Nero clasped Acte’s bare upper arms in a bruising grip and shook her. “At least what?”
“Please, Nero. You’re hurting me.”
He loosened his hold, but the expression on his face still demanded an answer.
“At least for the next two days.”
Nero slapped his forehead with his palm. “By all the gods, what a situation! Here I am with the woman I ache to hold trying to pry out of her the whereabouts of a wife I don’t want, but must find. And have you any suggestions as to how I’m supposed to explain my bride’s strange disappearance to her father and the rest of the household?”
Acte stood firm against his rage. “Yes. You have the most perfect explanation of all. You’re newlyweds. It’s only natural that you and your bride should want privacy for the first few days. I’ll explain to the others that you and Octavia don’t wish to stir from your apartments for now. They’ll understand.”
A smile played about the corners of Nero’s mouth. “So, you have it all worked out, have you? And what am I supposed to do for these long days and nights alone in my chambers, play with my toes?” Moving closer to Acte and placing his lips to her perfumed hair, he murmured, “I’ll go along with this game of Octavia’s on one condition.”
Acte moved slightly away. Nervously she asked, “And what might that be?”
Suddenly he scooped her into his arms, nuzzled her cheek, and demanded, “That you come to the bridal chamber each night as a stand-in for my elusive wife.”
Acte kicked and struggled free from his viselike grip. “Oh, I couldn’t, Nero! You’re married now and haven’t even had your wife yet!”
She stared into his eyes, frightened by what she’d let slip of her early-morning discussion with the overwrought Octavia.
“So, she told you all?”
Acte nodded, her eyes veiled.
Placing her gently on the couch and bending over her so that his warm breath touched her face, he ordered quietly, “You will be in my chamber after dinner tonight or I’ll tell the emperor that you’ve hidden my bride from me. By Jupiter himself, Acte, as much as I love you, I will do it!”
“Then I have no other choice, do I?”
“No, my pet. You must take your punishment.”
Gazing into his blue eyes, she sighed, “I’ve never considered it punishment.”
Nero smiled with anticipation. “Then I’ll wait for you in the bridal chamber after the supper hour.”
“Very well. Now do go before someone discovers you here!”
Acte closed her eyes when she was alone again and thought of the night to come. Could it be half as sweet as her time with Sergio? Her pulses quickened as she remembered his knowing way with her. He offered her everything, and now at last she was free to accept. Free! But would she ever be other than a slave to her passion for Nero? The words of the oracle bound her to him. Which man held her heart captive?
“Both!” she whispered hopelessly.
Having finally seen the last of the wood from the pile fed to the blaze beneath the tub, Octavia sighed with relief.
Her body had been soaked and singed by the hot oil. Octavia tried to stand still to prevent further pain from the rough robe which now covered her nakedness, chafing her tender skin.
Around her the Vestals had formed a circle and moved slowly, chanting.
When their dizzying motion halted, Vibidia stepped forward and spoke. “Octavia has sinned.”
The others chanted back, “Against the temple of herself.”
Vibidia: “Octavia must be cleansed.”
The others: “Through the temple of herself.”
Vibidia: “Octavia must fast.”
The others: “In the temple of herself.”
Vibidia: “Octavia must be scourged.”
The others: “The very temple of herself.”
A great, moaning cry went up from all of them begging Vesta to assist in these tasks. Octavia closed her eyes and chanted to Vesta with the others, pleading for mercy.
Then as she felt the rough robe removed from her body, her eyes shot open. She tried to keep her face benign as she stared at the Vestals. Each held a small broomlike whip, the bristles tipped with steel. The chanting circle closed in on her as the Vestals punished the “temple of herself’ with their whips. Were her body not already tender from the oil bath, the pain wouldn’t have been great, but as each lash touched her skin she felt it a thousand times over. Still, she managed to stay the cries which threatened to escape her lips, and held herself rigid to endure the scourging.
When each Vestal had given her one last lash, they filed out of the chamber in a line. Only Vibidia remained. Gently she replaced the rough robe about Octavia’s shoulders, but not before applying one final and particularly painful lash across Octavia’s breasts.
“You’ve done well, child. But there are still problems to be surmounted before you can become one of the sisterhood. Virgin you may be, but married nonetheless. It’s a peculiar problem. We must pray and sacrifice to the goddess and consult daily with the oracle. Until the word is sent down from on high, no morsel of food will pass your lips. You will pray for forgiveness and work at the most menial tasks. Come now. I’ll show you to your room.”
A stunned Octavia followed obediently as Vibidia ushered her to a tiny cubicle. No furniture adorned the room. It was a total void except for the shrine of Vesta. Not even a straw pallet lay on the floor for Octavia’s comfort. She would sleep on the bare earth.
Before Vibidia left, she handed Octavia one of the steel-tipped whips. “Kneel before the shrine and pray until you hear the bell sound. At that time you will disrobe and use the scourge on those parts of your body which you feel most need punishment. At the sound of the next bell, you may put away your scourge and rest. You will grow familiar with the routine quickly. Kneel now and pray to Vesta for your restored purity of body and spirit.”
Vibidia stood in the doorway until she saw Octavia sink to her knees in the dirt to pray.
As his bride knelt before her altar, Nero paced the bridal chamber impatiently. What could be keeping Acte? It was well past the dinner hour. If she failed to make her promise good, he knew he couldn’t do as he had threatened. He would simply have to remain in solitary confinement until Acte came to him to tell him where to find Octavia.
A rustling noise behind him alerted Nero to the fact that he was no longer alone.
Acte had slipped quietly in and closed the door carefully behind her. Her black hair fell to her slender waist in the simple style he preferred. And she wore only a diaphanous gown of blue, which softened the olive tone of her skin, but didn’t conceal the curves of her body.
Her mysterious, dark eyes caught the light of the oil lamps and glowed like twin stars as they traveled over the erotic murals on the chamber’s walls—entwined figures with their painted faces and slightly exaggerated shapes, demonstrating the many forms in the art of love. Acte shivered at the staring eyes of the male figures as they seemed to offer their fantastically oversized genitals to her. A new tremor passed through her body as her gaze fixed upon the elaborate portrayal of the rape of Persephone.
Then Nero’s familiar voice greeted her. “You came.”
“Did I have a choice?” she asked quietly.
Staring solemnly into her eyes, Nero confessed, “You know that I’d never do anything to harm you. I wouldn’t have followed through with my threats, Acte.”
She smiled and cast her eyes down, afraid he might read something there of her night of love with Sergio. “I fear no threats from you, Nero. I meant that I had no choice because I could no longer endure being without you.”
Without another word she went to him. In a few moments her filmy wrapper lay in shimmering folds on the floor, and he led her to the satin sheets beneath the golden bridal canopy.
Nero quickly took his place beside her and explored her wondrous body with great urgency, setting her flesh on fire.
She wondered, could one die of love? Sergio had awakened something deep within her, something which made her ache to be loved. But loved by whom? The great and tender gladiator or the Sibyl’s choice, Nero? It didn’t seem to matter. She needed love!
They coupled, becoming one mad and frenzied body, joined to itself for the exquisite purpose of being—of feeling—of loving.
Acte felt herself soaring as if astride the winged Pegasus. Nero carried her to new heights—bringing dizzying joy and the release of total, though fleeting, happiness.
Then, ever so slowly, she became earthbound once more. As they lay locked together, Acte ran her fingers through Nero’s copper curls and sighed as her breast tingled from his suckling. Gently she took his damp cheeks between her cool palms and brought his mouth up to her lips. With all the tenderness of her being, she kissed him. Afterward, Acte stared through the darkness into his blue eyes.
Her words came soft as the hush of the night breeze from the fragrant garden. “Nero, I do love you. It makes no difference to me that you’ve wed another.”
“You are really my wife, Acte, in the most precious sense of the word,” Nero answered dreamily. “Our love is the only lasting thing in this fleeting world where nothing remains past the blink of an eye. Empires crumble and fortunes are gained and lost. But you, Acte, you are as constant as Apollo’s sun and Vesta’s purity. If the gods be with us, our love will be remembered long after Rome is forgotten.”
But are the gods with us? Are they? Acte’s questions remained in her heart unspoken.
Her mind traveled the road back to Puteoli. Nero must never know of the child she had meant to destroy. This dark secret would always be a menace to them both, binding them even as it threatened to ruin what was between them.
The light of dawn blazed on the erotic murals as the lovers once more satiated their passions. Acte waited until Nero’s even breathing told her he was asleep before she slipped out of the bridal chamber and back to her own apartment.
She went to her dressing table and sat down. For a few moments she stared into space, and then her eyes fell on the jar containing Cleopatra’s secret love recipe. Nero had asked her about that potion which Locusta had given him so long ago as a gift for his lover. She picked up the carved alabaster jar with the silver asp coiled on its lid and opened it. Its scent was intoxicating. But she felt no need of outside help, even from Queen Cleopatra, when she found herself in the arms of love. Perhaps someday, but not now. The wine of lips upon her own was intoxicating enough. She put the jar back.
Acte went to her couch and watched as the rising sun colored the garden outside her window in rainbow hues. Her lids grew heavy and she drifted off into a dream world all her own. The images of two faces floated about in her mind—one dark and broodingly handsome, the other white and gold. Which one? Which one? The repeated question begged her for an answer.
Ten
A black runner panted in the heat and dust as he dashed through the crowded streets of Rome to spread the news. He heard his message upon the lips of Romans and foreigners as he sped past on his mission as rumor bearer.
Two merchants called out their wares of fresh fish and vegetables. But between cries they passed the news on to horrified customers.
A scrubwoman polishing the marble steps of some patrician’s villa wiped her brow in the heat and shouted the tale to a passing acquaintance.
A ragged little girl giggled and twisted the tatters of her dress as two older boys told her in vivid details of the forbidden act. She didn’t understand all that they told her, so they demonstrated it in the lewd language of the street.
The runner passed through the forum to see other groups, senators and patricians, clustered in subdued and frightened conversation. He caught the phrase “She will have to be buried alive, you know,” as he passed.
When the slave reached his destination, his leg muscles were aching, and his dark body glistened with sweat. His knock on a wooden door was answered by another slave, a fair woman, whose obvious virtues did not escape his eyes.
“I have news for your master.”
The woman disappeared into the atrium, and in moments a rotund, bald-headed man with sagging jowls appeared at the door. He eyed the slave with disinterest.
“Yes?”
“Sire, I bring you news from the villa of Oscio.”
The fat man fluttered his ring-laden hand in the air.
“Out with it then.”
The slave drew nearer and whispered his message. “A Vestal Virgin has been raped!”
The man paled. “What?” After the initial shock he asked angrily, “What will happen next in this wicked city? Will the pillars of our houses crumble about us?”
He slammed the door and took to his bed for the rest of the day, bemoaning the fate of the Vestal and all of Rome.
The news spread like fire through the wooden tenements of the city. All accepted it with a delicious sense of horror, but few, if any, outside the Temple of Vesta knew the actual details of the “rape.”
Nero lay with Acte’s soft head resting on his bare chest. After a long night of lovemaking, they lingered, savoring the moment.
Nero caressed Acte’s smooth, warm breast. He whispered, “You know, my love, our time is up. Today is the day you promised to tell me where I could find Octavia.”
Her doe eyes looked up into his from under her long black lashes, which fluttered now like nervous butterflies. “Are you so anxious to replace me with your wife?”
He kissed her mouth gently before he answered. “You know better. But she must be returned to the palace. Even her father wouldn’t believe that she could endure an unwanted husband for such a long period. He’ll become suspicious soon.”
Acte traced her nails gently across Nero’s chest.
“I promised and I’ll tell you,” she replied. “Your wife is at the Temple of Vesta, and by now probably a full member of the sisterhood of virgins.”
Nero sat up in bed abruptly, staring unbelievingly at Acte.
“That can’t be! She’s a married woman.”
“But still a virgin. Remember?”
Nero quickly grabbed his tunic and the cloak and wig he always used for disguise in his wanderings with Otho. He was dressed and gone before Acte could move.
In the early-morning hours, Rome wasn’t fully awake yet. Nero’s figure hurrying through the side streets and alleys went unnoticed.
As he neared the Temple of Vesta, the sun tinted its white marble columns a delicate pink. All seemed quiet. Then he saw her. A lone figure on her hands and knees scrubbing the floorstones of the altar.
If Nero wore a disguise, Octavia proved almost equally difficult to identify. Her regal gown of white was replaced by a rough robe, her hair pulled back in a severe knot. Seeing her at daybreak doing a slave’s chores, no one would ever have suspected that she was the emperor’s daughter.
Nero knew that if she spotted him, she would have time to escape to the lower chambers of the temple where no man was permitted to enter. So he slipped carefully and quietly around the far side to approach her from the rear. He drew close enough to hear her quiet, singsong voice chanting prayers as she worked. Then, checking first to make sure that no one was watching, he leaped upon her. But before he could cover her mouth, she let out a high, piercing scream which sent a covey of doves flying into the morning sun.
An old man, hobbling with the aid of his stick into the market to buy his day’s bread, looked up at the temple to see a man in a dark cloak roughly handling one of the Vestal Virgins.
He quickened his pace, shouting to any who might hear and lend assistance, “Rape! Rape! One of the Vestals! Help, somebody, help!”
By the time help arrived at the temple, the cloaked figure and the Vestal were nowhere to be seen. But the news spread rapidly and grew with each telling.
Meanwhile, the “rape victim” had been returned to her palace home. Struggling against Nero all the way
, she was pushed unceremoniously through the window to the bridal chamber, then thrown on the bed.
Nero glowered down at his cringing bride. “Now, would you like to explain your actions, wife?”
“I am no wife to you!” Octavia spat. “You saw to that on our wedding night in this very chamber!”
“So exactly what are you, then?”
Octavia lowered her eyes and began to sob uncontrollably. “I’m nothing! You stole me away before I had time to complete my cleansing period and take my vows.” Then her sobbing ceased and her eyes flared at Nero in defiance. “But I am still a virgin, and I’ve taken my own vows—never to be broken.”
Nero threw back his head and laughed. “If your vows aren’t broken, neither is your spirit, I’m happy to see. But, Octavia, you wanted me on our wedding night.”
“My flesh was weak that night, but I’ve been punished for my desires of the flesh.” She opened her robe to show the faint red marks of the scourges on her body.
Nero stared aghast at her thin, misused form, and reached out to touch the angry red mark across her breasts. She pulled away from him and closed her robe.
In a deadly voice, she ordered, “Don’t ever try to touch me again!”
So that was how it would be. She’d be his wife in name only. So be it. All that was left to do was explain the cover-up which he and Acte had arranged to protect her.
“Other than myself and Acte, no one knows that you’ve been out of this room since our wedding night. I suggest that you stay here a few days longer until your wounds heal. I wouldn’t like the rumor to spread among the slaves that I beat my bride.”
Octavia started to object, but Nero held up his hand for her silence.
“Have no fears. I won’t lay a finger on your precious, virgin body, much less try to invade your pristine womb. The couch will serve well enough as a pillow for my head.”
Octavia started at the sound of footsteps outside the room.
“There’s nothing to worry about. It’s only our morning meal.”
Rapture's Slave Page 25