Removing his encircling arms, Agrippina swept out of the room to do as she’d promised. She relished the thought of it.
The waiting courier snapped to attention as she neared him.
“You have it?”
“Yes, my empress, but I’m afraid it’s a bit worse for the wear. The ship bringing it back to Rome was blown off course by a storm. It may be past identifying.” His voice held a note of apology.
Agrippina’s eagerness couldn’t be disguised. “Let me see!”
Opening the large leather bag filled the room with the putrid odor of decay.
Impatiently, Agrippina snapped, “Well, what are you waiting for? Take it out so I can have a look.”
Still the guard hesitated. “Are you sure, my lady?”
“Do as I command, this instant!”
Trying not to look at the horrid thing himself, the guard reached into the bag and withdrew something beyond any hopes of recognition. The hair had fallen away from the head and lay in a hard bloody clot in the bottom, leaving the scalp of Lollia Paulina entirely bald with pieces of white skull showing in places. The flesh had begun to deteriorate.
Agrippina, holding a perfumed scarf at her nostrils now, examined it.
The guard asked, “Is that enough, my lady?”
“No,” she snapped. “Who could tell from this? It could be the head of anyone, female or male. There’s only one way to be sure. Put the head on the table.”
The guard gladly gave up his hold on the grisly object and backed away.
Remembering the stories she’d heard as a child, Agrippina knew only one way to make positive identification. At the age of four, all of Lollia Paulina’s teeth, which had grown in poorly, were pulled. In the process, her jaw was broken and never knit back properly. Neither did her later teeth come in as they should have. She had no molars, and her eyeteeth grew backward toward the roof of her mouth. So disfigured did this leave her face that she always wore a veil.
Agrippina cursed as she tried to pry the jaws open without success. Her mother” had told her that the physicians had used a knife on young Lollia Paulina to pry open and hold her jaws while they extracted her teeth.
Agrippina called to the guard, “Give me your dagger.”
Taking the knife, she thrust it into the narrow opening between the teeth. The sound of bone cracking echoed in the deathly silence of the room. With the jaws pried apart, she smiled and nodded to the guard. “Take it away now. I have my proof. It is she.”
Agrippina returned quickly to her chamber.
Claudius still sat on her couch in misery. He looked up, but didn’t speak.
“It’s done,” Agrippina said. “The teeth were the proof. Now, my love, you’re to put the entire matter out of your mind. Go now. I must bathe and dress.”
Claudius rose from the couch with a great sigh and swayed uncertainly out of the room.
As Agrippina swam about in her perfumed pool under the ever-watchful eyes of Eto and Sutra, her mind whirled in imitation of the pool itself. Narcissus had begged for leniency in Lollia Paulina’s case. He seemed the only one who could maintain as much control over the emperor as she herself had. The time had to be right, but sooner or later Agrippina knew she would have to deal with this friend-turned-foe.
At the thought of Narcissus hovering about the emperor, suggesting this, advising that, Agrippina snatched one of the lotus blossoms floating on the surface of the pool and tore its delicate petals to shreds.
Nine
The day of the wedding dawned with a brightness due the union about to take place between the emperor’s daughter and his adopted son. The gilt statues on the Palatine and Capitoline reflected the sun’s rays in a dazzling show around the city. All Rome seemed alive and in love with love. Could a more enchanting match be made? The emperor’s daughter and the handsome young lord whom some had come to look upon almost as a god.
Singing from the streets drifted up to the most, and possibly the only, unhappy scene in Rome that morning. Acte ached as Octavia fumed and cried in her room.
“Why have the gods let me live to see this day?” Octavia stormed. “I should take my life as my first betrothed did when my father married that woman! My betrothed knew—he knew what was to come.”
Acte tried to placate her mistress while she calmed her own inner fears. She replied, “That would be foolishness! Who would Britannicus have to turn to then? He depends on you so.”
“Yes. Poor Britannicus.” Octavia shook her head in sorrow. “I could never leave him to suffer alone. So I’m doomed to suffer Nero, a sickness like none other,” she said in disgust.
“Why are you so harsh when speaking of Nero? Some find him quite attractive, even godlike.”
Octavia’s eyes, red and swollen, narrowed to slits as she leveled her gaze at Acte. “And why are you always taking his side against me? Could it be that you’re one of his worshipers?”
Acte trembled. She’d said too much. But she laughed off Octavia’s accusation. “Oh, I can just see Lord Nero’s face, if such a suggestion were made to him. He’d never give one of my low birth a glance.”
Suddenly, Octavia became calm—deadly calm. She began to dress.
Acte sighed in relief. “This is more like the daughter of the emperor. You’re a woman now, about to be married. Tears and tantrums are for children. I’m glad you realize that.” Acte adjusted the orange wedding veil.
Octavia’s voice came to her, cold and hard. “I’ll marry him, as ordered,” she said. “But he will pay! As I take my wedding vows, another silent promise will reach the ears of the gods. I swear to make him suffer for as long as I live. He’ll know no love from my body or my heart. And I will not carry his child.”
A shudder went through Acte’s body at the mention of a child. She’d been trying unsuccessfully for over two years to forget her trip to Puteoli—to rid her mind of the memory of Nero’s baby. But she knew she would live with it forever. Perhaps the gods had been angry at her disloyalty to her mistress in taking Nero as her lover. Whatever the cause, she’d taken special precautions in their lovemaking since to be sure that she didn’t conceive again. She did love Nero so, and nothing would have given her more pleasure than presenting him with a son. But she dared not risk it again. Octavia, however reluctant, was to be his wife, not she.
Now Acte would have to watch her lover marry someone else.
Nero had matured much since his coming of age. His stature was now that of a man, with thickset limbs and a robust body. Muscles now protruded where only baby fat had been before. He cut a handsome figure in his marriage toga. As his mother gazed on him with pride, she thought that any woman would be overjoyed to have him in her bed. Such a waste that he had to be given to Octavia to cement her plans.
“Come, Nero. Remember, stand straight and tall and gaze upon Octavia as if she were the light of your very being. The crowds must think that this is a marriage made by the gods.”
Nero laughed heartily, then winced and put his hand to his head. His bachelor dinner and entertainment had gone on into the wee hours of the morning. Otho had arranged every sort of amusement, and it seemed to Nero that he had drunk at least half the wine in the Empire.
He spoke softly so as not to disturb his throbbing head. “Mater, I’ll have to summon all my acting talents to bring off such a feat. But the citizens of Rome will never know how much I detest my bride. I suppose I’ll have to bed her once, but after tonight I plan to find my sport elsewhere.”
“Nero! I’m shocked! How can you speak like this in front of your own mother?”
Nero’s smile for Agrippina was touched with sarcasm. “Forgive me, Mater. I forgot for a moment what a delicate and proper Roman matron you are.”
She smiled back and adjusted his toga. “There’s nothing to forgive, my son.”
Taking advantage of her sudden softening, Nero asked, “Wouldn’t it be a fine gesture for the mother of the groom to offer some token
to his bride?”
Agrippina looked at Nero oddly. “What did you have in mind?”
Taking her tapered fingers gently in his, Nero touched the blue pearl. “Perhaps your ring?”
Agrippina jerked her hands away as if she’d been burned. Drawing herself up to full height, she looked down reprimandingly into Nero’s eyes.
‘This ring is not a thing to make jokes about, Nero. It will never leave my hand.” She turned and walked several paces away, stopped, and spun around to face him again. “I’d been thinking of discussing this matter with you for some time. This seems an appropriate occasion.” Agrippina paused to gaze lovingly at her ring. “When I die, I want you to make sure that the Death Pearl is consumed upon my funeral pyre. No one else must be allowed to seize its power after I’m gone. Promise me that, my son.”
Nero eyed his mother nervously, then broke into a broad smile. “Why, Mater, this is no time to speak of death. Besides, I can’t promise. You’re indestructible. I’m sure I won’t be around to watch the flames of death consume your body. And, if I am, I’ll be such an old man that no one will listen to my demands. Now come. We have a wedding to attend.”
All through the long day of ceremonies, sacrifices, parades, speeches, and finally the wedding feast, Octavia held a frozen smile on her lips. Nero had no trouble smiling, so amused was he by Octavia’s efforts.
The wedding banquet took on a gayer air than most, with all of Nero’s favorite musicians, poets, and singers in attendance. And the customary wedding jokes filled the scented air with obscenities and lewd suggestions.
Only twice did Nero feel a pang of other than total enjoyment at being the center of attraction. The first pain came when Otho unexpectedly swaggered in with Poppaea Sabina on his arm. Nero still marveled at her beauty. She shone like the bright star in the heavens—Venus.
Not yet over this first jolt, Nero looked across to Acte. No one had told him that she would have a partner on his wedding night. He’d expected to see her alone and sad-eyed at the thought of his marriage. But instead, beside her sat the gladiator, Iron Face. His strong handsome features were intent upon Acte, his ear close to her lips as she whispered some amusing tidbit to him. They both laughed, then Nero turned away as he saw the gladiator brush Acte’s shining hair with his lips. His body burned with jealousy.
If Nero was disturbed by Sergio’s presence, Acte found herself in no less turmoil. She, too, had expected this to be a lonely evening. But just before the banquet, the emperor himself had sought her out and whispered to her in gleeful secrecy, “My dear, you are truly a free woman this night. You have done well to see my daughter to her wedding day and set a good example for her. How I wish your dear mother could see what a sweet and lovely young woman you are. But never mind. She knows. I have a gift for you. You’ll find it at the banquet tonight.”
Acte had expected some trinket or bauble. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to find Sergio as her dinner partner. The emperor had even provided him with a shining dinner robe to match her own gown. And Sergio admitted that he was, indeed, the emperor’s gift to her.
“Actually, little one, you might say that you’re his gift to me,” he said with a smile. “I asked the emperor again for his permission to marry the freedwoman of my choice, but this time I told him the name of the one I wanted. He seemed pleased to give his full approval but said he wouldn’t force the match, and that the choice was also yours to make. So you see, Acte, I have only to win your consent now. The obstacle you feared has been removed.”
Sergio spoke so freely that Acte couldn’t summon the courage to tell him that a greater obstacle than the emperor remained—and would remain forever. She couldn’t pull the piercing dart of Nero’s love from her heart the way she’d seen her brave Sergio pull a trident from his arm in the arena. But still she felt a warm excitement flow through her as she sat close and breathed in his male scent, all the while listening to his commanding voice and laughing happily at his gentle humor. His patience with her seemed infinite. He didn’t press her for answers she couldn’t give, decisions she wasn’t ready to make. But without seeming to, he was persuading her moment by moment, so that when he settled his arm around her bare shoulders, she let her head rest easily against him.
Sergio took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. He let his tongue taste the palm and then each fingertip. She felt a flutter inside, and sighed softly.
He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “You are the most delectable morsel to be served at this banquet. I’ll help myself to another portion.”
As his lips then covered hers, Acte felt flames of longing consume her. Her arms, with a will of their own, slipped around his neck and prolonged the kiss.
Nero turned his attention away from Acte and the gladiator to the emperor and some of his cronies. The men were enjoying a few hearty laughs at the expense of the furiously blushing bride and her slightly drunken groom.
Claudius drew Nero close and whispered, “I fear Octavia isn’t enjoying the banquet. Give her a kiss for all to see and perhaps it will silence these foul-mouthed dolts.”
Nero rose from his couch, seeing himself once more as the actor, and performing especially for Acte’s sake. He reached out for Octavia’s hand and commanded, “Come into my arms, wife!”
Octavia flushed even more and looked about for some salvation from this public desecration about to be committted.
The emperor roared at her, “You are a wife now, Octavia. Do what your husband demands of you.”
Nero was sure now that all eyes in the banquet hall, including Acte’s, were on him. He pulled Octavia to him. She was cold and limp as a dead fish in his arms. She closed her eyes and pursed her pale lips into a tight line. As his lips touched hers, she stiffened and offered no response.
The crowd began clapping, stamping their feet and shouting.
“Kiss her, Nero! Kiss your wife! Take her in your arms and kiss her the way a husband should!” someone yelled.
Spurred on by the applause and shouted encouragement, Nero put his arms around Octavia and held her rigid body tight to his. He bruised her lips with his own, and his tongue found its way, parting her lips, only to meet the barrier of her clenched teeth.
The shouting continued. Nero’s performance was a success, and he basked in the glory of it. Still pressing his lips to Octavia’s, he pinched her behind. When her teeth unclenched to cry out in surprise, Nero rammed his tongue through the opening and searched the interior of her dry little mouth. He sucked at her breath as his tongue continued its exploration and the crowd’s cheers reached a fever pitch.
Suddenly, Nero felt Octavia’s body lose some of its stiffness. Her mouth grew moist, and he felt the teasing flicks of her tongue on his. How long they lingered in this manner Nero couldn’t calculate. He only knew that he had melted an iceberg to the cheers of thousands. Perhaps bedding Octavia would not be such a trial after all.
Octavia’s mind whirled as Nero grasped her in the unwanted embrace. His mouth tasted stale with wine. What did he think he was doing? Then the pinch, and her last defense broke. His tongue, even as it pried her mouth open, had caused juices to flow within her. An awakening. Could it be that she might actually eiyoy making love—to him? Her embarrassment turned into a burning sensation which fired her whole body. She could feel herself limp against her husband, feel his heart pounding next to her own. And then it was over. She sat again, but closer to Nero now. Her hand beneath the table inched its way to Nero’s thigh. His own hand covered hers and guided it to feel his heat. She grew dizzy. Would the banquet never end? She would die before she knew his kiss again!
Nero’s display of passion with Octavia worked the opposite effect on Acte from what he might have wished. Aroused by jealousy, but also by seeing the flush of her mistress’s cheeks, Acte whispered urgently to Sergio, “Kiss me! Kiss me as the groom kisses his bride!”
She parted her lips and let her tongue moisten their softness. Th
en she closed her eyes and offered herself to her willing partner. Sergio’s earlier tenderness turned to the hunger of a starved lover as he took up her challenge. When his hand crept under the silver fabric of Acte’s gown to cup the smooth roundness of her breast, she broke the embrace at last.
With a weak sigh, she looked away from Sergio and spoke as much to herself as to him. “I’ve gone too far—tempted you too much. This isn’t right.”
Sergio’s voice was husky with emotion. “Acte, my love, were you at the other end of the earth you would tempt me just as much. I must have you soon. Will this feast of hunger never end?”
But still the wedding banquet went on. A gentle scented spray came from the pipes in the ceiling above to mist the scene with a refreshing cloud and cool the diners.
Course after course was brought to the tables by slaves dressed in purple and gold. The emperor, along with many of the guests, called again and again for the vomitorium. Having regurgitated the roast duckling, Claudius filled the void in his royal stomach with a platter of mushrooms.
Seneca watched in disgust and muttered to himself, “Romans! They vomit so that they may eat and eat so that they may vomit!”
Nero’s head reeled. He, too, would soon need the vomitorium, but from an excess of wine rather than overindulgence in food.
With his ever-increasing drunkenness came an overwhelming need of the flesh. His hand crept to Octavia’s knee. When she didn’t remove it or show any sign of displeasure at his action, he became bolder. He could feel the heat of her body. By the gods, the girl had blood in her veins after all!
And then the trumpet sounded. It was time! A procession surrounded the bridal couple and wound its way to the chamber where flesh would meet flesh.
Clinging to Octavia as they were swept along, Nero heard fragments of encouragement: “Be gentle when you take her, Nero! Plant your seed well so that your garden will be fruitful!”
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