by D. M. George
She shook her head to dispel thoughts of Parthenope. Concentrate on the moment and avoid another encounter with Matteo. The sight of his evil, drunken stare punctured her memory. Her skin crawled with the lingering sensation of his vile touch. Matteo thought she was dead, which gave her the advantage, but Sorrento was a small town and their paths would likely cross again.
Circe
The following morning, Perla discovered Parthenope’s rock vacant. Just her luck. She’d taken the first ferry to Capri and paddled all the way out there to tell her what had happened, only to find her gone.
An earsplitting whistle came from down the shore. Perla pivoted her kayak and spotted Parthenope at the mouth of a barely discernable grotto, holding on to the edge of a rock with one hand and waving at her with the other. To Perla’s surprise, a woman crouched next to her. They were talking. Who was this interloper? If Parthenope had no friends, why did they appear so chummy? Perla got closer and noticed a vintage speedboat bobbing inside the grotto. Its highly polished, blood-red wooden hull gleamed in the sunlight.
Perla got out of her kayak and tethered it to the rock.
“Perla, this is Circe,” Parthenope said.
Circe’s obsidian curls swung in slow motion as she faced Perla. Her golden eyes fixed on Perla like a bird of prey. The air constricted and the hairs on Perla’s arm lifted. She involuntarily stepped back but couldn’t look away. Circe’s beauty rivaled Parthenope’s; her physical perfection and flawless white skin screamed immortal.
Circe passed herself off as a mortal though and did so convincingly. White silk capri pants, the eight-hundred-euro kind, clung to her curvy hips; a lilac suede bustier displayed her prominent cleavage and cinched her wasp waist; stacks of rose-gold bangles gleamed on one wrist, a Patek Philippe watch on the other. What had Parthenope said about contemporary people not seeing the gods who walk among them? Circe was hiding in plain sight.
“I’m having a party Saturday night. You must come.” Circe’s nostrils flared as she rose to her full height. They stood eye to eye, but Circe was seven feet tall. She sparkled like a black diamond.
“Thank you, but no. I don’t want to be a party crasher.” Perla wanted to run.
Parthenope glared at her. “You really need to go.”
Perla nodded reluctantly, her eyes darting back and forth between Parthenope and Circe. Why was it so important that she attend the party?
“I’ve chartered buses for transportation. The road to my estate is… precipitous, and I wouldn’t want any harm to befall my guests.” Circe grinned. “They leave from the train station in Sorrento every half hour after six o’clock.”
With a dismissive flick of her crimson nails, Circe stepped down into her boat. She slid onto the leather-upholstered driver’s seat behind the wheel, carefully backed out of the grotto, and thundered off toward Marina Grande.
“Friend of yours?” asked Perla.
“God no. She scares me. I called in a favor.”
“Don’t tell me you have a cell phone stashed under your hair?” Perla glanced at Parthenope’s copper tresses, which were piled in a baroque updo woven with strands of tiny shells.
“Right. I bought it at the Atlantean cell phone store.”
“No need to be sarcastic. I just wondered how you called her.”
“I sent a seagull with a few strands of my hair. She knows where to find me. Promise me you’ll attend Circe’s party?”
“Why?”
“Because I asked her to invite you—that was the favor. Don’t worry. There will be hundreds of people there.”
“Circe’s an immortal too, right?” Perla sat down in front of Parthenope and dangled her feet in the water.
“Yes, much older than me. Our relationship was rocky at first, but now we have an understanding. What’s in your bag?”
Perla unzipped two bottles of prosecco from her daypack and gestured with one to Parthenope, whose face brightened. One flip of her tail and she was sitting on the rock next to Perla.
“I was attacked by a man last night. He almost killed me.”
“I know.”
“How?”
Parthenope looked at her like she was an idiot.
“It was horrible.” She showed Parthenope what was left of her bruises. They’d mysteriously faded from purple to a pale yellow overnight. “Thanks for the gills. You saved my life.”
“I said the cameo would protect you.”
Perla ran her finger over the pendant. “But gills? Really? You could have sent one of your kraken buddies to strangle him.” Perla raised her arm and examined her armpit. “How do they work? They didn’t appear when I was swimming in Ischia. Do I have to be in mortal danger first?”
“No. When you want to go underwater, flex your pectorals like this”—Parthenope pushed the heels of her palms together—“and your gills will open.”
“Nothing else?”
“No. Just dry off and they’ll disappear.”
Perla pondered her instructions a moment. “And why didn’t you tell me the cameo would make me look younger when you gave it to me?”
Parthenope looked away and said nothing. Was she smirking?
“The way you disparage beauty, I knew there had to be a catch,” Perla continued. “You wouldn’t restore my youth without corrupting me somehow.”
“What do you mean?”
Perla didn’t buy it. “Goosing the man in the jewelry store was what got me in trouble in the first place.” She told Parthenope about her initial encounter with Matteo. “The cameo’s turned me into a she-devil.”
“Are you sure it was the cameo?”
“Of course. Only in my Wonder Woman fantasies could I stand up to a man like that. It felt absolutely glorious, but no, I can’t claim credit.”
“Maybe you should.” Parthenope wore a Mona Lisa smile.
“You don’t know me. I’ve never stood up for myself. I’m utterly incapable of confrontation. Mice raised me, not wolves. Good manners and pathological niceness cripple me. If my food is served cold at a restaurant, I can’t send it back for fear I’ll hurt the waiter’s feelings. I agonize over all the things I should have said but didn’t to people who’ve treated me unfairly. My middle name is doormat.” Perla sighed.
Parthenope pulled back, eyebrows arched, as if she’d heard more than she’d wanted to. “Maybe you’ve reached your limit.”
Perla opened the bottles of prosecco and handed one to Parthenope. “There is no limit to how much I’ll let people walk over me. Let’s drink.”
Parthenope raised her bottle in a toast. “Tails up!”
They sipped their wine in silence, enjoying its tart tingle. Perla admired Parthenope’s long, graceful fins swishing back and forth in the water like a happy puppy’s tail. She was stunning.
“I’m curious,” Perla said after a few minutes. “You told me you were born in AD 32 in your present form. What did you mean?”
“It’s a long story.” Parthenope crossed her arms over her breasts.
“I’ve got another bottle and the rest of the day…”
Sabina’s Story, Part One
Villa Jovis, Capri AD 32
The four naked sodomites lined up in front of Emperor Tiberius and his guests. As the royal musicians played, the last three performers each penetrated the man before him. They thrust in unison, faster and faster to the beat of the drums.
“To Hades with them! I’ve seen this act already!” shouted Tiberius. He threw his silver plate at the beautiful youths. They cowered as the food hit them, disjoined, and scurried into the hallway. “Where’s Cornelius?”
At once a short, egg-shaped man in a perfectly pressed toga materialized from behind the purple banners that hung from the dining room’s ceiling. He approached the circle of divans where Tiberius and his friends reclined, trembling and bowing obsequiously.
“If you can’t find me better entertainment, Cornelius, I’ll find a new minister of pleasures.”
The naked waitresses
holding platters of delicacies watched Cornelius without moving their heads.
“Yes, Caesar. I promise to do better.”
“Are the new ones here yet?” Tiberius scratched his big belly, reached under his toga, and fondled his limp member. Curses on you, Hercules. Why can’t you stand at attention for more than a minute? Watching those smooth-skinned buttocks no longer aroused him. What did arouse him was the thought of the new children on their way. He’d grown bored with the dozen currently living in his palace.
“Yes, they arrived yesterday. But please, lie back down. Have some more wine. I assure you, Your Highness, you will love the next act,” Cornelius said. “For months my agents have searched the empire for the most celebrated prostitutes and courtesans—ones with special abilities. Wait until you see what they can do!” Cornelius clapped his hands twice and six naked men and women, some beautiful and some not, ran into the center of the dining room. The performance began with a contortionist fellating himself.
Marina Grande, Capri, AD 32
Sabina sat atop the curved bow of a fishing boat as her father, Marcus, rowed toward a bobbing float. She never tired of all the sights, sounds, and smells of their morning ritual. Above them loomed high limestone cliffs, in front of them the sea fused with the sky, and below them the water danced in an infinite spectrum of blue. And hoisting up the first float was always a thrill—what bounty would the sea provide them that day? Rhythmically, hand over hand, Marcus’s bronzed, muscular arms pulled in the long, narrow net. Sabina loved her job of plucking out the entangled fish. Some she threw back; the others went into the wooden crate. In less than an hour, the fish box overflowed with the usual catch: anchovies, mackerel, sea bass, mullet, squid, and octopus.
“Will you row back while I spool out the net?” Marcus removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Sure, Papa.” Sabina took the oars and deftly maneuvered around the rocks on their way home. She’d noticed he was moving slower than usual when they left Marina Grande but hadn’t said anything. “Are you feeling unwell?” She knew he hated to be fussed over, but she couldn’t help herself. She loved him more than anything in the world. The thought of him falling ill was too terrible to contemplate.
“I’m a little tired today and my head hurts,” Marcus admitted, “but I’m fine, fine… Don’t fret.”
Worry squirmed in her stomach, as it did whenever her father felt poorly. She searched his face for signs of the fever. Please don’t take Father too, she begged the gods. They hadn’t listened when she’d pleaded on her mother’s behalf. Apparently a five-year-old’s prayers aren’t loud enough to reach the heavens.
Sabina awoke the next morning to the sound of her father retching into a bucket beside his bed. His skin radiated heat. The cold, wet rags she placed on his forehead proved useless. She held a cup of wine mixed with water to his trembling lips, but he couldn’t keep it down.
“Sabina, I need you to check the lobster traps today,” he whispered between bouts of nausea. “Please, will you do that for me?”
“Sure, Papa.” Sabina’s big aqua-green eyes radiated love. In spite of the circumstances, she was proud to be given any responsibility and eager to show others she was a fully capable fourteen-year-old adult. All her life she’d compensated for being small and fine-boned by learning to handle the traps and the boat as well as any fisherman. Her father had taught her to tie knots, weave lobster pots from reeds, mend nets, and clean fish—everything she needed to carry on the family business one day.
Neither spoke of the disastrous consequences of missing the delivery to Villa Jovis. The kitchen manager expected prompt delivery for the feast Tiberius was hosting for his guests from Rome. If Marcus was one hour late or one lobster short, he’d lose his contract… or worse. The Caesar’s reputation for serving the best, rarest, and most expensive delicacies was legendary. There were no second chances.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be well enough tomorrow to make the delivery,” Marcus assured Sabina in a weak voice.
“I can deliver them myself,” Sabina insisted. She was in awe of the massive white citadel perched on the thousand-foot cliff. To her, it was Mount Olympus itself, inhabited by gods rather than men. She longed to see it up close.
“Under no circumstances are you allowed to go near Villa Jovis. We’ve discussed this before.”
“But why, Papa? I can handle the donkeys,” Sabina said, hurt by his lack of confidence in her. She’d once overheard her father tell another vendor he’d rather die than let his daughter set foot near Villa Jovis. What was that all about? The vendor had called Emperor Tiberius an old goat and said something about dozens of children hiding in the palace gardens, children who never laughed. It just didn’t make sense.
“Never mind why. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
Almost three hours had passed before Sabina rowed back with a boatful of lobster traps. She and her father had trapped lobsters for two weeks straight and kept them in a walled fishpond at the water’s edge. Someone had carved it out of the soft limestone long ago, and it had been used by generations of fishermen to keep their catches alive. Sabina tied up the boat and unloaded the traps. She pulled on elbow-length leather gloves, removed the lobsters from the pots, and tossed them into the pool to await their fate with the others.
She counted the lobsters to be sure she still had thirty for the kitchen manager, then took one of the extras for dinner. She went behind the house to the chopping block they used for firewood and chickens. A hatchet hung on pegs on the wall. With one well-aimed swing, she lopped off the lobster’s head. She picked it up, held it in the palm of her hand, raised it to her lips, and kissed the top of its head.
“Thank you for your sacrifice, my little darling. I hope it didn’t hurt. I will savor every bite of you and not waste a morsel.”
“Papa, I’m home. How are you feeling?” Sabina said as she stepped through the low door of their stone hut into the clean-swept room. The floor was tiled in blue, a luxury paid for by the profits of their business with Villa Jovis. The single room had a fireplace for cooking on one end, two small cots on the other, and a large wooden chest covered with a tablecloth in the center.
Marcus did not reply. Tremors racked his body.
By dawn the next day, Marcus’s fever hadn’t broken and he was mumbling incoherently. Sabina made preparations to haul the lobsters to Villa Jovis herself despite her father’s orders. He’d taught her everything else about the business—she was perfectly capable of handling the delivery too. He’d thank her later for taking charge. Besides, there was only one path to the palace, paved in marble at that. There was no way to get lost. She would just ask for the kitchen manager and get paid. Easy.
Packing the lobsters took all morning. Sabina rounded up their four donkeys from the hillside where they grazed, dragged the nets out of the fishpond, carefully pinched each lobster behind the head with her gloved hands, and packed them into the seaweed-lined baskets strapped to each side of the donkeys’ backs.
Sabina became acutely self-conscious about her appearance after she finished her work. Arriving on Mount Olympus smelling like donkeys and wet nets was unacceptable, so she bathed in a half barrel of fresh water outside their hut. She scrubbed thoroughly with the lemon soap a neighbor had taught her to make and washed her hair with it too. After she dried off, Sabina took her mother’s white linen shift from the big chest where Marcus kept their few valuables and pulled it over her head. It was too big. She cinched the waist with a string of shells, slipped on her best sandals, brushed out her flaming hair, and set off for Villa Jovis.
Sabina’s big black hound, Cerberus, paced in agitated circles around her. “It’s all right, boy. I’ll be home later,” Sabina said. “Stay here and guard Papa.” She made him lie down on the doorstep. Cerberus rested his chin on his paws, looked up at her with soulful eyes, and whined.
The wide stone steps from the harbor to Capri town, built during the construction of Villa Jovis, made Sabina’s steep
climb much easier. She reached the top a half hour later and led her donkeys to the public water trough. While the animals drank, Sabina recognized her father’s old friend Lucius, the oyster vendor from Baia, plodding up the hill with his heavily laden donkeys.
“Sabina, what are you doing here?” Lucius set his mouth in a hard line. “Where’s your father? Does he know you’re here?”
Sabina told him about Marcus’s illness and her decision to make the lobster delivery herself.
“It’s not wise for you to go to Villa Jovis. You should go home and let me do it.”
He sounded just like her father. Sabina crossed her arms and set her jaw in determination. “I’m going! You can’t stop me.” Why did men think her incapable of such a simple task?
“Your father has mentioned your stubbornness.” He shifted from foot to foot. “I don’t have time to argue. My oysters are warming by the minute. I’ll take you as far as the kitchen courtyard, but let me talk to the manager. We’ll leave as soon as the slaves unload our baskets.”
After Lucius watered his donkeys, he and Sabina started up the marble-slab path on their final ascent.
A half hour passed before they rounded a copse of trees, and Villa Jovis loomed above Sabina with incredible splendor. She stopped and gasped at the massive acropolis of white marble soaring to fantastic heights, shimmering against the indigo sky. Rows of columns and arched windows softened the lines of the block-shaped palace. Stairs, corridors, and passageways connected each level to the next. The sprawling complex stepped up the side of Monte Tiberio to the cliff’s edge. A magnificent semicircular balcony extended over the precipice. A dozen statues stood on its roof, gazing out to sea.
“It’s so beautiful!” Sabina exclaimed.
Lucius seemed unimpressed. “We’re coming up to the watchtower. Soldiers are going to inspect our baskets.”