The eunuch came forward and bowed. “Your pleasure, my lady?”
She quietly gave the impassive servant some instructions. He nodded, then turned away. Agrippina then glared back at her husband.
As Ebony poured more wine into the emperor’s golden goblet, she stroked his hand and then moved it to the silkiness of her bared flesh. He sipped his wine and explored her breasts in obvious enjoyment. The bewitching slave inched her way onto his brocade couch.
At that moment, Eto appeared again and gave Agrippina a glass of wine. He hovered over his mistress, but didn’t see the slight movement of the pearl ring on her finger before she handed it back to him. “I feel a bit light-headed already, Eto. Take this wine and give it to the slave girl who seems to be providing the emperor with such pleasure at the moment. She should have some reward. Tell her this is with the compliments of the empress.”
Bowing once more, Eto accepted the gift and moved to the side of the emperor’s couch where Ebony had established her territory. They both looked up in surprise, as if they’d forgotten that all eyes in the room were on them.
Eto cleared his throat and extended the jewel-encrusted goblet to Ebony. “With compliments of the empress.”
The slave thought she’d won a great triumph by bedazzling the emperor while his wife and half of Rome looked on. She raised the goblet to Agrippina and daintily put it to her purple lips to drain the contents.
Agrippina smiled with satisfaction. Claudius smiled back, thinking her the most generous of wives. He cradled Ebony more closely in his arms. The wine was surely Agrippina’s sign of accepting his flirtation in appreciation of the betrothal. He was still smiling when Ebony went limp in his arms. Not a sound passed her lips. He felt a sudden spasm shoot through her voluptuous body and then her heartbeat stopped. He stared down into her glazed eyes and at her lolling head. Ebony was dead!
Looking toward Agrippina in horror and disbelief, he saw her raise her wine goblet to him. Then he looked back at the lifeless form in his arms and realized what had happened.
Eto bowed to him. “This slave has had too much wine, my emperor. She must be removed before she creates a disruption of the celebration.” He spoke loud enough for those who had been observing to hear.
Eto lifted Ebony’s body into his arms and carried her away. Only three knew she was dead, and only two of those three really mattered. Claudius stared at his smiling wife with newfound dread in his heart.
The emperor announced a series of gladiatorial combats to celebrate the betrothal of Octavia and Nero. Acte hadn’t expected to go, but Octavia insisted that she wouldn’t attend without her. Acte tried to contain her enthusiasm at seeing Sergio in action for the first time. The thought drowned out all her concern for her new dilemma.
The day, unexpectedly, was sultry hot and almost blindingly blue after the cold dampness of the past week.
While the emperor and his party were escorted by the royal guard into the purple-and-gold-draped box, Acte gazed about her in undisguised awe. The high oval above the arena seemed a thing alive—a squirming, screaming monster of thousands. The people filled the seats, and howled and cheered at the emperor’s arrival, as his presence signaled the opening of the spectacle.
Claudius waved to the masses before seating himself between Agrippina and Nero. He patted Agrippina’s hand. Acte noted that ever since the banquet following the betrothal ceremony, the emperor seemed more attentive to his wife.
He leaned across Nero and spoke to Octavia and Acte. “You know, of course, the history of these gladiatorial feats. The ancient Etruscans used to give funeral exhibitions so the departed would have an armed escort to the other world.”
At the grating sound of a gate opening directly below them, Claudius turned back to the arena and pointed. “Look, look! It’s starting!” Then he turned back to the girls. “This will be the praelusio, the sham battle. See, the gladiators carry only wooden swords and javelins.”
Acte watched in fascination as the brightly tunicked warriors sparred and parried with their mock weapons. The emperor and the crowd roared with laughter when a whimpering slave fell to the sand directly in front of the royal box. His opponent, a young lad no more than fourteen, snarled down at him and waved his sword menacingly. He allowed his victim time to raise his forefinger to the masses, pleading for mercy.
The emperor rose, and with a great guffaw turned his thumbs down and shouted, “Death to the blackguard!”
The young giant stabbed at his victim’s throat with his sword and the crowds cheered their approval. Octavia clutched Acte’s arm and turned her eyes away. The wooden short sword broke into several pieces and the doomed victim jumped to his feet laughing.
“Look, Octavia,” Acte urged. “He’s not hurt. It’s only buffoonery.”
The sham battle ended at the blast of a trumpet. In moments the arena cleared. Then gradually a great roar from below rose to shake the seats in the royal box.
Octavia jumped. “What’s that?”
Her father leaned closer and gently squeezed her hand. His voice was filled with anticipation. “Now it begins in earnest, my daughter.”
Acte strained forward to see as the crowd began chanting, “Iron Face! Iron Face! Iron Face!”
As usual, plebs and patricians alike had placed most of their wagers on the magnificent Iron Face, the emperor’s favorite. This would be his final showing before his retirement to the school at Pompeii for a full year. His fame packed the Circus. Nero was among the few to bet against him. He still couldn’t get the scene between the gladiator and his Acte out of his mind. He hoped with everything in him that this would be the last time for Iron Face in any arena. Acte didn’t miss the scowl on Nero’s face as the chanting grew louder and more frantic. She guessed its cause.
Sergio suddenly stood before them. His magnificent physique was clothed in a short tunic and breastplate of black polished metal. Over his face he wore the familiar mask with its hideous grimace. He bowed to the emperor, and made a second bow in Acte’s direction.
“Give him your scarf, girl,” Claudius commanded. “He’s asked for your favor.”
Acte unwound the turquoise scarf which bound her hair and moved to the rail of the box. She didn’t have to lean far forward to present the token to the tall gladiator. He clasped her hand for an instant, sending a warm thrill through her.
“The gods be with you, Sergio,” she whispered.
His voice came muffled through the mask. “I still await your answer to my question, little one.”
He wound her scarf about his left arm, near to his heart. Then he bowed once more and proceeded to the center of the arena. The gladiator waited for several minutes. The crowd grew impatient. Iron Face was ready, but where was his opponent?
Claudius chuckled. “It seems this gladiator isn’t anxious to meet the great Iron Face. We’ll see if he prefers a taste of the whip and the red-hot iron to facing my warrior in fair combat.”
Then from below came the sound of a whip slashing flesh and a howl of pain. The second gladiator scrambled into the arena, an ugly red mark showing plainly on his back. The crowd went wild.
“Oh, good, good!” Claudius cried. “My Iron Face will match skills with a retiarius, a net man, first off.”
Acte frowned. Though this retiarius equaled Iron Face in size, he wore no armor or helmet. He had only a short leather apron over his tunic. Iron Face seemed overprotected and menacing with his short sword and oblong shield in the face of a man armed only with a fishing net and an ungainly trident. But she soon realized that the net could be far more menacing than a sword.
The two men sidestepped carefully around each other for several moments, sizing up the best way to attack. Publicus, the net man, had once been a citizen of wealth and position in Rome before his ruin. As he backed away from Iron Face, the crowd hissed its disapproval. They stopped when they saw his net sailing through the air like a great black spider’s web. Sergio raised his shiel
d to fend it off, but his left arm and leg became tangled. With a bellow for blood, Publicus was upon him. But Sergio quickly leaped into the air as his opponent charged, and managed to capture Publicus in his own webbed weapon and throw him to the ground.
The crowd gave a swelling cry of triumph, but Acte gasped as she saw her scarf soaking up the dark blood where the trident had lodged in Sergio’s arm.
She looked around the now-silent throngs to see thousands of thumbs, including the emperor’s, turned down. Nodding to the emperor, Iron Face wrenched the spiked trident from his own arm and in the same motion thrust its three points into the throat of his netted victim. The smell of fresh blood rose from the sand to send the mob into a frenzy.
Almost everyone, including Claudius, applauded wildly. “My Iron Face is a genius with the deathblow,” he said. “His victims never know a moment of suffering. Sometimes I wish his aim weren’t so true. I enjoy a bit of agony before the final dispatch.”
Acte, though sickened by what Sergio had been forced to do, was relieved that he had survived. Now he would be safe for at least a year. Then the emperor’s unexpected statement froze her with horror.
Claudius rose and held up his hands to the multitudes for silence. When they were quiet, he said, “Though my Iron Face has been victorious once again, this match has disappointed me. I know of no gladiator who can give a fair showing against him. Therefore, I propose that he take on five men—all at the same time.” The emperor paused as the crowd gasped. He continued, “We’ll bring out the best: Kriton, Felio, Taurus, Quintus and Como. I promised you a show to celebrate my daughter’s betrothal, and a show you shall have!” The people cheered and clapped excitedly. Claudius grinned in satisfaction and sat down.
Acte’s head swam with the smell of blood in the air and the cry for it from every tongue. She heard Nero’s chuckle. Had he whispered this insane idea to the emperor? It must be stopped!
She got up from her seat and went to Claudius. “Please, my lord, Iron Face is injured. Don’t pit him against such odds. Even a well man couldn’t survive.”
He smiled at her concern, but answered, “Nonsense, my dear. Iron Face will kill them all. This will be his greatest triumph—a fitting end to his present career before he goes off to Pompeii. You see how the people have accepted it. And has Iron Face begged me for mercy? No! He stands there ready.”
Acte snapped, “He stands there bloody!”
Scowling at her tone, Claudius replied, “If you wish to be escorted back to the palace, Acte, you have my leave to retire. Octavia and Britannicus will be going back.”
Acte steeled herself and answered, “No. With your permission, I’ll stay.”
He nodded. “As you wish.”
Nero caught Acte’s hand as she went back to her seat. “I’ll go home a rich man today,” he said. “My wagers were all against your gladiator. But never in my fondest dreams did I suspect that the emperor would do his own man in.”
Her eyes blazed at him in anger. She jerked her hand away and said quickly, “The battle isn’t over yet!”
When she took her seat, she saw that the blood from Sergio’s wound now ran down his arm to his hand, making his sword slippery. On impulse, Acte stood and ripped the outer skirt from her gown. She went to the rail and motioned for Iron Face to take it. He reached up and their fingers touched.
She said, “Wrap this tightly about your arm, Sergio, to stop the flow of blood. Then wipe your hands dry on the sand. And do take care, dear friend.”
“If I knew I was saving myself for you, Acte, I couldn’t die. Give me a promise, even half a promise,” he entreated.
Acte glanced over her shoulder at Nero and knew she couldn’t give Sergio her promise. Would he even ask, if he knew that she carried another’s child?
“I’ve promised you already that I would never lie to you,” she answered. “I can’t tell you that I’ll be your wife, even to save your life. But remember, Sergio, that I do love you in a special way.”
She didn’t lie to him. She did love him, but not in the same way she loved the father of the child she carried, the nobleman promised her by the Sibyl.
He bowed to her. “Thank you, my little one. The battle is mine!”
Sergio’s five opponents marched out and stopped a few paces away, then turned to face him. Acte saw that he carefully looked over each of them. The Samnite Kriton, squinted back at the great Iron Face. Kriton’s shield and short sword glistened brilliantly in the bright sun. The next gladiator, Taurus, the laquearius, didn’t bother to look at Sergio. He was busy fingering and adjusting his deadly lasso. Acte then looked from Quintus’s two knives up to his face. The dimachaerus’s expression was blank. He was a large man. But Felio, the hoplomachus, seemed largest of all as he stood with his feet planted solidly apart. It was impossible to discern anything about Felio in his full suit of armor. Finally there was the new net man, Como. Como shifted eagerly, playing with his weapon. Acte wondered how Sergio could possibly survive against such horrifying foes. She silently pleaded with the gods.
The signal was given for the battle to begin.
The next hours—or were they years?—went by in a slow succession of tortures for Acte. Her body ached with tension as she watched. There were dreadful sounds of clashing metal, and grunts and cries of pain from the men. Acte filled with dread each time Sergio faced fatal entanglement in Como’s net, and relief when he escaped. She could almost feel the lash of Taurus’s lasso on his flesh.
Iron Face was allowed some quarter in this uneven battle to the death. A slave stood near to hand him another weapon whenever his sword was broken or snatched away from him. And when he knocked an opponent down, the others were not allowed to continue their assault until Iron Face had dispatched the fallen gladiator. Acte oddly found herself sharing the emperor’s wish that Sergio take more time killing his foes. It would at least give him a few moments to breathe and regain some measure of his strength before the attack resumed.
At last only Iron Face and the fully armored Felio remained. Acte tried to keep her eyes away from the bloody patches of sand where the other four had fallen. But Sergio was nearly as gory a sight. Each inch of his body had taken its share of punishment in the long day’s battle.
Giving a mighty roar, Felio lunged at Iron Face with both swords ready. Sergio staggered and seemed about to fall. He was weak from the loss of blood and hours under the broiling sun. But as Felio charged, the dazed Iron Face grasped the net from Como’s body at his feet and threw it over his opponent. He felt Felio’s knife slash deep into his arm. Both men slumped to the sand.
Acte held her breath. After a brief moment Iron Face got shakily to his feet and with great deliberation began to unwind her bloodied skirt from his arm. He held it high for all to see. Then he dropped to his knees and began winding the fabric around his adversary’s neck. Slowly he tightened it while Felio struggled and his strangled cries filled the air. When the armored body gave one final twitch, Sergio released his hold and slumped across his victim.
Silence hung heavily in the stadium. Then one cheer rang out for Iron Face, then another. Soon the Circus was filled with his name.
Acte felt fury welling up inside her. She jumped up and stalked to the beaming emperor.
“I wish to go and tend the wounds of Iron Face,” she said in a determined voice.
Claudius waved her request aside. “He’ll be cared for. You needn’t bother.”
“I will go to him!”
The emperor looked up into her fiery eyes and relented. “Very well. I’ll have a guard escort you.”
Acte found Sergio lying on a filthy stack of straw in a musty chamber below the arena. Two physicians hovered nearby, preparing their leeches.
Acte summoned her most imperious tone. “Away with both of you. I’ve been sent by the emperor to tend his gladiator.”
The two looked at her but didn’t argue. Indeed, they seemed relieved to go and join their cronies in cele
bration sooner than they’d anticipated.
Acte removed the mask to give Sergio more chance to breathe. She smiled at his unscarred face. Then she frowned as she saw that his eyes couldn’t focus. He looked at her now without recognition.
“Sergio, it’s Acte. You’ve won the battle. It’s all over.”
His great hand came up to cup her cheek. “Acte? You shouldn’t be in the arena!”
“It’s all right, Sergio. It’s over. You were victorious. Now I want to dress your wounds before you leave for Pompeii.”
Suddenly, with a strength she hadn’t supposed he still possessed, Sergio clasped her to him. “And you’ve decided to come with me?”
She let him hold her close and allowed the feelings he stirred to flood her being. Finally Acte released herself from his grasp. She spoke softly as she began to cleanse his many cuts.
“Sergio, I can’t go with you to Pompeii. I’ve prayed to the gods for your survival today, and they listened to my pleas. You’re a brave, good man. You deserve better than I, believe me. I’ll always be your special friend, as long as you wish it. But I can’t be more to you.”
She gave him a sedating herb, and after a few moments he started to drift off to sleep. “No other, Acte,” he said with effort, “never another. Only you. Someday. Together someday—you and I. I love you, my little one. No other. Pompeii—no more combat—no more pain—Sergio and Acte and love—”
Tears flooded Acte’s eyes as she listened. Then he stopped talking and lapsed into unconsciousness. She felt alone and desolate.
The burden of the child she carried came back to mind. Why had the oracle chosen a nobleman for her? Her situation seemed so hopeless, so unreasonable. Life with Sergio would be uncomplicated. She knew she could grow to love him. If only she’d never met Nero. If only she weren’t carrying his child.
A guard came and told Acte it was time to leave for the palace. She pried Sergio’s fingers loose and gently kissed his cheek. He would survive, but would she?
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