Lady of the Eternal City

by Kate Quinn

  Antinous put a hand out to steady him. “You’re hurting,” he said. “Lean on me.”

  “I will not lean on you! If I wish for a companion, I will find someone more suitable. You’re nearly a grown man, too old to be whoring like a bum-boy.” Hadrian’s face had flushed with high color; he spat the words out like icicles. “Your father should have taught you better. I will point that out, when I tell him what his son has become.”

  A frightened animal will hurt you. Antinous had learned that long ago, playing with strays in the street. The Emperor might look angry, but it was fear behind the anger—and his words hurt, but not for the reason Hadrian thought. They hurt because Antinous could see his father’s face, full of disbelief and rage, if he found out his son had fallen into the arms of an enemy.

  Your enemy, Antinous thought defiantly. Not mine. Not that his father had lied to him, telling all those dark tales of the Emperor—Vix seemed to believe every one. But Antinous looked at Hadrian, who hadn’t taken a step but somehow seemed to be standing closer, his chest heaving like a bellows and his eyes like desperate pits, and found he could not believe the stories. He did not want to believe them. This could not be a man who had blinded a slave or ordered executions for sport. This man couldn’t even look Antinous in the face, he seemed so afraid of what he might find there.

  “Go,” the Emperor said for the third time, his voice hoarse. “Leave me.”

  “No,” Antinous whispered, and reached for the Emperor’s hand. He felt it jerk under his touch: the hand of a hunter, callused from spears and reins rather than perfumed and soft as one would imagine an emperor’s hand. Those rough fingers were still balled into a fist as Antinous bent his head and kissed the Imperial ring.

  The fist unclenched beneath his lips. The Emperor’s hand curved around Antinous’s cheek. An inarticulate sound came from Hadrian, a sigh and a stifled oath all at once. Antinous was the one to step closer, until they stood chest against chest just as they had in Eleusis. He fit his lips with infinite care to that clamped, trembling mouth. Hadrian’s lips opened under his with a groan, and then Antinous pulled the Emperor’s head against his shoulder as those hunter’s arms came hard about his waist.

  “You are not a whore,” Hadrian said into Antinous’s tunic, the words blurred.

  Antinous laughed.

  “What?” At once the voice was angry. “Why do you laugh at me?”

  “You do not apologize very often, do you?” Stroking the dark curls. “More contrition is called for, Caesar, when one slings such words as whore and bum-boy,” he said gently.

  The Emperor’s jaw clenched, and Antinous saw the anger in his eyes. His grip about Antinous’s waist tightened, brutally hard as his kisses had been under the Greek moon. Antinous felt no fear at all, only an edge of excitement. He wanted to be held in those arms forever.

  Then the anger was gone as though the Emperor had pulled a curtain over it. “I am sorry, Antinous.” His voice was stiff, but he had still said it. Said my name, Antinous thought, dizzy as though he had drunk a bucket of kykeon. He took the Emperor’s arm and drew it over his shoulder to support his injured side, and they wandered deeper into the grove of lemon trees. They left the dogs behind to frisk, and where the branches overhead laced the thickest, they stopped and spread out the Imperial purple cloak. Under the starlit oak it had been fast and rough and desperate, terror seeking safe harbor in comforting flesh. This was different. Hadrian lay almost helpless thanks to his half-healed leg, his mouth clamped so tight from fierce emotion that he could hardly speak, only look up at Antinous as though he had no idea what he wanted or how to ask for it. He looked terrified. So Antinous stretched over him and made love to his Emperor, slow and sunlit and tender, and through it all, Hadrian’s eyes watched him dazed and wondering.

  “Caesar,” Antinous said afterward, just to say it. Because his heart was vibrating in his chest, and because the Emperor’s callused fingers were still linked tight through his own.

  “I return to the Eternal City soon,” the Emperor said, staring up at the interlaced branches. “In the spring, once my travels in Greece are completed.”

  “Do you?” Antinous caressed the rough knuckles with his thumb.

  “You will accompany me back to Rome.” It was an order, not an invitation.

  “Of course.” Antinous laughed. It had not occurred to him to doubt it.

  “You will be assigned to my trireme, your father to the Empress’s.”

  “Yes, Caesar.”

  And for the whole long voyage back to Rome, once the sea lanes were open, it was blue sky and blue sea and a bed rocked by Neptune’s long swells and the rhythmic movement of the oars, and Antinous had never in all his life been so happy.

  SABINA

  A.D. 125, Spring

  Rome

  “What does he want?” Faustina’s voice was pitched low under the commotion of the Imperial box. “Why did he invite us?”

  “He invited a great many people to watch the races, Faustina. It may mean nothing.” Sabina linked fingers with her sister behind cover of their fans.

  Faustina’s eyes were pools of worry as she watched the newly returned Emperor in his throng of courtiers. “I thought he might have forgotten us, as long as he’s been away from Rome. But the way he looked at Titus, when the senators first presented themselves. Like he was thinking which piece went on which spear . . .”

  “No spears,” Sabina said sternly before the panic in her sister’s voice could rise. “Don’t even think it. Hadrian has been much more good-natured ever since Eleusis.” She hadn’t traveled with her husband on the voyage back to Rome, but Sabina had reports from the Emperor’s trireme saying that he had never seemed so good-humored—and what was more, his cheer had held, even though he was back in the Eternal City, which he so disliked. “Perhaps he just wants to thank Titus for gilding the roof of the Pantheon.”

  “Perhaps . . .”

  Sabina followed her sister’s gaze. Titus had retreated to a quiet corner of the Imperial box, flanked by little Annia and her cousin Marcus. The children stared raptly at the sea of color and humanity in the Circus Maximus below: the raked sands, the flower petals raining down, as Titus pointed. “The largest arena for sport in the Empire—two hundred fifty thousand Romans! See the gold dolphins at the starting line? They tip their noses down, one to mark each lap . . .” Everyone else in the Imperial box was angling for the seat closest to the Emperor, but Titus’s attention was all for the children.

  Wise, Sabina thought. She saw the way Hadrian’s eyes flicked to her brother-in-law over the rim of his wine cup—what could be more thoroughly harmless to a suspicious emperor’s eyes than a man surrounded by children?

  Or perhaps Titus is merely the kindest father in Rome. Annia and her cousin were both gazing up at him like he drove the sun. It made Sabina’s heart squeeze beneath her Imperial purple stola, not in envy, but in love. She might not have chosen well when it came to the father who had sired Annia—there were those who might call a bloody-handed ex-legionary a decidedly questionable choice—but she had at least chosen well in the father she gave her daughter afterward.

  “Mother!” Annia came whirling up, dragging her cousin. “Marcus is a traitor. He won’t cheer for the Reds!”

  “Rank treachery!” Faustina forced a little lightness into her tone, smoothing Annia’s flyaway hair. Annia looked puzzled, as if she felt the anxiety in her mother’s touch. My observant girl, Sabina thought. Nothing gets past you, does it?

  Trumpets sounded. Sabina took a last look to measure just how much Annia had grown—seven years old, and so tall!—and took her place at Hadrian’s side as he raised his arm to begin the festivities. Cheering rose below in a dutiful swell, redoubling as the slow parade of chariots began with their prancing horses and preening charioteers. A star charioteer would always get a bigger ovation than an emperor in the Eternal City, Sabina t
hought with some amusement.

  “Does Caesar wish to dispense the prizes?” Titus approached the Emperor with a bow and the customary basket of painted wooden balls, every one of which would be lobbed into the crowd and redeemed by some lucky pleb for a prize: a slave, a bullock, a side of ham. “Young Pedanius Fuscus has volunteered to throw them—”

  Whatever Hadrian said was lost then, because Titus got the greatest roar of all from the crowd below. The plebs of Rome had put their hands together for their Emperor; they had surged to their feet for their charioteers—but when Sabina’s brother-in-law came to the fore, they stamped and clapped and shrieked.

  “Titus Antoninus Pius!” someone shouted, and other voices took up the shout. “Pi-us! Pi-us! Pi-us!”

  “‘Pius’?” Sabina whispered to Faustina. “When did that nickname start?”

  “For his piety in helping restore the Pantheon?” Faustina shrugged. “For those massive consignments of oil and grain he gave from our personal stores after the winter shortages? Or maybe for the way he used to offer our father his arm whenever they walked out—you know how people love a show of filial piety.”

  “But it isn’t a show. Titus does everything so quietly; he doesn’t court approval.”

  “Which is why they give it to him.” Fierce pride flashed like a vein of gold through Faustina’s voice. “Servianus might call himself the most virtuous man in Rome, but Rome knows that title truly belongs to my husband.”

  Sabina looked at her oldest friend, standing at the rail of the Imperial box, pristine toga fluttering, head gleaming, hand half-raised to quiet the crowd. But they wouldn’t quiet, not until he had lifted an arm in salute, and smiled at the answering roar.

  That was when Hadrian’s gaze turned to ice. And so did Sabina’s heart.

  “Look how they cheer for the prizes,” she said brightly, whisking the basket from Titus. “How the plebs do love getting something without cost! Let Pedanius throw the balls out, Caesar, it will be the only thing to quiet them—”

  Young Pedanius strutted up, flexing his arm for the first throw, and Sabina managed to flatter everyone back to their seats, Titus sliding at once to the rear of the box. But Hadrian did not smile once, even when the first race finally began in a storm of hooves and sand. Everyone else was leaning forward, calling encouragement to their favorite teams, but the Emperor sat back in his wrought-silver chair, one foot rubbing along the back of the dog at his feet . . . and when he crooked a finger at Titus to approach, the Imperial eyes were full of blank, cold speculation.

  Like he was thinking which piece went on which spear, Faustina’s words whispered, and Sabina repressed a shudder.

  Annia saw that look, too, and her small hand shot into her father’s as he rose. “Let go, little monkey”—but Annia just gripped tighter. Titus at last gave a chuckle and let her follow as he took the chair beside Sabina, and Annia scrambled up to perch on his knee. Hadrian looked irked, and Annia gave him an expression of doe-eyed innocence that would have made Sabina laugh had she not been so vibrantly afraid.

  “Tell me, Pius.” Hadrian’s eyes looked like lamps gleaming from a hidden niche. “Why are you alive?”

  Sabina’s fingers clenched about her wine cup, and she saw Annia’s eyes narrow. But Titus looked calm as ever.

  “I could speak theologically, Caesar, and say that I am alive because the Fates spun a thread with all six of my names on it, and thus I came squalling into the world. Or I could speak for my wife, who says that I was born for the purpose of making her happy, which I seem to do even though I drive her mad by leaving my togas unwound all over the tablinum. Or I could speak with strict truth”—a half bow from his seat—“and say that I am alive by Caesar’s gracious mercy.”

  “Are you being flippant with me?” Hadrian asked.

  “Not at all,” Titus said sincerely. “I’m being pedantic. I always get pedantic when I’m nervous.”

  Sabina wanted to jump in again, anything to divert this conversation, but part of Hadrian’s keen attention was focused on her, and so she continued to sit like his vision of a perfect Empress: serene and silent, her gaze fixed on the race below, never interfering. Her husband had at last begun including her again in his travels, in his decisions—but he’d banish her back to the palace to rot if she interfered at the wrong moment. Wait.

  Hadrian took a bunch of grapes from the silver bowl at his side, tossing one to the dog panting happily at his feet. “You’re sweating, Titus Aurelius.”

  Annia sat stiff as a doll on her father’s knee, not fidgeting or bouncing as she normally did, but she must have made some movement because Titus looped an arm about her and gave a squeeze. “Naturally I’m sweating,” he said. “I’m terrified.”

  “Seven years ago”—the Emperor popped a grape into his mouth—“I decided a demonstration of mercy was called for, and spared your life. But I may decide to change my mind. Do not think some small degree of popularity among the plebs renders you immune from my displeasure. Crowds are fickle.”

  “They are, Caesar. I am only cheered because I am known to loan money at four percent interest instead of twelve.”

  “Twelve percent at market rate? That seems high. The reports I see indicate six percent. Do make a note, Suetonius.” Hadrian lifted a finger at his secretary, but his eyes never shifted from Titus, and Sabina’s pulse continued to pound. Everyone else in the box was oblivious to the small drama unfolding between their three chairs; only Faustina had strained eyes, watching the conversation she could not hear. Annia’s blue-gray eyes were fixed on the Emperor in cool distrust, and Sabina had time for a small, absurd prick of pride. Her daughter might be just a child, but she knew perfectly well that behind all these bland phrases, her father was being threatened.

  “If I may ask what I have done to draw Caesar’s ire?” Titus still sounded equable, as though he were talking about chalk for his togas or slates for his tablinum. “I am a thoroughly undistinguished sort of fellow, after all. I was born to an old name, and my family has been rather fortunate in its investments, but in myself I am nothing. Low-interest loans and a few famine-relief consignments to the city are hardly original acts; a dozen other men in the Senate House do the same.”

  “Agreed,” the Emperor said, spitting out another pip. “But they are not cheered as you just were. It makes me wonder if the crowd looks at you and remembers that Trajan had some notion of appointing you heir.”

  “I doubt anyone outside this box knows that. And would it be any use telling you I don’t want the purple?”

  Hadrian’s idle tone dropped at once. “Spare me the obligatory protestations.”

  “You think I have any desire to be where you are, Caesar?” Sabina heard her brother-in-law’s voice resound, that clarion ring of authority that came so unexpectedly from a man otherwise so mild. “To be Emperor of Rome is to be worked to death in this mausoleum of a palace, or forever moving between provincial wastelands. Never alone and forever worrying—that is not a life I wish.”

  “The next race is being called, Caesar,” Sabina murmured. But Hadrian’s gaze remained locked on Titus, and Titus never broke the stare.

  “Believe me, Caesar,” Sabina’s brother-in-law went on. “I have no wish to change the life I have. I consider myself a lucky man. I have funds enough to invest in Caesar’s building programs, I have the most beautiful wife in Rome—begging the Empress’s pardon”—a nod to Sabina—“and I have a daughter whom I hold so dear that I’m happy to keep her in expensive playthings as fast as she can break them.”

  Sabina saw Annia’s fingers curl tight through a fold of Titus’s toga. The small knuckles were white, and she was glaring at the Emperor like a little Medusa.

  “I have friends,” Titus went on, “I have health, and nobody has any interest in assassinating me. The most taxing decision I made all year was whether to buy my wife emeralds or sapphires for Lupercalia. So
no,” he finished. “I don’t want to trade places with you, Caesar. Not ever.”

  “Are you quite finished?” the Emperor asked Titus, and spit out another pip.

  “Yes,” Titus sighed.

  Trumpets blared again, but Sabina wouldn’t have been able to say if it was because the race was begun, won, lost, or because the arena had caught fire. She wished the arena would catch fire. Distraction, she thought frantically, distraction . . .

  And the Fates provided it—with a little help from Sabina’s daughter. At the same time as a man’s voice murmured from behind Sabina’s chair, “Forgive me for intruding, Lady—” Annia’s eyes widened and she flung herself off her father’s lap, upsetting the bowl of grapes and a frail glass goblet that went smash all over the tiles.

  “Antinous!”

  Sabina turned to see her favorite page in his flawless white tunic, just stepping into the Imperial box from the passage behind. “A message, Lady,” Antinous said, handing Sabina a scroll. His bow was impeccable even when he had a little girl clinging to his hip. “You asked to see the new list of candidates for your alimenta program, the girls petitioning for state dowries”—looking down at Annia with a smile. “You certainly don’t need a dowry, Annia Galeria Faustina!”

  “Control your daughter, Titus Aurelius,” the Emperor snapped, frowning, and Titus beckoned Annia, and Antinous murmured, “Please forgive my interruption—”

  But Annia clung like a limpet. “Where is Caesar, where is your dog?” she demanded as though determined to keep that thick threatening silence from falling again around her father, and Sabina jumped right in beside her.

  “Titus, I know you were a patron of Antinous’s; you will be delighted to see he is with my household . . .” Social niceties, she kept them flowing and ignored Hadrian’s frown because hadn’t he made it clear that social niceties were an empress’s business?

  “Patronus,” Antinous was saying with another bow for Titus, and an utterly infectious grin. “How very pleasant to see you again. I will never forget your kindness to me while I was in the paedogogium.”