While Acte knew that her Eastern darkness gave her an exotic look which Nero said he preferred over the fairer skin and lighter hair of Roman women, she noted the look in her lover’s blue eyes as he gazed at Poppaea’s red-gold hair and her great green eyes. That creamy skin, Acte had heard, was accomplished by Poppaea’s regular bathing in the milk of asses. Her father was said to own and maintain several hundred of the beasts for the sole purpose of his daughter’s beauty treatments. Whatever the treatment, its result was perfection.
Acte’s face burned with jealousy as she noted her rival’s golden gown and emerald necklace. The stones matched in color, but not in brilliance, the depth of Poppaea’s eyes. Acte’s gaze traveled down the white column of the older woman’s neck to the alluring decolletage exposing large, pale breasts—inviting, enticing her lover.
Easing down the shoulder straps of her own lavender gown, Acte drew in her breath to expand her chest and then touched Nero’s arm.
In deep conversation with Otho and Poppaea, Nero ignored her touch until she blew on the back of his neck and whispered, “Nero.”
As he turned, his eyes fastened on exactly the spot she had hoped they would. She let her hand glide under the table to rest on his thigh.
He stared at her questioningly. Acte let the pink tip of her tongue glide over her full lips before she spoke.
“Nero, love, it’s been a long day.” Then, sucking in her breath once more and thrusting her breasts up and out until dark buds peeked out from beneath the fabric of her gown, she coaxed, “I thought I might retire to my bed—unless you need my services.”
Nero glanced back uncertainly at Otho and Poppaea, but saw that he had been forgotten by the pair, who were now locked in an embrace, the rest of the world gone from their memory. A sharp pain stabbed his chest. He looked back at Acte and smiled.
Taking the small, soft hand which lay on his leg, he brought it to his lips and whispered, “My bed awaits us, my love. Go. I’ll join you as soon as my wife retires from the banquet. It shouldn’t be long.”
Acte smiled into his eyes. She rose and excused herself from the table, throwing Nero a special glance as she departed from the company.
At almost the same instant, Otho and Poppaea said their hasty goodnights, anxious to be together in private, their fires kindled, Nero knew, beyond public decency.
He was left alone at the table with Octavia and Britannicus. Through the long evening, Octavia had spoken to no one other than her brother. He waited. But Octavia held her place, as did Britannicus. Would she never retire? Nero yawned, hoping to bring about the same response in his wife. But still she sat—bored, silent, oblivious to all.
“Octavia!” Nero’s voice was louder than he’d intended, and several of the guests looked in his direction.
Octavia turned her stony gaze on him, but said nothing.
With an exasperated sigh, Nero tried again. “Octavia, don’t you think it’s time you saw Britannicus to his bed? This has been a trying night for him. He should get his rest, and so should you.”
Her voice was as colorless as her face and gown. “How unexpectedly solicitous of you, Nero. Very well. I’ve held you at the table long enough. I was ready for sleep hours ago, but I thought it interesting to see how long you could stand seeing your friend Otho and that indecent woman and still keep your wits about you. Poor Acte. She’ll have more than her share to handle tonight, I’m afraid.”
Then, turning from Nero, she nudged Britannicus, who had nodded off at his place. She took her brother’s hand and the three of them departed the triclinium together for the purpose of appearances. To those who watched their exit, it would be imagined that Nero and his young wife were off to their chambers together. Even the emperor didn’t know that at nightfall they went their separate ways.
The thought of Acte waiting spurred Nero’s step once he’d seen Octavia and Britannicus to their rooms.
He spoke softly to himself as he neared the room where she would be. “I’m coming, Acte, my love. How sweet and unspoiled you are—not like that painted and perfumed harlot Otho’s chosen to pay court to. Thank Jupiter and Venus, you’ve remained your own sweet self!”
As Nero entered the dimly lit chamber, the scent of heavy perfumes met his nostrils. He coughed as the fumes of incense filled his throat. Then he saw her—Acte. Or was it Acte?
With a lamp casting light from behind her, her shapely form was clearly visible through the transparent wrapper she wore. She glided toward him like a ghost, from light to dark to light, as she passed by the lamps. And then a mask appeared before him, only to obliterate his sight an instant later as greased lips smothered his and slid about in an unnatural kiss. When she released her hold on him, Nero held her at arms’ length and stared aghast at Acte.
Her long raven hair, which he longed to feel about him when they made love, was piled into a towering imitation of the fashion of the Roman ladies of the court. Jewels and feathers were interwoven, making it look as if some half-crazed architect had let his demented imagination run away with his senses.
The darkly beautiful innocence of Acte’s face loomed chalk-white before him under layers of powder. Dark kohl smeared her eyelids, and her eyes stood out from the black lines drawn around them. The unfamiliar lips which a moment ago had slithered over his were now a smear of bright red. She opened her robe and swayed her naked body invitingly.
Nero stood immobilized by shock. Was this his Acte? His first reaction was to laugh, but this was quickly supplanted by a deep, rumbling rage. How dare she spoil herself this way? He wouldn’t have it!
Before he could react, she spoke. “Nero, do I please you now? Do I look more like the Lady Poppaea?”
At the mention of the name, Nero’s rage surged to the surface. He grabbed the surprised Acte by her lofty headdress, dragged her kicking and protesting form to the pool and tossed her in, wrapper and all.
She came up sputtering with anger. “How dare you? You have no right to treat me so cruelly. I’m no one’s slave any more!”
“Then have you decided to turn prostitute?” he demanded. “That’s what you look like in your powder and fancy paint. If I want a whore, I’ll go out and buy one! Now clean away that false face, if you want to have pleasure with me tonight!”
Acte spat angry words at him. “You weren’t so displeased with the powder and paint of Poppaea Sabina. I only wished to please you—to look like the grand lady she is.” Her voice became sad. “I only wanted you to love me more, Nero.”
Now she was crying, the black makeup from her eyes streaking down her powdered face to rim with the scarlet of her painted lips. Nero looked at her—a tiny clown foundering under an enormous and unsteady headdress. He smiled and reached out for her hand.
As they touched, he spoke to her softly and lifted her chin with one finger. “I couldn’t love you more, Acte. Look at the walls. Does the maid there wear pearls in her hair? Is her face painted into a mask? No. She’s natural. She is you.” Then, pointing to the final panel of the mural, he said, “Aren’t they happy, natural lovers? Aren’t they much like you and me? Our love can’t be deepened by false masks and imitation of others. I love you, Acte, not some painted exaggeration of the real you. Now wipe away that face of a stranger and let your hair down. Then come to me.”
Nero used the edge of his dinner robe to dry her tears, removing some of the makeup in the process. She smiled at him. Her eyes followed him as he left the bath so she could be alone to undo what she had so painstakingly done hoping to please him. What a fool she’d been!
When she crept into his chamber, he was waiting. Acte came to the bed wrapped in a towel with golden tassels on the ends. She stood pensively staring at her reclining lover—waiting for some word, some signal from him that all was well.
Nero sat up, lifted the oil lamp from its gold-and-marble stand beside the bed, and brought it close to examine Acte’s face. Then, smiling, he returned the lamp to its place. He took the to
wel by one of its tassels and slowly unwound it from her body. She stood shivering slightly as his blue eyes studied her. He reached out to tenderly brush aside a long strand of dark hair which covered one breast. His slight touch sent a tingle through her body.
“Come now, Acte. Come to your Nero.”
Acte nestled her body next to him and felt his warmth. A flood of relief overcame her. Nero took her in his arms and showed her great tenderness as he loved her well—proving his words to her.
Finally, they lay spent in each other’s arms. Nero kissed her bare shoulder.
“I’il always love you, my Acte,” he whispered. “But you should never try to be like other women. They can’t compare to you. Always be as you were the first day I saw you—a winsome, spirited woman as natural as the first flower of spring. Then I’ll love you more than any other.”
As she felt his flesh against her, she closed her eyes and prayed silently, Please, Venus, let him love me always. Without him I am nothing.
For the next few days Acte didn’t see Nero. She heard rumors among the slaves that the young lord and Marcus Otho were whoring about the town. When she was summoned on a bright morning to a waiting litter, she supposed Nero at last wished her company.
With a flutter of excitement she dressed hurriedly in a simple gown of summer green and took special care to brush her hair until it glowed.
Her sandaled feet fairly flew down the stairs to the curtained litter which awaited her. It wasn’t from the royal household—probably one belonging to Otho, she thought. A slave parted the curtain and handed her in. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness inside. Then she caught her breath as a strong arm circled her shoulders and pulled her close to a male body—not Nero’s.
Acte struggled in her surprise, but found herself locked in a viselike embrace. Familiar lips covered hers and sent flames coursing through her blood. When he released her at last, she breathed his name. “Sergio!”
For long moments he didn’t speak, but held her cheeks tightly between his hands, forcing her to meet his steely gaze.
When his answer came it was touched with hurt disapproval. “I came to the palace today to kidnap the Lord Nero’s mistress—to punish you both as I’ve been punished since I first heard this awful rumor. But now—having you near—”
Acte covered Sergio’s hands with her own and tried to keep her voice calm. “Sergio, this is madness. Do you know what would happen to you if you dared to take me away?”
After meeting her lips once more with his, he whispered, “That doesn’t matter. I won’t let him use you.”
Acte gave up trying to reason with the great gladiator as she lay in his arms while the litter swayed through the crowded streets of Rome. Her thoughts spun in her head. What if Nero returned to the palace to call for her and she wasn’t there? How could she explain her absence from her prison of luxury? And how had Sergio found out of her liaison with Nero? At last Sergio’s searching hands and lips washed all other thoughts from her mind. Wherever he was taking her, she would go—gladly. She had no power over her heart, and surely Sergio owned a part of it.
The litter came to a halt, and Sergio helped Acte out. She gazed in surprise at a modest, but handsome, villa, then looked at Sergio questioningly.
He waved his arms in an expansive gesture and said with pride, “This is mine—a gift from the emperor for my victories in the south. Come. Let me show you.”
As they entered the atrium, Acte heard the cool bubbling of a fountain. She looked about at the painted murals on the walls and the intricate mosaics of the floors. A slave appeared with a silver tray of refreshments for them. Sergio led her to a soft couch near the fountain. They sat side by side as he poured wine into two silver goblets.
“Well, what do you think? Could you be happy in a place like this after your extravagant quarters at the palace?” He dipped his hand into the fountain and traced a cool damp line down Acte’s arm.
Acte shivered with pleasure. “It’s beautiful, Sergio. I don’t know what to say. What woman couldn’t be happy with the right man to love in such surroundings?”
His face glowed with a new light. “Then you’re giving me my answer at last?”
Before he could sweep her into his arms once more, Acte’s words stopped him. “Sergio, no. Now more than ever before, it’s impossible. You called me what I am—Nero’s mistress. He would never let me go.”
“That can’t be! The emperor himself offered you to me. Are you telling me that Nero holds more power than the ruler of the entire Roman Empire?” Then his handsome face clouded. “Or are you saying that you prefer to be Nero’s love-slave to being the wife of a freedman?”
Acte could find no words. Torment raged through her. Could she love two men so much? And what of the Sibyl? Then the truth forced itself into her mind, and she said it to Sergio.
“I’ll confess to you now for the first time that I love you, truly I do. But I’ve loved Nero since I was only a child. He was described to me by an oracle many years ago as the one who should be my love.” She tried to hold back her tears as she forced herself on with what she knew she had to say. “Nero and I have been lovers—since before his wife gave me to him. I could love you, Sergio, and be happy with you forever. But you couldn’t escape Nero’s wrath if I consented to marry you. His power is far-reaching. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you on my account. Let things be as they are. We have this moment.”
Numbed by her confession of love for him and her rejection in the next breath, Sergio buried his face between her breasts. Acte sighed at the impossibility of the love between them. Sergio, encouraged, slipped her gown from her shoulders and let his lips seek her nipple, grown hard now with desire.
Her voice came half-choked. “No, Sergio. We mustn’t.”
With something between anger and passion in his tone, he replied, “Do you think I fear Nero or any man? Now that you’ve told me that you love me I’ll fight legions for you. As you said, we have this moment, and I must have you!” He guided her hand to his throbbing manhood. “Feel the swelling of my love and need for you.” Through gritted teeth he moaned, “Let Nero find a home in Hades. I’ll find mine in Acte.”
Acte found herself suddenly paralyzed by her own needs. She lay back on the brocade couch and let her mind block out the rest of the world. Everything and everyone were gone. Only Sergio remained—Sergio with his stroking fingers, his probing tongue and lips, his loving hardness next to her own willing body. Then he entered her slowly, letting her feel flames lap like waves within her. He rode her as if she were made to fit him by the gods. As her sighs turned to moans, his lips reached again for her breasts, and he sucked and caressed each in its turn. At the very moment that she felt his warmth surge within her, her own body gave itself up to total pleasure.
When they parted, he cooled her with water from the fountain, arousing her anew. But their time was up. Reluctantly, Sergio rose from their couch of love.
“I must take you back now. Though every nerve in my body protests at the thought of letting you go, I won’t put you in jeopardy by keeping you away too long.”
Acte felt a wave of disappointment. She’d half hoped he really intended to kidnap her and keep her as his prisoner of love.
As the litter carried them away from Sergio’s villa, Acte asked, “How did you learn that Nero had installed me as his mistress?”
Sergio answered with a sneer of contempt, “All of Rome knows. Your most gracious lord has advertised your prowess as a lover through all the brothels of the city and bragged that his wife picked you for him. When I heard it from his drunken lips, I would have cut his royal tongue from his head on the spot if four of my fellow gladiators hadn’t restrained me.”
Acte lowered her eyes, her cheeks reddening. “He said it was our secret. I trusted him.”
Sergio’s laugh held no humor. “Don’t trust him, my love. He makes cruel sport of you while using your body for his pleasure.”
When Acte began to cry, Sergio knew he’d said too much. He put his arm around her and changed the subject. “Take heart, little one. We’ll be together someday. I promise. I’ll take you away from Rome—back to Greece. I’ve heard that I still have kinsmen there.”
Acte looked up at him, Nero forgotten for the moment. “You’re Greek? I never knew that.”
He nodded. “I’ve never seen the mother soil, but my father was a Greek seaman, I’ve been told. My mother was taken into slavery at an early age. I only wish that she’d lived to see her only son a freedman. It was her dream for me. I don’t know what became of my father after he sailed away, but my mother gave me the names of his family. Surely someone must be left. When I receive the rudis, the wooden sword, on my retirement from the arena, there’ll be nothing to bind us to Rome. I’ll take you with me to Greece, that glorious land.” He finished with a sigh, dreaming of the day.
A short time later the litter stopped at the palace steps. Acte touched her lips to Sergio’s. “I would fly away with you this minute if we were free. But we wear the shackles of obligation more tightly than any slaves.”
As she turned to run up the palace steps, Sergio’s words followed her. “The day will come, I promise.”
Acte’s heart pounded. She hoped Nero would stay away for a time. She didn’t dare face him at the moment for fear of what she might say to him.
The celebration on the day of Britannicus’s coming of age seemed dull in comparison to Nero’s. Since Britannicus had only recently arisen from his sickbed, he made no speech before the Senate. And rather than leading the parade of the Praetorians through Rome triumphantly on horseback as Nero had, he was carried in an open litter, waving shyly to the masses.
The crowds cheered him, but not as they had cheered Nero. No wild excitement gripped the onlookers. Whispered voices could be heard everywhere: “Is this to be the next Caesar? How can one so young, who can’t even control the functions of his own body, ever hope to control all of the Roman Empire? Give us Nero! Britannicus won’t live out the year.”
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