Scribonia was a kind and good woman who never raised her voice in anger. And while her beauty may have tarnished a little with time, Scribonia was still of the highest nobility, descended from great and famous men. Her marriage had been political, like all aristocratic marriages in Rome. She was a cousin of Sextus Pompey, then the triumvirs’ remaining rival for power. She and Octavian had married several years previously when he and Sextus Pompey had sought to make a public display of unity.
There had been resumptions of hostility between the two sides since but never once had Octavian spoken of divorcing Scribonia. This could only mean that he loved her. Now peace had been declared, so that her cousin’s Sicilian legions could join Antony’s forthcoming campaign against Parthia. This made Scribonia’s position inviolable. She brought prestige to the Julii and would never lose her husband – the whole household knew it.
Antiope made her presence known when Scribonia placed the little bronze figures back in the shrine. ‘He has returned, domina.’
Scribonia kept her eyes to the Lares. ‘What state is he in?’
‘He seemed tired. Palamedes took his shoes off for him in the atrium. The master left his tunica there too.’
‘Had he bathed?’
Antiope didn’t think so. There was a difficult silence while the servant girl waited for what her mistress’s orders might be. When Scribonia spoke again her voice was thick with anger. ‘There is a paste they make from insects, Antiope. They crush them. It’s disgusting, they say. But people still take it.’
Shocked, Antiope composed her reply carefully. ‘Who are they, domina? And why do they take it?’
‘To engorge themselves, their breasts and lips – and their sex, of course. Men and women both eat it.’
The maid was shocked even more. ‘Who does this dirty thing, domina?’
Scribonia turned to face her, eyes red and drawn from staring so long at the shrine. ‘Your dominus for one – and his whore.’
‘No, domina – you mustn’t put such words in your mouth,’ Antiope pleaded. She stepped into the corridor, looking for an older slave to help calm her mistress, but no-one else was around.
‘Filthy crushed insects,’ said Scribonia bitterly. ‘He takes them inside himself. I think she hides them in wine.’
The little maid seized on this. ‘Now, there you know you’re mistaken, domina. The master never takes wine – only ewe’s milk and water. He hates wine.’
Scribonia paused, as if recalling this fact for the first time in years.
‘You know that very well about the master,’ Antiope went on. ‘He never drinks the stuff – says it muddies his head. So why would he ever eat some dirty paste made from flies?’
‘Because she makes him eat it,’ Scribonia whispered into her hands. Then, louder, she demanded, ‘Bring my husband’s tunica to me from where he disrobed.’
‘Domina?’
‘You wish to reassure me, girl? Bring me his clothes. Now.’
Antiope scurried into the corridor and down the stairs that led to the reception rooms of the house. In the modestly decorated atrium she found her master’s Phrygian steward, Palamedes, closing the curtain to Octavian’s study.
‘The tunica he took off – where is it?’
‘In a pile waiting to be taken to the fuller’s shop – where do you think it is?’
‘Has it been washed yet?’
‘Of course not. It’ll need a bucket of good fuller’s piss to get it clean again.’
The young maid found the tunica scrunched into a ball in the dank rooms behind the kitchens and hurried back to her mistress at the little shrine. Scribonia took it from the girl and unfurled it carefully.
In the shadows of the room Antiope couldn’t see what her mistress searched for on the coarse linen garment. Then Scribonia’s lips compressed into a hard, thin line. She held up the tunica for her maid to see: there was a purple stain, not very large, but vivid enough to suggest what had caused it.
Antiope clutched at hope. ‘It could have come from another man’s cup, domina.’
‘It fell from his lips.’
‘No, domina – you can’t be sure. It could’ve spilled from the cup of any of his friends. You know how men are at meals. They’re playful, rowdy – ‘
Scribonia was already walking from the room. ‘What man would dare spill wine on Octavian?’ she asked.
Her heart breaking, Scribonia paused at the door to the connubial room she sometimes shared with her husband. Lately she had barely been inside it. But Scribonia fully knew that, whatever the outcome of her words to him, she would never be allowed to sleep in a room again with Octavian anyway. A wife could not come back from such accusations made to her husband, true or not. But she would make them regardless. Above and beyond all other concerns was her dignity. Without that Scribonia had nothing.
The door was unlatched. She pushed it open.
Octavian was naked on the sleeping couch, his legs rigid and stretched to the points of his toes. His back arched as he bucked and thrust his loins at the ceiling. He was pleasuring himself, unaware that she had entered the room.
Scribonia stared as he moaned. He had no dignity; he was an animal. He had never shown such low abandon even when Scribonia submitted herself to his desires. He self-indulged like a savage with no woman beside him at all. A long-legged spider walked delicately along the pillow, losing itself in Octavian’s curls before emerging again to continue on its path. Octavian was no longer the man his wife once knew and loved.
When he reached his climax there was little seed. On top of everything else, Scribonia knew what this meant in a man – it had already been cast today. She threw the soiled tunica at him without saying a word. Octavian still didn’t see her.
Antiope hovered at the door to Scribonia’s bedroom as her mistress walked quickly down the hall again. Scribonia saw her and stopped, feeling the rush of grief. Her face crumpled in misery. The maid had no idea how else to comfort her – so she took her mistress’s hand. Scribonia was grateful for it.
‘Will you tell him your happy news, domina?’ Antiope whispered after a time.
Scribonia placed their joined hands upon her own belly. The bump there was tiny – but it was there. ‘I’ll tell him nothing,’ she said at last. ‘The child is mine. Let him hatch one with his whore.’
Martina saw the moment when Mucius Scaevola changed places with the condemned criminal quite clearly, despite the poor location of her seat high in the Theatre of Pompey. The actor playing the great hero passed behind some scenery representing the gates of the Etruscan siege camp. He stopped behind the wooden structure and didn’t emerge again. Instead the criminal appeared, flanked by restraining lictors dressed as the ‘inspiring gods’ Mars and Quirinus. The condemned man wore the actor’s Mucius mask and the two men’s heights were the same, so it was all very impressively done, Martina thought.
Some of those in the audience didn’t notice how the stage trick was performed at all, but Martina’s eyesight had always been sharp, even so many rows back from the best seats. With no-one seated either side or in front of her, she was able to sprawl on the cushions she had brought for the purpose and enjoy her snack of nuts and fruit. But with the climax of the play approaching she sat upright in readiness. Martina saw how black and filthy the criminal’s feet were. He had obviously not been allowed to bathe while locked in the cells beneath the theatre.
The replacement Mucius Scaevola was led towards the real flames that were to consume him on Lars Porsenna’s orders. He struggled slightly but the lictor gods tightened their hold on his arms. Martina saw a quick glint of the knife that Mars held to the criminal’s ribs. She could imagine what threats had been held over the criminal, and the violence of it excited her; he would endure his punishment while atoning for his crimes in the service of public entertainment. If he struggled and ruined the show, he would be punished anyway – but with the added suffering of a blade twisted in his guts.
Both options sounded
good to Martina, and she offered a quick prayer of thanks to as many gods as she could think of for this wonderful new life in Rome. Finding her way to the great city had been the only reason Martina allowed Aurelia to purchase her from the queen. Martina had never intended to stay with Aurelia for long. The fat woman’s sex had an unpleasant odour to it.
On the stage far below, Mucius Scaevola faced the fire and Martina saw a trickle of urine pool at the criminal’s feet.
I tapped her shoulder. Martina had known I was approaching from the second I left my domina’s side and walked determinedly up the steep stone steps to the freedwomen’s seats at the very back of the vast open-air auditorium. But she chose not to acknowledge me.
Behind the scenery, the actor who had played Mucius projected his lines: ‘I am Gaius Mucius, a citizen of Rome. I came here as an enemy to kill my enemy, and I am as ready to die as I am to kill. We Romans act bravely and, when adversity strikes, we suffer bravely too.’
Martina thrilled to this. The actor playing the hated Lars Porsenna laughed derisively and ordered Mucius to be cast into the fire. This was the lictors’ cue. As the hidden actor declared that he had no fear of a fiery end and would prove it, the ‘inspiring gods’ thrust the criminal’s left hand into the flames as if Mucius was doing so of his own accord.
A sharp smell began to fill the auditorium. The scattered senators in the front seats were the first to appreciate it, lifting their noses slightly in the air and saying nothing, allowing the novelty of the moment to achieve its impact. Then the smell wafted behind them, rising up the raked rows of marble seats, through the carefully marked sections. The equestrian men enjoyed it, followed by the plebeians and freedmen, then the patrician women and the women of lesser rank that sat behind them in the very back rows. At last it reached Martina’s nose – and my own – strong and enticing in our nostrils. It held the flavours of searing pork as it filled the still afternoon air before dissipating. Martina ate another fig.
I tapped on her shoulder again and cleared my throat. ‘My domina asks if you will visit her in the patrician women’s seats.’
Martina said nothing. On stage, the criminal was strangely silent too, his fingers curling and uncurling in the flames. His mouth was clearly gagged beneath his mask, for it would not have done for Mucius Scaevola to scream with pain – that was not how the famous story was supposed to go.
Sensitive to the view of those few women in the rows behind us, I made to sit down next to Martina.
‘Don’t even think of it,’ she said without looking at me.
I lost my patience. ‘What’s the matter with you – Livia of the Claudii has summoned you,’ I said. ‘Who are you to ignore her? You’re no better than me.’
Martina turned from enjoying the criminal’s gagged agony. ‘I am freed,’ she replied, ‘and you still wear a slave’s collar. I’m already better than you – and your domina was the one who freed me. Where’s your freedom, slave?’
‘I don’t want my freedom. I’m happy as I am.’
Martina yawned. ‘I spread my legs and let her dine at my lips. Have you enjoyed Livia dining at your lips, slave?’
I flushed with embarrassment. She had sensed my love for Livia as a weakness in me. ‘I must take your answer to her,’ I said, not looking at Martina any more. ‘What’s it to be?’
‘Tell her I like my freedwoman’s seat,’ said Martina, smirking at my discomfort. ‘It’s very spacious. She can come and speak to me up here if she’s so keen.’
I spat on one of her cushions. ‘You’re full of piss and shit.’
When I had gone Martina turned the soiled cushion over and returned her attention to the stage. The criminal’s hand had been withdrawn from the fire and he slumped heavily against the lictors as the play continued around him. His mask had slipped sideways, giving Mucius Scaevola a slightly wondering air, as if he were perplexed by his own great courage. Lars Porsenna declared his astonished admiration for the Roman’s bravery and announced him free to return to the besieged city. The sparse audience around Martina cheered.
Naturally, Martina knew of Livia’s arrival long before my domina managed to speak. I stood dutifully behind, black with anger.
‘You enjoy seeing me humiliated?’ Livia asked Martina at last. ‘I’m not permitted to sit in these seats. It’s beneath my rank.’
‘Take that tone from your voice or I’ll humiliate you further,’ said Martina.
I kept my eyes fixed hard on the steps so that there was no risk I would see Livia’s face at this shocking statement. Livia was silent a long moment and could sense the few other freedwomen around us casting vague glances of interest. Then she sat on the same cushion I had spat on.
‘There now,’ said Martina, still insolently staring only at the stage. ‘The seats up here are almost the same as yours, except harder and so much further away.’
‘I need a stronger wine,’ Livia whispered in a voice that was low with fury. ‘I need something that will enslave him completely.’
‘There is nothing stronger than the fly paste,’ said Martina. ‘Try washing yourself before you fuck him next time. Or maybe comb your hair a little. The wine can’t do all the work for you.’
Livia clenched her fists at her knees, gripping her white stola. ‘When he enters me he’s crazed with lust, and when I drink the wine with him I feel the lust too. The pain of what he does inside me becomes nothing when I’m like that. I can bear it – I love it. Without the wine the pleasure is dulled by the way he uses me. But not drinking it keeps my mind clear – I can think.’
‘What do you think about?’ Martina asked.
‘That he must wed me. That I must become his wife. But he never speaks of it. That’s why I need a stronger wine – he must become mine to own completely.’
Martina chuckled.
Livia hissed through clenched teeth. ‘You’re repellent to me, Martina, and to anyone who looks at you. You mock and laugh at me when all I’ve ever asked for is your help.’
Martina placed a thumb to my domina’s lips, shushing her, and cast a look around. Most of the other freedwomen were chatting among themselves now, no longer interested in the exchange. A theatre slave had come up the steps selling little cloth bags of nuts. ‘The reason he won’t wed you is because you already have a husband,’ Martina replied.
‘But if my lover was serious he’d compel Tiberius Nero to divorce me – and he hasn’t done this.’
‘Perhaps that’s because it would look bad in the eyes of Rome?’
Livia knew then with sick certainty that it would – of course it would. ‘Please help me,’ she begged. ‘There must be something I can do to force him to wed me – something to make my hold on him so strong that it will never be broken.’
Livia suddenly looked down to see a little glass vial curled in her hand. She did not recall picking it up.
‘A drop of that in his evening meal each day,’ said Martina.
‘But I don’t see him each day. I’m lucky to see him twice in a week.’
‘You see your husband each day, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘That’s who the drops are for. One each day in his cena.’
Livia felt a chill as she stared at the little glass tube. ‘What’ll this do to him?’ she whispered.
‘Kill him,’ said Martina. ‘But slowly enough to make it look like illness. Then your lover will marry you once you’re widowed.’
Livia paled – as did I, standing in horror at her shoulder. In my mind I begged her to throw the vial away. She had taken my heart and my loyalty, and I had given both willingly, but I couldn’t bear to see my young master suffer so cruelly.
‘I can’t do such a thing,’ she said at last.
I closed my eyes in relief.
‘But hasn’t he beaten you in the past?’ asked Martina.
‘Yes, he has …’
‘And humiliated you? Denigrated you? Hasn’t he ignored your advice only to lead you both to disaster?�
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It was all true.
‘Those things planted hate in your heart. Why else do you already betray him with your lover?’
Livia fell silent. Then she slipped the glass vial back inside the freedwoman’s hand. Martina made her disappointment plain.
‘Why do you look at me like that?’ Livia said, trembling.
‘Because I thought you had qualities that other women could admire.’
Livia was crushed. ‘How can I ever kill him? I don’t hate him in that way.’
‘Cleopatra loved her own brother and sister deeply,’ said Martina, ‘but it didn’t spare their lives. They stood in the way of what she was destined to achieve.’
‘I’m not the great queen.’
‘No,’ said Martina pointedly.
On the distant stage, the play was over and the scenery workers were bringing out new items for the next entertainment.
Martina stretched herself and fossicked for another fig in the bag of snacks she had brought. She didn’t offer one to Livia.
‘His wife is pregnant,’ Livia whispered again.
Martina showed no interest.
‘She hasn’t even told him. She thinks she’s hidden it by moving to a villa in the countryside. But he found out the truth from her servants.’
‘What does he intend to do about it?’
‘He hasn’t told me …’
Martina sucked on her fig.
‘If I was pregnant, I’d have a new hold on him,’ Livia ventured. ‘Then I’d have the same chance of bearing him a son that his wife does. And if she has a girl and I have boy – well then.’
Martina suddenly stood, picking up her cushion and bag.
Empress Of Rome 1: Den Of Wolves Page 13
