you see to be one thing, only to look back in hindsight and know so clearly what was the true portent of the signs.”
“Tell me what you have seen and I’ll help you interpret it.”
He shook his head. “Unless you command me, I would rather keep my visions to myself.” He patted her hand kindly and then closed his heavy lids, as though blocking out the world.
“Very well,” she said shaken. “I’ll leave you in peace. But you can’t stop me from looking for myself.”
He opened his eyes again and gazed at her sorrowfully, compassion written in the lines of his aging face. “Do not plague yourself with visions of doom, Cleopatra. If we are to fall, it will happen soon enough.” He nodded his head and looked down at the stones spread out across the dirt, like runes for him to read catastrophe in.
Cleopatra fought down a wave of panic. “You have truly frightened me now. If there’s trouble ahead, it’s my duty to discover it before it’s too late! Never forget, Isis is above fate and at her will, even the designs of the Gods shatter.”
The old priest looked up with his wide all-seeing eyes, but the fear in them remained. “I pray it is so.”
Turning away, she quickly walked through the winding path of climbing ivy twisting round great oaks, past olive groves where fireflies flashed sparks of brilliance against the darkness of the leaves. The flare of torchlight ahead came into view as she reached her refuge. The temple of Isis.
The gentle strumming of lyre and soft sce
nt of damask roses greeted her as she entered the temple. The dimly lit hall was calm and serene, quieting her fear a bit as she stepped inside.
The priestesses gracefully sank to their knees before the living incarnation of their Goddess. Cleopatra addressed the High Priestess of the temple who wore the scarlet robes of Isis and a ring of silver around her flowing hair.
“I’m in need of guidance tonight, Sister.”
The priestess rose from her place at Cleopatra’s feet. “The Queen of Heaven honors us. We have a chamber were you may sleep and perhaps our Lady will send you a dream.”
Cleopatra nodded and the priestess led the way through the temple to a chamber in the back redolent of burnt frankincense and bergamot. A modest bed lay in the room along with a small shrine to Isis and her son Horus. A lamp was lit by the Goddess's feet, casting a comforting rosy glow through the chamber.
Cleopatra unclasped her carved moonstone necklace and presented it to the priestess. “A gift for your hospitality.”
The priestess took the necklace in her hands and examined the carving on the stone. In delicate, expertly carved lines, she made out the head of Isis bearing the crescent crown of the moon. The priestess smiled. “The engraving is exquisite. You are generous, Queen of Heaven. This will be one of the great treasures of our temple.”
The priestess placed the necklace at the foot of the Goddess before turning to Cleopatra. “May Isis bless you with a dream.” Bowing, she presented Cleopatra with a chalice of wine, then departed leaving her alone in the small chamber.
Cleopatra sat on the edge of her bed sipping the wine, inhaling the rich almost bitter scent of the herbs the priestess had sprinkled into the chalice, allowing the worries to fall away as she prepared herself to receive a sacred dream.
Cleopatra’s head felt heavy from the libations as she lay back on cool linen sheets. Her eyes closed and the room shifted beneath her, as though swaying her on the white silk bed of her fabulous barge. She allowed the wine to make her limbs heavy, while her head was light and spinning off into the ethers.
