“I don’t suppose she will.”
“She’s going to a dinner party at the palace, she said. Next month, when the Emperor announces the kids as heirs. Said she’d take me, so I could see Mother afterward.” Vix shrugged. “Who cares about seeing the Emperor anyway.”
“You ever seen the Emperor before?” Arius ripped a loaf of rough bread in half.
“Once.”
“What’d you think?”
“I hated him,” said Vix. “Pass the bread.”
Arius guessed the stern lecture part of the night was done. He passed Vix the bread, wishing he could ask Thea if he’d done it right. They chewed; Vix painfully, Arius quietly.
“You heard from your mother?”
“Not much. She sends a word to Lady Flavia now and then. She says somebody probably reads her letters.”
They leaned their heads back against the wall, closing their eyes. They linked identical sword-callused hands around identical scarred brown knees.
“Don’t listen to that voice,” Arius said, eyes still closed. “The one in your head. And you’re still leaving yourself too wide on that underhand swing.”
Maybe he wouldn’t cut off Vix’s lessons just yet.
THEA
S
O, Athena.” Domitian stroked my head as I sat at his feet. “Shall I tell you what I found out today?”
“Will I be able to stop you, Caesar?”
“Oh, Athena. Still so shrewish. I thought you would have learned better by now.”
“All right. All right! I’ve learned.”
“Then be quiet like a good girl, then, and listen. I have a certain spy out in Judaea. He must be quite industrious, because he’s managed to find something that slipped past all my other spies.”
“And what’s that?”
“Your origins. My dear, you’re looking pale. Some wine? It’s an excellent vintage. Confiscated from the estate of Lucius Aesernia . . . who may have been a traitor, but he certainly knew his wines.”
“What did he say?”
“Lucius Aesernia?”
“Your spy!”
“Oh, him. You know, I already uncovered most of your history—that Athenian merchant who taught you Greek and deflowered you, Quintus Pollio, your taste for gladiators. But the early years? A blank. Until a rather interesting report from a man of mine in Judaea. A cliff-top fortress, a hot night, a city full of dead Jews . . . and a few who survived. Need I go on?”
“No.”
“Did you know that there were six other survivors besides you, Athena? Two old women and four other children, all of them boys. I had them traced, out of curiosity. Do you know where they are now, your brother and sister survivors?”
“. . . Where?”
“Dead! Every one of them. Mostly killed for bringing bad luck to the families who bought them. The last Jews of Masada, spreading ill fortune to any they touched. You, it seems, are the only one left. And you’ve never brought me bad luck, have you?”
“Apparently not.”
“I remember Masada, you know. Titus the Golden wept—he had a fondness for Jews—but I laughed.”
“I’m sure you did.”
Abruptly Domitian seized my head between his hands from behind.
“No—no that hurts, that hurts—”
“You said you were a goddess, Athena.”
“I am—I am—”
“No, you’re lying.” He squeezed my head like a walnut in a vise. “You slipped out of some Jewess in a desert, screaming and covered in blood like any other mortal, and you aren’t a goddess at all. I’m the god here, not you. Only one god in Rome. Got rid of Arius the Barbarian, got rid of you—”
“But you haven’t gotten rid of me. Not yet. So stop babbling and do it.”
“Oh yes, oh yes, but not until I hear it.”
“Hear what?”
“You know what. Say it.”
“That I’m afraid? You’re afraid, Caesar, afraid of
me
, and I’m only a Jewess born wailing and screaming in a desert—”
“Stop laughing. Stop it!”
“I am Athena.” Laughing with a crazy suicidal glee, despite the crushing pain in my skull. “Before that I was Thea, singer and slave and lover of gladiators. Before that I was Leah, daughter of Benjamin and Rachael of Masada. I am as mortal as you, you common little man.” I raised my voice to a joyous shout for the slaves outside the chamber, for the Emperor’s hangers-on, for the whole world.
“And I fear no one!”
He stared down at me a moment. Then he laughed.
It was eight days before I could leave my bed.
I
didn’t think I’d see you so soon.” Justina’s eyes touched warmly on
Paulinus. “But here you are, and in all your finery, too.”
“I go to the Domus Flavia in an hour.” Paulinus tucked his scarlet-crested helmet under his arm. “The Emperor is holding a formal banquet in honor of his niece and her sons.”
They fell into step, perfectly synchronized as they walked along the pale marble corridor. Other priestesses hurried by in fluttering white veils, and Roman matrons come to whisper prayers in preparation for Saturnalia, the year-end festival where the household was turned upside-down and made ready for the new year. No one gave a second glance to the Vestal and the Prefect. The sight of their heads bent in consultation was a common one in the public rooms. In any case, those who might have been happy to speculate about a Vestal Virgin would not dare utter a word against the Emperor’s best friend.
“I did something today.” Paulinus clasped his hands at the small of his back, a gesture copied from Domitian. “Lepida—she sent me a note at the Praetorian barracks, the way she does sometimes.
‘Tonight,’
that’s what it said. I always tell my centurions to take over for the evening. But today—”
“What?”
“I started to call them in. And then—I don’t know. I just turned the note over and wrote
‘I’m busy’
on the other side, and sent it straight back.” His eyes flicked up to Justina’s. “I’ve never done that before.”
“So why now?”
“I thought of what you’d say if you could see me. What you’d think.”
“What did you think I’d think?”
“I thought you’d be—understanding. And I don’t want you to be understanding. I want you to be proud.”
“I
am
proud.”
“Of me?”
“Of you.”
He blew a long breath. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
She blinked. “Twenty-nine.”
“So you have ten more years of service to Vesta before you retire?”
“Yes.”
“When your ten years are up,” he said, “marry me.”
Silence.
When he dared to look up, her eyes were huge. “Paulinus—”
“What?”
“I—” She looked away, fidgeting for the first time since he’d known her. “It’s bad luck to wed a former Vestal.”
“I’ll take my chances with Fortuna.”
“Paulinus, it’s ten years from now. And I won’t break my vows before that—”
“I know you won’t. I’ll wait.”
“I’ll be thirty-nine years old by then. Too old to give you children.”
“I don’t want children, I want you.” He moved to seize her hand, thought of the stream of passing worshippers, and contented himself with lowering his voice. “I’ve known you forever, Justina. Long before I ever set eyes on you. I don’t care how long I have to wait.”
She pulled back. Her eyes touched his a moment, and then flitted away. She reached up to adjust her veil. “I can’t—I don’t know what to say.”
“Say maybe. Think it over. You’ve got ten years to decide.”
“But Calpurnia—”
“She doesn’t want to marry me, either—we’ve traded one excuse after another these past years, any reason not to set a wedding date. Tonight I tell the Emperor I’m breaking off the betrothal. Calpurnia’s an heiress; she won’t have any trouble finding another husband. Say you’ll think about it,” he urged. “Just say that.”
“All—all right.” Faintly.
A mad rush of glory flooded his head. “Then I’ll go. That’s all I came to say—gods, it took me all day to work up the nerve! Even Saturninus and his Germans were better than this!” He laughed dizzily; wanting to shout, wanting to dance.
Her veil fluttered back as she looked up at him, and he caught sight of a loop of hair beside her ear. It must have slipped free when she adjusted her headdress . . . pale hair, just as he’d imagined. He reached out and touched it.
“It’s like corn silk,” he said. “Or Scythian gold.”
She was still standing in the center of the marble room when he left her.
ROME
W
ELL?” Marcus smiled. “Do I pass muster?” Calpurnia adjusted the folds of his
palla
over his crooked shoulder. “You’re perfect.”
“You look lovely yourself. Yellow suits you.”
She looked down, fidgeting with a gold bracelet. “I’d still rather stay here and read in the library than go to any Imperial dinner.” Since the horror of the betrothal banquet she hadn’t set foot in the palace. Marcus could imagine what she must be thinking.
He touched her chin, bringing her eyes up. “It won’t be like that this time.”
“But what if it is?”
He smiled. “Why, then I’ll bring you home. I did before, didn’t I?”
“You did.” For a moment she stood still, cheek against his hand, before she turned away and picked up her amber-brown
palla
. “Well, I’m ready.”
“Brave girl.”
“Calpurnia!” Paulinus bounded through the door, a flash of gold and scarlet in his formal Praetorian’s uniform, and kissed his betrothed’s cheek. “Father! Are you well?” To Marcus’s surprise, he offered a hug instead of the usual awkward handclasp.
“I’m very well.” Marcus looked at his son. “So are you, I gather.”
A cool voice came down from the stairs above. “Paulinus. How little we’ve seen of you these days.” Lepida drifted down to join them, a bird of paradise in her gold-spangled scarlet silk, her hair caught in a net of rubies and pearls.
“Lady Lepida.” He bowed. “You look nice.”
“ ‘You look nice’? You ignore us all for a week and now you expect us to—” Lepida’s icy words dropped off as Paulinus stepped around her and took the stairs two at a time to grab up his little sister as she poked her head around the door of her bedroom.
“Now here’s the lady I’ve been ignoring!” He ruffled her feather-brown hair. “How are those headaches, ’Bina?”
“Better. And I’ve grown a whole inch.”
“So I see.” Paulinus set her down, and she giggled. “I’ll have to take advantage of your company before I lose you to adoring suitors. Let’s go riding tomorrow. Your crazy aunt Diana has a mare quiet enough for you—”
“I hate to break up this touching moment.” Lepida’s peacock feather fan twitched back and forth like a cat’s tail. “But we’re going to be late.”
“Let me check Father first—”
“I checked him for you,” said Calpurnia. “Do you think I’d let him go see the Emperor in rumpled linen?”
“Back to bed.” Lepida took her daughter by the shoulder and spun her back toward her room. “It doesn’t matter what your father wears to see the Emperor. Because whether his ancestors used to
be
Emperors or not, he’s just a boring old cripple.”
Sabina flinched. Disgust flickered across Paulinus’s face.
Marcus shrugged.
Just wait
, he thought to his wife.
Just you wait.
“Go to bed, little one,” he told his daughter.
“Well!” Lepida adjusted her gold silk veil over her hair as her daughter disappeared into her room. “Can we go now?”
Calpurnia looked down, aligning a bracelet precisely over her wrist. “Lepida,” she said, “has anyone ever told you that you’re a cruel, spiteful, selfish slut?”
Marcus blinked. Lepida’s mouth dropped unattractively open.
“You’re vicious. You’re unprincipled. You mistreat your slaves and abuse your daughter—”
“Well.” Lepida regrouped. “
You’re
just a jealous—”
“And furthermore you’re the worst, most neglectful, most
criminal
wife in Rome.” Calpurnia looked at Marcus. “I think we can go now.”
Paulinus stifled something that could have been a cough, and Marcus did more than smile. He found himself grinning, ear to ear, as he had not grinned in a long time. “Yes,” he agreed. “I believe we’re all ready.”
The winter breeze outside had turned to a freezing rain, but the air inside the litter on the way to the palace was even colder.
PAULINUS
saw one of the Praetorian soldiers flirting with a slave girl when he was supposed to be on duty. “Go on ahead,” he told his father, and paused to give the man a brisk tongue-lashing. Hastening back toward the triclinium, he saw that Lady Flavia and her family had already arrived. The boys had gone ahead with their father, their exuberance awed by the magnificence around them, but Lady Flavia had paused in the adjoining anteroom, berating one of her slave boys. Thea’s son, Vix, Paulinus saw, and he quickened his step.
“—you’ll keep well back, you horrid child, until the banquet is over and then I’ll drop a word in your mother’s ear and you can see her—”
Vix wore an anonymous slave tunic with the badge of Flavia’s family, but he had no slave’s servility as he stared around the sumptuous mosaics and pillars of the new palace. “Whoa. This is some pile.”
“Why did you bring him?” Paulinus lowered his voice.
“Thea hasn’t seen him in months, I thought she might like—” Flavia hauled Vix back by the neck of his tunic and smacked him before he could prowl behind a column. “I’m beginning to think better of the idea.”
“Keep him in the anteroom out of sight,” Paulinus advised. Flavia’s wail followed him toward the triclinium.
“Since when can anyone keep the little monster
anywhere
?”
LEPIDA
A tedious evening, quite unlike that lovely banquet at the Domus Augustana that had celebrated Paulinus’s betrothal. Everyone was being very formal tonight in the massive state banquet room of the new palace, subdued voices murmuring politely about inconsequentials, backed by the splashing of the massive oval fountain framed in the arched windows. Lady Flavia was engrossed with her husband, her two sons were pestering the fat little astrologer with questions, Marcus and Calpurnia were discussing some boring political theory or other, and Paulinus—Paulinus was ignoring me. Talking to the Emperor, his eyes a shade reserved. Had they quarreled? Well, who cared? He was ignoring me, and he’d even refused my last invitation. Something would have to be done about that.