Empress Of Rome 1: Den Of Wolves

by Luke Devenish

The shamed Quintus looked away. ‘And one day he will thank you in return, Lady,’ he managed to say.

  Livia smiled. Then another thought occurred to her. ‘Should anyone ask, you could tell them that this house once belonged to Claudius Nero, rather than Tiberius Nero. Claudius was his father, you see.’

  Quintus was prepared to oblige but didn’t see how it mattered.

  ‘Oh, it matters a great deal,’ Livia told him. ‘Octavian is changing all the records in Rome for me. Tiberius Nero is being removed from every aspect of posterity that he can be. In future people will believe that I was married to Claudius Nero, not his son. We’ll have them believe that old Claudius wasn’t even killed during the proscriptions either. He’ll be re-recorded as having lived for quite a few more years yet.’

  Quintus’s terrible guilt twisted another knot in his guts as he comprehended the extent of the crimes being committed against his dead neighbour. ‘Why would you want people to believe that?’ he asked, although he already knew.

  ‘Well, for one thing, the age difference between myself and Claudius Nero would have been considerable. People will be very understanding of my decision to leave him for a virile young husband like Octavian, don’t you think?’

  Quintus just wanted the foul stench of this conversation to end.

  ‘And, for another thing, Tiberius Nero was a bastard,’ Livia said. ‘So I’m sure that’s all the explanation you could ever need on the subject, Quintus.’

  When she left the room Quintus vomited, settling his stomach to some extent, but not his conscience. The torment there would never cease, he knew.

  Ushering Tiberius ahead of her, Livia stepped into the quiet seaside street beyond the door where the legionaries were waiting to escort her carruca home. She touched the cypress sapling that had been placed near the doorway as a warning to priests of the impure site. They would know not to enter. Then a thin, brown youth, all angles and bones, stepped in front of her from where he’d been waiting.

  ‘Iphicles?’ She was excited by the hard, accusing look in my eyes. ‘You have grown,’ she remarked. ‘You seem much manlier.’

  I stepped forward to stroke little Tiberius’s hair, bringing myself close to her. ‘I know what you did, domina. I know how you did it, too.’

  Livia’s face showed only affection for me. ‘Do you, Iphicles? But you were always such a smart slave.’

  ‘I’m angry with you, domina. What you did was terrible.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘That day in the theatre with Martina, you told her you could never commit murder. You said you could never do it.’

  ‘And I didn’t,’ Livia whispered back. ‘Lollia did it for me with her figs – and Martina with her charms. I didn’t have to soil my hands with anything. So no-one can call me a murderess, can they? And wasn’t Tiberius Nero a fool not to question figs that were so ripe out of season? You didn’t think to tell him? I suppose that makes you rather guilty of murder too.’

  I nodded. I was stained with the crime. But the thought of what lay beyond made me know it was worth it. I was near her again.

  Livia placed the palm of her hand against my thigh where no-one but Tiberius could see it. The little boy briefly stared – then stared at the legionaries. Not one of them noticed – all had their eyes on the sea. Livia’s fingers drummed a little rhythm on my bare skin as she pushed the hem of my tunica upwards.

  ‘Don’t you remember how he beat me, Iphicles? Don’t you remember how he gave me humiliation and pain?’

  My breath was sweet in her ear. ‘I remember how he loved you. That’s what I remember most of all.’

  ‘Not most of all?’ Her fingers closed around the soft glans of my sex, dabbing the little hole. ‘I remember that you loved me too. Isn’t that what you remember most?’ She felt me growing with her touch, expanding with the heat of our proximity, as she squeezed then released me, squeezed then released. Tiberius felt himself stir too, his mother’s voice a lullaby to send him not to sleep, but somewhere else; somewhere he was too young to know of yet. He closed his eyes.

  ‘Do you still love me, Iphicles?’

  My breath came out as short, sharp gusts in her ear, liquid and warm. Her fingers left my penis and reached behind it, feeling between my legs. There was nothing left there. I had sacrificed to my goddess.

  ‘I have my offerings in a porphyry bowl for you, domina.’

  She accepted them, of course, and forgave me – and in gently guiding me towards the carruca that would return us to Rome, the two of us took our first united steps towards divinity.

  We were Livia and Iphicles; we were Cybele and Attis.

  The Nones of January

  38 BC

  One month later: Octavian tears up the

  Pact of Misenum and begins a protracted

  offensive against Sextus Pompey

  Octavian was informed that his wife’s labour was over. He had two pressing questions and he was uncertain of which to ask first. I anticipated this dilemma by giving him the two answers he sought unprompted.

  ‘The Lady Livia is well, domine, very well. And the child is a boy.’ I waited for Octavian’s cry of joy at either announcement but there wasn’t one. The triumvir was pensive.

  ‘Would you like to see the child, domine?’

  Octavian roused himself. ‘Of course, yes. Please have him brought to me.’

  I turned to leave but Octavian stopped me again.

  ‘Yes, domine?’

  Octavian searched my face for any sign of a lie. ‘Does the boy have my features?’

  I knew how closely my new master was scrutinising me and I thanked the Great Mother then that I could answer this question so truthfully. ‘I have barely glimpsed his face at all,’ I said.

  Octavian let me go and waited. The little boy Tiberius came into his study. ‘I have a new baby brother,’ he announced.

  ‘Yes. Aren’t you a lucky boy?’

  ‘Are you pleased?’

  ‘I am very pleased for your mother, yes.’

  Tiberius took this as confirmation. But as he sat by his stepfather and waited for the baby’s arrival, it occurred to him that Octavian’s answer had not quite worked as an answer at all. ‘But are you pleased for yourself?’ he tried to clarify.

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘Are you pleased for yourself, Stepfather?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  Tiberius watched him closely. A new question occurred to him – one he had heard his mother raise with Octavian in private. ‘Will you adopt us now?’

  ‘What’s that, Tiberius?’

  ‘Like your Uncle Julius did for you. Will you adopt us as your sons now?’

  ‘You know a lot about all that, don’t you?’

  ‘Everyone does.’

  ‘Well, my Uncle Julius was a very great man …’

  It occurred to Tiberius that this was an unsatisfactory answer also.

  Octavian stood as the wet nurse Hecuba entered, flanked by the midwives and carrying the swaddled baby boy. Octavian was at once expansive. ‘Well done, women. Well done, all. The Lady Livia has endured her ordeal and emerged from it, I’m told?’

  ‘Yes, Triumvir,’ said the senior midwife. ‘The domina has formidable spirit and strength of character. She forbade herself to cry out during labour.’

  He was somewhat thrown to hear this. ‘Not on my account, though?’

  ‘I believe it was, Triumvir, yes. She didn’t wish your work to be disturbed.’

  ‘She’s remarkable,’ Octavian said. And he meant it.

  Hecuba held the baby towards him. ‘Will you take the little boy, Triumvir?’

  ‘Yes. Let’s have a look at him then – eh, Tiberius?’ But he didn’t hold out his arms for the baby.

  Hecuba brought the child right up to his chest, forcing Octavian to cradle him. ‘See – he’s perfectly formed,’ she said as she relinquished the boy. ‘Healthy lungs. All his limbs and features are very fine.’

  O
ctavian studied the boy’s features. But Tiberius studied Octavian. ‘What a handsome lad. He’s big, isn’t he?’ Octavian said to his stepson. ‘He’ll grow into a good strong man, I’m sure.’ He was going through the motions, convincing no-one by his words.

  The women looked at each other cagily, unable to fathom what could be unsettling him. The senior midwife ventured forth some information she hoped would lighten the mood: ‘The Lady Livia suggested a name for him.’ The other women smiled, certain it would please.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Of course, she knows it’s her husband’s right to name the boy,’ the midwife added.

  Octavian nodded pleasantly.

  ‘But she thought Octavius would be a fine name – to honour the lad’s father.’

  Octavian smiled, and handed the baby back to Hecuba again. In the boy’s fine features, Octavian had seen none of his own. ‘To name the boy after his father’s gens is right and proper,’ he said.

  The women cast quick, happy glances at each other.

  ‘Which is why I will name him Drusus. A noble Claudian name.’

  Octavian left the room before any of the women had recovered themselves.

  Little Tiberius knew then that he had now received the answer to every question he had asked – and suddenly his heart broke, not for himself or for his new little brother but for his mother. He imagined her pain when the news of her husband’s reaction reached her as she lay in her bed.

  ‘Stepfather?’

  At the end of the corridor, Octavian turned to look back at him.

  ‘She’ll have babies again – as soon as she can. She’ll have more babies – and next time the son will be yours.’

  Octavian was unable to hide his surprise at the little boy’s perceptiveness.

  My domina heard the trundle of wheels and turned her head towards the sound from her pillow. Recovered from her own illness, Hebe used her hands to propel herself in the little cart. I stepped back to allow her to pass, but stayed near the door to the room.

  Livia smiled. ‘You’re such a good child,’ she said to Hebe. ‘You came to me at once.’

  ‘Of course, Lady.’

  Livia tried to sit up but didn’t have the strength to do so. She stayed where she was among the bed linen. ‘How is your dominus, Hebe? Do you see much of him?’

  ‘He’s very busy. He always works in his study. The rest of the time he isn’t here.’

  ‘He works for Rome,’ Livia said. ‘He’s extremely diligent. He can never cease.’

  Hebe nodded.

  ‘Is he here at Oxheads now?’

  ‘Yes, domina, he is.’

  Livia placed a pale hand to her throat, rubbing the soft skin at her larynx for a moment, saying nothing. Then she pointed to a jug of wine on a low table near her bed.

  ‘See that, Hebe?’

  ‘Yes, domina?’

  ‘It’s very precious wine. From Chios. Better than any other.’

  Hebe knew it was. She also knew how it mysteriously gained entry into the house. ‘The gods are bountiful to give my Lady such luxuries.’

  Livia narrowed her eyes and wondered if the girl’s love for her had faded since she had suffered the burns. She decided it had not. ‘It has special qualities, this wine.’

  Hebe feared her mistress was still unwell from the birth; her mind seemed addled. ‘As it should, if the gods have given it.’

  ‘It’s not from the gods – it’s just wine of excellent quality. I want you to take it to your dominus.’

  ‘Yes, Lady.’ Hebe went to retrieve the jug.

  ‘Wait.’

  Hebe halted.

  ‘When you give it to Octavian, you’re to tell him that I gave it to you – that the wine comes from me. Tell your dominus that I am waiting for him with an offering to the Great Mother.’

  Hebe was puzzled as to why she was being given this task.

  ‘Do you understand that, Hebe?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not very hard.’

  ‘No.’ Livia was weak; the new baby had cost her. She still ached and bled. ‘You must listen to what I tell you. When you’ve given your dominus the wine and the message, you must leave his study. Do you understand me, Hebe? You mustn’t stay in the room as he drinks it. You must be gone from his sight – and he mustn’t see you when he comes out from his study either.’

  Hebe thought this very strange. ‘Shall I hide somewhere?’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ Livia said.

  Hebe took the jug of wine from the table and placed it in her lap in the cart, steadied between her knees. She used her hands to push herself until she was beyond the door and some way along the corridor. Having quietly observed all this, I watched her trundle away and decided to follow.

  When Hebe had achieved a distance from her mistress that seemed suitable, she stopped propelling herself and gingerly stepped out of the cart. She stood, the pressure of each bare sole touching the mosaic floor sending a dull throb of old pain up her legs. She could walk again now, more or less, though Livia didn’t know it – and wouldn’t know it, either, unless Hebe grew careless. The love her Lady gave her was fuelled by guilt, Hebe knew, but it was better than no love at all. And it was better than Hebe’s own love for her mistress, which had faded with time into something that Hebe couldn’t yet name or understand.

  But I knew it for what it was: ambivalence.

  Hebe trod the rest of the short walk to Octavian’s study, bobbing at the legionary who let her pass inside without question. I stayed outside, the conversation just audible enough for me to hear. Octavian was lying on his couch, unoccupied by work and thinking only of his needs.

  Hebe bowed and held out the wine before her. ‘It is from my Lady. She wanted you to know that she waits, domine.’

  Octavian looked at the wine, not knowing it for what it really was but only for what it did to him when he drank it. It was unnatural – he knew that at least – but he could never refuse it now.

  ‘It’s very soon after the birth for your Lady to be soliciting visits from her husband,’ he said carefully.

  His meaning was lost to Hebe in the initial moments. Then his words became clear to the young girl in the pause. ‘She’s very tender,’ Hebe murmured. ‘Still sore inside.’

  ‘I knew she must be. And yet she wishes me to drink her Chios wine?’

  Hebe knew there was a conversation being played out between husband and wife that she wasn’t party to. ‘That’s what she said to me, domine.’ There was a long pause while Hebe waited for Octavian to say something more. But he didn’t. ‘Shall I go now?’

  Octavian sloshed half the jug into a cup that was by his bedside. ‘Stay a little longer while I think of a message you can take back with you.’

  Hebe felt uneasy, thinking of her mistress’s order, and watching him swirl the wine around in the cup without drinking it. ‘Have you thought of the message now, domine?’

  He raised the wine to his lips and Hebe wanted to run from the room. But Octavian still didn’t drink. ‘What’s wrong? You seem frightened?’

  ‘I’m fearful of disobeying my Lady’s orders.’

  ‘What did she order you to do?’

  ‘To leave, domine, before you drink the wine.’

  Octavian looked briefly thrown, before a new idea came to him. ‘It’s my order that you stay,’ he said. And he drank.

  Hours later, my domina was woken by Octavian spreading her wide at the ankles. He was between her then, scooping aside the wads of linen from where the midwives had placed them. When he entered her she barely sensed him inside – her whole body already feeling like it was burning and freezing in turns. She wasn’t well enough to take him, the midwives had warned her, but she wouldn’t take the risk of imposing abstinence. Not now. Not when she was still to give him a son he recognised as his own. Octavian placed his lips at her throat and, for a few seconds, Livia thought she smelled another woman’s skin on him. It wasn’t perfume that she breathed – it was oil and fat, the smell of kitchens
.

  Then she remembered no more.

  And of all that I had seen and heard myself that evening, I told my domina precisely nothing. Since my act of sacrifice, I had begun to evolve. Livia was evolving too, but of the two of us I faced a transformation that was more profound. She was born of the patrician class and already closer to the divine than most other mortals. But I was only a slave, and yet immortality was also awaiting me, just as it was my domina. And with my immortality would come my equality.

  I found it both appropriate and correct that I should now become a holder of secrets too.

  The Kalends of August

  30 BC

  Eight years later: Antony and Cleopatra’s

  war against Octavian ends in their

  destruction

  This moment, another scene I never saw but had described to me, is nevertheless chiselled into my memory.

  The great queen stood over the corpse of Antony and began praying to Anubis. But the words petered out, followed by her faith that there was any deity left to play guardian to the dead. Egypt had been defeated. The queen’s consort had proved to be more man than god. The queen, if she had ever been divine herself, was now very much a lowly mortal. Octavian had won her kingdom as his own. She was his slave.

  The queen remembered Martina’s certainty that one day she would find herself left with only one possible path to take.

  She asked her attendants to bring her the woven-reed basket that the sorceress had given her nearly a decade before. When there was no sound of hurrying bare feet, she turned and saw that all were gone. They had fled. Even the cats had deserted her.

  She ran through the halls and chambers herself, flinging open great doors, upturning chests and cupboards, desperate for it. Martina had told her that she would be glad of the gift, and right then the queen would have given her very life to remember what being glad was. She couldn’t find the basket.

  She returned to Antony’s corpse. Lifting his great hand, she placed it upon her breast and lay next to him. It offered comfort. She looked to his other hand and saw that the fingers were arranged in a point. She realised what Antony wished her to see. He had already retrieved the gift for her.

  Once she had opened it she stared inside the basket for a long time. The gift was still. She walked to where a shaft of dawn light fell upon the floor, and she placed the basket there so that Ra could warm the gift’s blood. Then she crouched beside it, letting her breath play gently upon its skin to stir the gift into gradual wakefulness.