Empress Of Rome 1: Den Of Wolves

by Luke Devenish

  Julia dared not breathe, his naked desire for her as thrilling as it was frightening. At the edge of her vision she sensed the rise in his lap where his yearning for her was manifest. She conveyed what she hoped was reciprocation, even though fear of the unknown ate at her. ‘See the lady frog there, Marcellus?’ she answered. ‘Perhaps you haven’t noticed her before?’ Like him, she pointed at nothing. ‘She’s been kept hidden by others until now, her confident lady frog friends – they would have stolen your attention, so that you never had a hope of seeing her. But now she emerges with purpose. Her heart has been stirred. Do you think she answers the call of our Prince of Frogs? The one that every lady frog wrongly believes calls to her?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Marcellus, smiling.

  ‘I know that she does. She’s in love with him.’

  She felt a burning want for Marcellus and yearned for him to be lying near her, kissing her lips, stroking her hair and sending her to the stars as he had promised.

  Hanging on their every whispered word although carefully appearing otherwise, we two slaves gave no objection when Marcellus took Julia’s hand. He lightly held on to it, not letting go, and his palm was broad and warm. The fear began to dissolve in Julia as hunger replaced it. She wanted him to take her and would submit to whatever that honour entailed.

  The confarreatio ceremony was rigidly traditional without being stiflingly lifeless. The Temple of Capitoline Jupiter was chosen – the place of Octavian and Livia’s own wedding. Marcellus wore his purple-bordered toga virilis, as did Octavian. Julia had her long, fair hair carefully divided by the point of a spear into six equal bunches, each of which was then plaited into the bridal style. She wore a flowing white stola and a garland of early spring flowers on her crown, which was covered by a silk veil. Around her waist she wore the ‘wedding knot’ – that complicated belt that could only be unfastened by her groom in the nuptial bed.

  Following the sacrifice of a lamb and a perfunctory reading of the skies by a bribed augur, Julia and Marcellus took their seats with the lamb’s bloody hide across their knees, chastely holding hands. Had Lepidus still clung to his shaky third corner of the Triumvirate, he would have conducted the proceedings, but he was long gone, and his replacement pontifex made a far less resentful presence, offering the couple unappetising pieces of the spelt loaf that Julia herself had baked. The extended Julian house and its favoured slaves and freedmen stood as happy witnesses while the couple declared their intentions, waited at the appropriate moment for any objections from the throng, and then signed their contracts.

  Julia took off the golden bulla amulet she had worn around her neck since birth and handed it to her father. There were tears in his eyes as he accepted it. He had hung the bulla around her neck in this very temple thirteen years before. Octavian curled the little thing into his palm and tucked it inside his toga. It nestled next to a folded sheet of papyrus, on which was written the speech he would give, not at the marriage feast, but at the Senate tomorrow when the newlyweds were properly coupled. Smiling, Livia withdrew his hand from touching the document and clasped him lightly in her fingers.

  Marcellus placed a plain gold ring on the middle finger of Julia’s left hand – the nerve of which went straight to her heart. ‘I will love you always,’ he said.

  Among the crush of congratulating family members, the children of dead Antony held back a little. Julia saw this and, sensitive to their private insecurities, took herself to them, embracing her demure cousin Antonia first.

  ‘It’ll be you standing here soon – and it’ll be your turn to be at the centre of all this silly attention.’

  ‘My day will be nothing like yours,’ Antonia said.

  Julia was surprised. ‘Why do you say that? Of course it will be. You’ll be a beautiful bride.’

  Antonia cast a look at Julia’s handsome stepbrother, Drusus. He and his older brother, Tiberius, were already asking the slaves about food. ‘I have been told who my own betrothed is,’ Antonia said.

  Julia followed her gaze to Drusus and made the connection. ‘But that’s wonderful news.’

  Yet Antonia showed little reflection of it.

  ‘Don’t you love him at all?’ Julia wondered, ‘Is that what’s wrong?’

  ‘With all my heart I love him,’ said Antonia. ‘But neither of us is favoured. Not as you and Marcellus are.’

  Julia was at a loss for further words and Antonia was fearful she’d been misunderstood. ‘I’m not jealous, cousin – that’s not what I mean. I’m happy for you. I just tell you this as an observation.’

  Julia saw that her cousin was truthful and, although slightly unsettled by it, she turned to Jullus, Antonia’s half-brother.

  ‘I’m happy for you too,’ he said, embracing her, ‘really happy. Marcellus is the luckiest man in Rome.’ He dwarfed her in his huge bear arms. Like his dead brother, Antyllus, he had grown to the size of manhood some years before he had been given a toga virilis to signify it.

  But when Jullus didn’t release her from the hug, Julia had to make a little coughing noise before he dropped his arms, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just so happy for you, you see.’

  But his eyes were bright with tears.

  Octavian permitted six separate courses for the marriage feast at Oxheads. While none of the meals were rich, as dictated by the Ways of the Fathers, the ingredients were of the highest quality. The atmosphere was light-hearted. Not one guest among the three hundred in attendance failed to feel joy for the newlyweds. Women and children were seated in low chairs placed in front of their husbands’ and fathers’ dining couches. There were many people in attendance that the young couple had never laid eyes on before – distant clients of Octavian. Always the perfect host, he loosened the tongue of every hayseed, drawing all into his conversation, while fingering the folded papyrus that was hidden in his robe.

  Between the courses musicians led the guests in singing spirited songs, all of which had been preselected for the tastefulness of their lyrics – bawdiness not being permitted in the First Citizen’s presence. But following the final course of oysters, a professional storyteller entered. When he announced The Odyssey, Octavian lost his humour.

  ‘No. I don’t care. I’ll not suffer through Odysseus’s trials again. Give us something new, bard.’

  It was plain to the party that the storyteller had nothing else memorised. He gamely began a fresh tale, concocting it then and there. Octavian lasted the ten remaining minutes until sunset and then fell asleep. His slaves carried him from the room, couch and all, and his happy guests threw off the shackles of propriety to assail the amphorae of wine with vigour.

  But to their horror Octavian returned, and all the guests froze with brimming cups of wine to their lips. But he was blind to them. The First Citizen wanted only to express his unending love and pride for Julia.

  ‘You’re my ornament, child. No Roman father could ask for a better daughter.’

  Overwhelmed, Julia rushed to Octavian and kissed his bare feet. ‘No daughter could ask for a more loving father.’

  He bent to kiss her hair and, in doing so, the folded speech he had hidden inside his toga dropped to the floor. Livia picked it up before anyone else had even seen her leave her chair. She pressed the document to her lips and then slipped it safely into Octavian’s hand again. A look of such deep and abiding love passed between them that Marcellus broke into applause. When the First Citizen had stumbled to his bed again, the storyteller abandoned his spontaneous epic and joined in the revels.

  It was a glorious wedding day.

  Julia’s courage began to quail when she and Marcellus were escorted from the feast by some fifty remaining guests – my domina and I among them. The couple were serenaded in a torchlit procession for the short distance along the Clivus Palatinus to the house Marcellus lived in with his mother, Octavia. Pausing at the front door while Marcellus lit the threshold lamps, Julia’s nerves gave her away when she fumbled with the pot of melted tallow that was h
ers to grease the hinges to keep out sorcery. The pot slipped from her hand in a rain of walnuts thrown by the guests. She struggled to pick it up again, spilling tallow all over the doorstep.

  ‘Don’t worry about the rotten stuff,’ said Marcellus, laughing.

  The look I passed to my domina from where I stood among the throng was one of profound relief. Ever careful, she did not mirror it, and I quickly copied her countenance. Sweeping up his bride in his strong young arms, Marcellus carried Julia into the house.

  The singing turned bawdy as the couple were escorted to a luridly decorated connubial room upstairs. They were virtually thrown onto the bed so that the third-last ritual of the day could take place. Under the eyes of the crowding guests, Marcellus gave Julia a set of keys to the front door, acknowledging her role as new mistress of his household. He then presented her with a little porphyry dipping bowl and a lighted lamp – symbolic of water and fire.

  The matron of honour stepped forward to say the final prayers to Juno. This role was for a woman who had only been married once, so both Livia and Octavia were ineligible. Lollia had been chosen in their stead, and she conducted her part with high enthusiasm, aided by wine. Prayers done, she clapped her hands in a no-nonsense manner, sending the complaining guests out the door before closing it behind her with a cheery wave to the bed. Only slaves remained – me included.

  Two of the young scallywags from Marcellus’s household bolted the doors in a pantomime performance answered by whoops from those locked out on the other side. These boys then attempted to undress the bride and groom as would happen on any night, but Julia blanched. ‘I can do that myself.’

  This was unheard of.

  ‘You’ve never removed your own garments, young domina,’ said the wet nurse Hecuba, watching from the corner. It was she of the sow-like breasts who had taken Julia from Scribonia’s womb.

  ‘Tonight I will, Hecuba,’ said Julia, trying to remain composed.

  ‘But – it’s not done.’

  ‘I will not be displayed like a spring lamb!’

  We looked at each other in the pause. Then Marcellus slapped away the hands of the slaves who were untying his own clothes. ‘Out, all of you. Out!’

  Still the orders didn’t sink in. ‘Young master?’

  Marcellus started throwing Lares figurines at all the slaves except myself until they understood, ducking out of range of the projectiles. They didn’t go far, staying just the other side of the servants’ door, ears stuck to the timber, hands touching their genitals in excited anticipation.

  I was the lone slave left in the connubial room. As befitted my role of favourite in Julia’s father’s household, it had fallen to me to complete the final ritual of the evening. I gave a little cough and proceeded to unwrap the silk from an item I had carefully carried with me all the way up the street from Oxheads. Julia’s eyes were wide as she watched me. Once the thing was unwrapped, I held it awkwardly. It was a Mutinus Tutunus figurine, a glazed earthenware phallus on which patrician brides sat in order to make a gift of their virginity to the fertility god.

  Julia went pale.

  ‘Thank you, Iphicles, that’ll be all now,’ said Marcellus uncomfortably.

  I was very unsure. It was expected of me to confirm to the families that the ancient tradition had been honoured.

  Marcellus read my unease. ‘Just lie and say you saw it happen,’ he said.

  I bowed and left, startling the masturbating servants as I did so.

  Inside the connubial room there was a long pause – Marcellus and Julia were too embarrassed to look at each other. Then their eyes darted in each other’s paths and they broke into giggles.

  Julia was still laughing when Marcellus kissed her – the first time their lips had met. His spontaneity saw him misjudge her mouth, and his lips found her chin instead. Then he righted her and she felt the soft, warm velvet of him upon her own lips at last. Marcellus broke free and, just as she opened her eyes to see why he’d ended the kiss, he slipped a cup of wine in her hand.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘You must be thirsty. Have some wine.’

  ‘I don’t want it – ‘

  He gently tipped the cup to her lips but Julia turned her head so that it dribbled down her chin.

  ‘Aren’t you funny,’ said Marcellus with affection, wiping the drops from her face with his finger. He licked them off then drained the cup himself, nearly spluttering when he found it unwatered. He poured some more and took another large sip as Julia tried to look as if she wasn’t watching him.

  Then Marcellus started nibbling her throat and ear. The sensation was ticklish but Julia knew she shouldn’t laugh. From his earnest, eyes half-closed rapture, she could tell it wasn’t supposed to be comical. Then she found herself giving into it.

  Soon she was so lost in a swoon that she barely sensed his hands stroking her breasts. An unconscious shrug of her shoulders saw her gown slip to her waist and his hands were cupping her, his thumbs lightly touching her nipples. He began gently licking her and she felt herself go hard as tiny stones. There was an odd sensation at her pelvis and he carefully lifted her to her feet, taking up the little knife that had been left on the bed for one purpose. He cut the marital knot at her belted waist so that the gown slid to the floor around her. The slaves had not permitted her to wear undergarments when they had dressed her, of course.

  Marcellus tossed her onto the bed and she lay there before him. ‘You’re my Venus.’

  He lifted the clean white wedding tunica above his head and threw it aside. Slowly he unwound his linen loincloth until he was as naked as she was. Julia stared at his penis, and her fears rushed the blood to her face. The organ seemed as angry and cruel as the fertility phallus – and just as enormous.

  Marcellus lay down beside her and Julia’s breathing stopped. Neither moved or said anything for what seemed like minutes. His penis remained full and upright like a column.

  He broke the silence at last. ‘I hate that Mutinus thing; it disgusts me that my uncle clings to all that sort of claptrap.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Julia, saying nothing more.

  Marcellus waited another moment, before indicating his impressive sex to her. ‘This won’t hurt anywhere near as much as that stupid Mutinus. Why don’t you take me inside you? Sit down on it, maybe? Or I’ll mount you if you like. Which would you prefer?’

  She was terrified. ‘Please don’t make me, Marcellus. Not now, another time.’

  ‘Don’t you know it’s expected?’

  Her tears started flowing though her voice betrayed nothing of them in the half-dark. She stayed calm in her fear. ‘You say it won’t hurt but I know it will. I dread the pain, I’m not ready for it. Don’t make me do it tonight.’

  He fell into silence again, amazed and unsure of what to say. ‘But I’m really quite experienced at penetrating, you know,’ he said after another interval.

  Julia squirmed. ‘Are you? That’s good.’

  ‘Since I attained my toga virilis. My tutor took me to visit a Subura brothel on the same day.’

  Despite herself, Julia couldn’t help but be interested. ‘What was it like?’

  ‘Quite clean, really. I was expecting something worse.’

  ‘How did things … progress?’

  ‘It was all very organised. I had a wide choice. There were some slim-hipped girls, and some older sorts, big-titted, you know – my tutor called them slatterns. And there were even some catamites.’

  Julia barely noticed as Marcellus started stroking her breasts again. ‘How did you choose one?’

  ‘With difficulty, let me tell you. The most important thing was that I penetrate someone – that’s what my tutor told me, and he said that it really didn’t matter who or what that was. The catamite boys were very engaging and praised me to the sky with flattery.’

  Julia laughed.

  ‘They were keen, so I was tempted there, if only out of gratitude. But in the end I let my tutor have his pick of them and I
chose one of the slim-hipped girls for myself. More my kind of thing.’

  Julia looked down at her own slim hips. ‘But how did you choose from those?’

  ‘It was my first time, I was nervous. The proprietor told me that one of the girls had never known another’s body before, so it seemed appropriate to choose her. We could take each other. She was German.’ Marcellus waited for Julia to enquire further but she didn’t. She was suddenly very aware of his hand on her breasts. He took up the wine cup instead and drained it, letting the continued silence weigh down on her.

  Julia couldn’t hold herself back from knowing any longer. ‘What did she do?’

  ‘She sat on me,’ said Marcellus. ‘She made a little cry to begin with but it didn’t last long. After that she was very enthused.’

  ‘Was there blood?’

  Lost in the memory, Marcellus recalled that he’d never thought to look. ‘There must have been. But not very much. I didn’t even notice.’ He waited expectantly, but Julia said nothing more.

  Marcellus sat up on his elbows and studied her boyish form. Her breasts were neat and small; her pubic hair minimal. She looked up at him and saw that same desire that had swept her up in their talks about frogs.

  ‘Don’t worry, little bird,’ he whispered. ‘You can do it another night. Don’t be frightened. This is the first time we’ve ever been alone together. Let’s not spoil it. I want to remember this happy time always.’

  ‘I want to please you, husband,’ Julia said. ‘And I will please you soon.’

  ‘I know you will,’ he smiled at her.

  Spontaneously she bent to his penis and kissed it, just as it was beginning to recede. Although surprised, Marcellus gave her encouragement and she went further, taking some of it in her mouth. Soon she found herself performing a rhythmic motion that became hypnotic the longer it continued. The climax was both a revelation and a reward for her experimentation. Marcellus said very loving things to her afterwards and, as he nestled into sleep, she stayed awake for some time, observing the lines of his unclothed body.

  Finally, in the Diluculum watch, the hour before dawn, Julia slipped naked from the room and made her way through the silent house to the peristyle garden. In the fountain’s pond only the frogs were awake. In the final glow of the fading moon Julia trailed her fingers in the warm, scented water and dripped them on her breasts and belly. She placed a finger at her sex; it was still unbroken. When Marcellus awoke she would let him pierce it, she decided then. She was ready for her womanhood now.