The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

  She had changed her career since I last saw her, but not much else, I guessed. There were extra fine lines around the eyes and an air of hardened maturity, but everything else was just as I remembered, and as I remembered it was all in the right place. A flash of her eyes said that she remembered everything too. She was a Tripolitanian ropedancer. Believe me, she was the best ropedancer you have ever seen, a shining circus acrobat—and equally good at other things. There was no way I would ever be able to explain this chance meeting to Helena.

  If the so-called Amazonia was surprised to see me, I doubted it. She must have been listening for a while. Maybe she had known exactly what pitiful captive she was coming to inspect. “Thank you for looking after him. Everyone—this is Marcus! He’s not as gormless as he looks. Well, not quite. Marcus and I are old, old friends.”

  I fought back feebly. “Who thought up the nom de guerre? Amazonia? Hello, Chloris.”

  She did blush. Someone else tittered, though quietly. I could sense their respect. She was clearly their leader—well, I would expect that; there was a time she could have led me through the flowery meadows all the way to Elysium.

  “It’s been a long time, Marcus darling,” the girl I knew as Chloris greeted me, with a rapacious smile.

  Then I felt the deep-down fear of a man who has just met an old girlfriend who he thought was just a memory—and who finds that she’s still after him.

  XXV

  Well, well! This is such a treat!” She beamed.

  “Missed me?”

  “Why; did I know you or something?” she joked.

  “Never noticed that I’d gone,” I riposted stalwartly.

  “Oh, I left you, Marcus darling.” If she wanted to think that, fair enough. “The person I was really leaving was your evil old mother.”

  “Now then, my mother’s a wonderful woman, and she was extremely fond of you.”

  Chloris gazed at me. “I don’t think so,” she said, sounding dangerous. Here we go, I thought.

  I had been led off to a private bower, strewn with very expensive animal skins. Mostly well crushed, I regret to say. Chloris had always liked plenty of places to loll. Whenever she dropped to a reclining position, her intention was not restful. This room had seen plenty of the action she loved, if I was any judge.

  It was stunningly painted with much drama: dark red walls, punctuated with black details. If you dared to look closely, the illustrations featured violent myths where unhappy people were torn asunder or tied to wheels. These pictures were mostly tiny. I did not disturb myself too much by looking at the wildly plunging bulls and maddened victims; it was rash to take your eyes off Chloris.

  “What’s happened to the teenager?”

  “Run off again.” At least Chloris was never a girl to engage in subterfuge. That was the trouble in the old days: she had always liked Ma to know exactly what was going on. My mother was shocked, since I wisely never told her anything.

  “You let the girl leave?” I showed my annoyance. “Look, if any of you spot her again, will you haul her in, please? She’s an urchin in trouble. Name’s Albia. I don’t want any harm to befall her.”

  “She will probably run straight back to the brothel, little idiot.” Chloris was unfortunately right, I guessed. “What’s your interest, Falco? Is she a witness in your case?”

  “The drowned man?” I had not thought of it, though it was possible. Albia had scavenged around the Shower of Gold; she might well know something. “I never even asked her. No, my wife took her in.”

  “Your wife?” Chloris shrieked. “What—some poor bag finally moved in with you? Do I know her?” she demanded suspiciously.

  “No.” I was certain of that.

  “What’s she called?”

  “Helena Justina.”

  “Helena is Greek. Is she a slave?”

  “Only if her noble papa has been telling very big lies for twenty years. He’s a senator. I went respectable.”

  I knew what kind of raucous reaction that would cause.

  When Chloris stopped laughing, she wiped the tears from her eyes. Then she went off again, helplessly. “Oh, I just can’t believe it!”

  “Believe it,” I ordered levelly.

  My tone stopped the hysteria. “Don’t go pompous on me, Marcus love.”

  I gave her a grin. It was fake. Just like a lot of things had been in our relationship. It would be tactless to say I was married now because once she had dumped me I had at last found my true love. Chloris, a demonstrative girl, would probably throw up.

  “What about you? What’s all this?” I asked.

  “I knew how to use a sword.” In her circus act Chloris had had them as balancers, when she was not waving parasols or feather fans. Males in the audience had liked the frisson of the swords, though most preferred the fans because it looked as if she wore nothing underneath. I happened to know—because she had told me—she wore leather undergarments to prevent rope burns anywhere sensitive. Her motto was: keep your equipment in good order. I expected she still followed that. “I wanted a change when I ditched you, darling. I took up fighting professionally. I knew the organizers already; they soon took me seriously. I’m good!”

  “You would be.”

  A gleam lit her face, half boasting, half invitation. She scrabbled upright on the quicksand of furs, then began working off her boots—high, tight-laced items with hard soles for kicking and thick thongs for protection. With her near-transparent feminine white drapery the contrast was unsettling. That had always been the attraction: a petite girlish figure on someone unexpectedly strong. As she wriggled her bare toes, I began to sweat with erotic recollection. Chloris owned feet that were trained to grip ropes and trapezes; she could use them to curl fiercely around pretty well anything . . .

  “Tell me about your British setup.”

  “Ooh, Marcus. It sounds as if I’m under investigation.”

  “Just curious. Why here of all places?”

  “Britain? I heard about it enough from you. We formed a team specifically to come out here. Plenty of bored men, with few outlets for entertainment. Perfect spot. A brand-new arena. Best of all, no built-in male gladiator groups, hogging the action and ganging up to stop us working.”

  “Who’s your fixer, your lanista?”

  “Stuff that!”

  Wrong question. I should have known. Chloris had always been independent. Being prey to managers, who were ignorant of her skills and who stole the appearance fees, had annoyed her in the circus life too. Having a trainer was really not her style.

  “We can train ourselves,” she said. “We practice every day, and observe each other’s progress. Women are damned good analysts.”

  “Yes, I remember you used to spend a lot of time analyzing what was wrong with me . . . You lead the team?”

  “Analyzing your faults was too exhausting, darling!” she interposed.

  “Thanks. You are the leader?” I repeated doggedly.

  “We don’t have a leader. But I brought the group together. They listen to me. They know I have the best balance and fitness. And I can do two styles—retiarus and secutor—plus I’m working up Thracian too.”

  I whistled. Not many male gladiators could offer three fighting styles.

  “Want to try me out?” she beamed.

  “No. I’ve been thwacked enough for one day.”

  “Yes, mummy’s boy has made himself all tired and grubby with the fat lady . . . Come here and I’ll make you feel better.” Chloris stretched, limbering up for an hour’s hard workout on me. The mere thought was dispiriting.

  She meant it. She thought that I wanted what she wanted, as women do. You could make a philosophical treatise out of it, but I was too preoccupied with staying out of reach. “Look, I’m appalled to be so feeble, but I’m far too hungry, Chloris. I’m no use to you. I just couldn’t concentrate.”

  “Oh, you haven’t changed.” She thought I was teasing. Dangerously, she enjoyed the thought. “It’s make up your mi
nd time!”

  “Oh, Chloris, surely you’re not going to say, it’s screwing me or eating?”

  “Sounds a good choice!” She jumped up and came for me. There was no time even to gulp before she was winding herself around me as only an acrobat can. If I had forgotten what that felt like, memory soon surged back.“—So which is it, darling?” She chortled.

  I sighed with what might pass for polite regret. “Look, I’m absolutely starving. May I have some dinner, please?”

  Chloris punched me in the kidneys, though it was a loose, wild swipe that only did partial damage. She flounced from the room. I collapsed, sweating. Then, as I had thought she would, she had a tray sent in to me. I chose my old girlfriends pretty well. There had never been malice in Chloris.

  “Later!” she had promised meaningfully as she strode off.

  O Mercury, patron of travelers—either get me out of this or just smite me dead so I don’t know that it’s happening! In Rome I was Procurator of the Sacred Geese and Chickens. O Mercury, never let Chloris discover that! Now I myself was a soft little pullet in my cage, being fattened up. I munched dutifully. I would need my strength.

  You don’t mix it with a gladiator. Besides, she was a wonderful armful and I certainly knew it. Once, I would have let myself be persuaded without a struggle. There was too much at stake now. I had moved on—way, way into another life. Face-to-face with what was expected from my old self, I felt awkward. I had loyalties nowadays; I had new standards. As Petronius Longus had said to Maia earlier, once you make huge decisions you cannot go back. The shock is the way other people fail to see how much you have altered. After the shock comes the danger. When those people think they know you inside out, you start to doubt yourself.

  She must have been impatient. I had barely eaten my solitary victuals when a couple of women came for me.

  “Ah, Heraclea, he’s looking worried again.”

  “Yes, I’m scared!” I grinned good-humoredly, as if I thought I was being roped in for a themed orgy. Heraclea and her companion exchanged glances, no doubt aware that Chloris had plans. I could not tell how they felt about it, but I knew they would not intervene.

  “You’re in real trouble,” they promised me. Even at that point apprehension of the deepest kind was called for.

  When they brought me back to the enclosed garden area, Chloris was waiting for me. She met me with a beaming smile. She wound herself around me, as she drew me into the garden, promising, “Have I got a wonderful surprise for you, darling!”

  It seemed best to accept the promise with a tolerant smile. That was before she led me around a statue to the center of the group and I saw just how treacherous a promise it was.

  The women were all here. They had fallen silent as Chloris brought me into view, waiting to see what would happen. At the last minute, but too late to alter anything, I had heard another very familiar female voice. I had Chloris hanging off my arm and nibbling on my ear, while I wore an expression that can only have looked like pure guilt. Helena was here.

  Albia, who was standing behind her, must somehow have found her and said I was a prisoner. Helena would have fearlessly broached a house full of women. She must have rushed here in a hurry, for she had even brought the children. She had come to try to rescue me—but her eyes told me if she had known in advance about Chloris I would have been left to my fate.

  “Well here he is!” exclaimed Helena Justina, companion of my bed and heart. She used the singsong voice that is supposed to reassure small children who are anxious in strange surroundings and who fear a parent has gotten lost. She was a good mother. Neither Julia, who was sitting on the grass, nor the baby in her arms would sense whatever emotions Helena herself felt. I was really lost now and I knew it.

  She did look impressive. A tall, dark-haired woman, making conversation with these professional fighters as if she moved among females who were outside society all the time. Like Albia at her side, she wore blue, but in several well-dyed shades, the material draped around her body with unconscious elegance. Lapis and pearl earrings said she had money; the lack of other jewelry added that she need not crudely flaunt her wealth. She seemed confident and forthright.

  “Helena, my soul!”

  Her dark eyes fixed me. Her voice was carefully tuned. “Your children were missing you, Marcus! And here you are like Hercules diverting himself among Queen Omphale’s women. Do be careful. Hercules was suspected ever afterwards of too much liking for women’s dress.”

  “I am wearing my own clothes,” I murmured.

  Her glance flicked over me. “So you are,” she commented insultingly.

  Arms wide and screaming with glee, Julia Junilla hurtled up to see me. When I picked up my little thunderbolt she devised a boisterous game of climbing headfirst down inside my tunic. It was already a gaping neck-hole where the threads had run in mighty ladders and the braid had torn. This was the final indignity. I just stood and let myself become gymnastic equipment for my two-year-old.

  “So!” Helena then exclaimed, her gaze resolutely finding Chloris. “Have you finished with him? Can I take him home?”

  “You’ve married your mother!” Chloris accused me, not bothering to lower her voice.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I can handle my mother.”

  Tired of being choked, I wrestled Julia back upright. For once, she subsided and lay looking out at the women with her curly head on my shoulder in a way that made her pretty cute. Hands reached to pet and tickle her, amid oohs and aahs.

  The situation changed. Chloris was bright enough to see that her companions had been swayed by the sight of us as a family group; breaking us up would do her more harm than good. “It’s been lovely having you, but you had best run along home now, Marcus.”

  Chloris walked us to the door. She did her best to sour the situation further. “Well, he makes good babies, I can see.” It implied that Helena was just my breeding mare. Neither of us took the bait. “I hope I haven’t caused you too much trouble, Marcus darling,” she said sweetly.

  “You were always trouble.”

  “And you were . . .”

  “What?”

  “Oh—I’ll tell you next time we’re alone.” Helena was seething, as she was meant to. “Now off you go, darling . . .” mouthed Chloris maliciously. “Don’t be too hard on him, Helena my dear. Men have to follow their willies, you know.”

  Helena Justina then pulled off her best effort. Standing in the street, she said, “Of course they do.” She smiled. It was polite. It showed the power of her upbringing. “That was what brought him to me.”

  Albia had bent to unfasten Nux, who had been let outside tied to a wooden post. She threw me a scared look, then let the dog drag her along well ahead of us.

  “Thanks for the rescue.”

  “I heard you were kidnapped!” Helena retorted. “If it had been mentioned that you had become a willing sex toy, I would not have interfered.”

  “Settle down.”

  “Who exactly was that, Marcus darling?”

  “A crowd-pulling gladiatrix called Amazonia.” I came clean. “In a previous career she was a circus ropedancer.”

  “Oh, her!”

  “I always had good taste,” I growled. “That’s why I went for you.”

  Helena Justina, with the full power of her breeding, let it be known that she was unimpressed.

  I felt like a man who had just made a choice. This is always depressing, for some reason.

  No wonder I was feeling low. I was now carrying two tired children through darkened streets whose ambience I did not trust, alongside an extremely silent wife.

  XXVI

  I took the children to the nursery and put them into their cribs myself. This looked like a ploy. I couldn’t help that. Their mother rather pointedly opted out.

  I found Helena afterward, just as I expected, on her own. She was seated in a wraparound chair pretending not to care. That was an act. She was waiting for me to come and find her. I had
made hasty preparations. I even bathed rapidly; never have an argument with a woman when you know she is scented sweetly with cinnamon but you really stink. Lest my cleanup look too calculated, I then rushed off barefoot to find her, and I forgot to comb my hair. The eager lover, with the endearing tousled look: tonight I had to throw in every lousy gambit.

  I lowered myself onto a couch, staying upright with an elbow propped on the end arm. “Want to hear about my day?”

  I kept it brief. I kept it factual. Near the beginning, when I described taking out Albia, Helena interrupted, “You did not consult me.”

  “I did wrong there.”

  “You are the man of the household,” she commented sarcastically.

  I plodded on with the story. She listened, but never looked at me. “. . . At that point the gladiator girls took me into custody by force. The rest you know.”

  I sat exhausted. It felt good to be clean and in a fresh tunic. Dangerous too; this was no moment to relax and nod off. I might as well pass out in the middle of making love. A subject I was not too tired to think about—but a pleasure I would not be given tonight.

  When Helena finally looked up, I was gazing back at her peacefully. The love in my expression was natural; she should believe that. I had never known anyone like her. I studied her face, every line familiar, from that fiercely jutting chin to the heavy, knitted eyebrows. After we came home she had quickly redone her hair; I could tell from the new arrangement of the knobbed bone pins. She saw me work that out, wanting to hate me for being so observant. She had changed her earrings too. The lapis danglers always made her ears sore; she now wore smaller gold ones.

  “Want to hear about my day?” Ever the fighter, Helena challenged me.

  “Love to.”

  “I won’t bother you with the tedious round of morning and afternoon duties.” Thank Jove for that.

  “I am always intrigued by your wide social range, Helena,” I reproved her gently.

  “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “No, it sounds like a pompous donkey,” I said. “But this isn’t you either. I suspect you have things to tell me.”