Rapture's Slave

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  The entire royal family viewed the races that day. Nero, as usual, wagered all on the green faction and viewed the sandy oval through the green Egyptian glass previously given to him by the victorious charioteer.

  The races proved particularly bloody that day, a bad omen for Britannicus, some said. With a three-chariot collision on the fourth turn, the sand floor of the Circus became a scene of gore and mangled bodies both human and animal.

  Britannicus had to be carried away, so upset was he by the sight and smell of blood. His pristine sister accompanied him back to the palace to see to his well-being. Nero, in his excitement over the victory of his champion, hardly noticed their absence. He begged the emperor to allow him to present the prize and ws given the honor by a fatigued Claudius, who’d spent the long day nursing an excessive hangover.

  Outwardly calm, but inwardly turbulent, Agrippina watched with pride as her son made the award. She was glad Britannicus had fallen ill. On top of her worry at the new closeness between the boy and his father, word had reached her ears that the emperor planned to have a new coin struck with Britannicus’s profile on it. No such honor had been bestowed upon Nero. Why Britannicus?

  Agrippina, gowned in the usual purple and gold befitting the occasion, stared at her husband. His bald head lolled as his eyes closed in a moment of drowsing. There were lines of age about his once-aquiline nose, and his face looked pale and bloated. How many more years could he live? Not many, she thought, with his excesses of food and drink. But still, he might survive by sheer willpower long enough for Britannicus to truly come of age and be in line for the throne. An uneasy feeling crept into her heart.

  As if aware of Agrippina’s close scrutiny, the emperor raised his head and stared directly into her eyes. What he read there frightened him. He let his lids droop shut again against the harsh sunlight and the even harsher gleam in the eyes of his wife.

  The crowd cheered Nero and his victorious green faction. Agrippina smiled and waved a delicate hand holding a green scarf to the crowd.

  Her uneasiness left her. All Rome loved Nero. The time had come—the perfect time. How sick Claudius looked. Many must have commented on his state of poor health. His death would come as no shock to anyone.

  Agrippina beckoned to Nero. “Come sit beside me, son.”

  He did, and was rewarded by a loving arm about his shoulders.

  “You’ve done well, Nero. Today has been yours in spite of Britannicus. When the time comes—” She stopped to brush aside a stray lock of Nero’s bronze-gold hair.

  He looked up at her with a puzzled expression. “Yes, Mater?”

  “Never mind for now. Let me look at the bloody sand through your green glass.”

  Nero handed his eyeglass over to his mother, but his mind remained on her unfinished sentence. When the time came for what?

  The confrontation came that night. When Nero called for Acte, she refused to come to his chamber. Furious that she wouldn’t obey his command, Nero stormed into her room to find her in bed already drowsing.

  He tore the covers from her and glared down as she opened her eyes. “How dare you refuse me!”

  Trying to hold her temper, which had been smoldering within her since her meeting with Sergio, she answered, “I’m too tired tonight, Nero, if you don’t mind.”

  He stamped his foot like an outraged child. “I do mind!” Then, lifting his tunic, he showed her his swollen member. “Do you expect me to find sleep in this condition?”

  Acte turned away. “Go and call Dorph, or better still, pay a visit to your wife.”

  Nero couldn’t believe Acte’s words. Never before had she treated him so coldly. He dropped his tunic and stood in silence staring at her for a moment.

  “Acte, have I angered you in some way?” His voice trembled.

  She laughed without humor and sat up in bed. “No, Nero, no! I enjoy being the brunt of every dirty joke in the gutters of Rome. If only I were truly a slave again. Then at least I could say you forced me to be your mistress. Instead, I’m now known to one and all as ‘Nero’s private whore.’ Why shouldn’t I be pleased with that?” Then her tone softened. “You said you loved me. I believed you. I loved you in return.”

  Nero fell to his knees beside her bed and covered her hands with kisses. “Believe me, Acte, I do love you. What you’ve heard is only the prattle of louts. You can’t be touched by such gossip. You’re protected here in the palace. I promise to kill any man who speaks ill of you from this day forward—and any man who tries to take you from me.”

  Acte’s heart lurched at his last statement. There seemed an implied threat to someone in it. Could he know about Sergio? She prayed not. Acte tried to control the emotion of her words.

  “Have you ever thought, Nero, that I might want to marry someday? That the years of a mistress are short? What will I do when you no longer find me attractive—no longer love me?”

  Nero slid into the bed next to her. He toyed with her flesh, then said, “If you wish to be a wife, Acte, I’ll marry you, for truly, you are the only woman I could ever love. Promise me that you’ll never love another.”

  At Acte’s silence, Nero worked his hand underneath her night shift. She squirmed to dislodge his fingers, but he held her fast and probed deeper as he insisted, “Promise me, Acte!”

  She felt trapped, not only by Nero, but by her own divided heart and mind. Acte whispered, “I promise,” then gave in to his lust.

  Unsure what the hold was that Nero had over her, she couldn’t deny that it was there. Perhaps the words of the Sibyl were even now manipulating her against her will. She saw no path other than to accept her fate.

  Eleven

  Agrippina hurried down the palace corridor and pulled her dark woolen cloak more closely about her. She happened to spy Nero and Acte at a distance in a shadowed nook of the little-used hallway. Revulsion filled her. She saw them embrace and kiss with what she considered a disgusting display of unbridled passion. Had her mission not been so urgent, she would have interrupted them. But never mind for now, she thought. The time would come. Her son couldn’t be held captive forever by an ex-slave.

  Slipping out an almost forgotten exit, Agrippina found her closed litter waiting. Eto, her trusted eunuch, handed her inside and then hurriedly whispered instructions to the head litter bearer. Agrippina felt the conveyance move and relaxed. She would soon know the answer to her question. Time was running out. The sand in the hourglass had only a few grains left to sift.

  She thought back to the morning when she’d unexpectedly come upon Claudius and Britannicus. They hadn’t known she was there. Claudius’s words to the boy still rang in her ears: “Grow up quickly, my son, so that you may take my place. The weight of the Empire sets heavy on these old shoulders.”

  So Claudius had had a change of heart. Now Agrippina must act before Claudius had a chance to sway the Senate and the armies to Britannicus. They now backed Nero. But would these influential factions, who had no love for Claudius, uphold his wishes over hers out of respect for his position? She mustn’t allow them the opportunity to make such a decision.

  The litter halted abruptly, and Eto lifted the curtain. The light of his lantern flickered as a vicious gust of wind whipped about them.

  “We’ve arrived, my lady. Do you want me to accompany you or should I remain with the litter?”

  Holding her cloak against the wind, Agrippina answered, “Give me the lantern, Eto. I’ll do this alone.”

  Nero and Acte were sure they’d found a part of the palace which was theirs alone. The unseasonable cold had prematurely driven them indoors from their favorite place in the garden. Though they could have used one of their rooms, Nero enjoyed experiencing his love in varied surroundings. It was he who had found this spot.

  Nero positioned Acte in a concave nook in the wall where once a marble statue had stood. He spoke tenderly. “Who knows what great beauty inhabited this place in days of long ago? But now I have my ow
n work of Greek perfection to take its place. Surely no artisan ever carved such beauty out of cold stone.”

  Acte’s heart quickened at his words. He’d been most attentive since the night she’d refused him. She let him adjust her arms and body into the attitude which he envisioned of the long-gone statue. After moving her this way and that until he was satisfied, Nero stood back and stroked his chin.

  His face clouded. “Something isn’t right.” Then he brightened. “Aha! Your gown. Does Venus in the forum hide her beauty from us underneath a drape? No! Her creator sculpted the goddess with her wrapper cast over the limb of a tree, offering her graces freely to all.”

  Nero stepped forward and rearranged Acte’s drape, first baring one breast and then, shaking his head, the other. Still not satisfied with the effect, he unclasped Acte’s girdle and let the gown fall, exposing her entire form.

  He smiled. “Yes, that’s much better!”

  Nero caressed his work of art as if she were something he’d created from marble or clay. His gentle hands adjusted her arms, one close to her breast with her hand slightly outstretched to him, the other arm arched above her head as if she were stroking her own silken tresses. Then Nero’s hands slid down her legs, causing her flesh to quiver, to move one foot and leg slightly forward. Acte held her breath, trying to remain motionless. She could see that he was truly satisfied now as he stepped back and gazed at her. His eyes blazed blue.

  “Oh, Acte, if only you could see yourself. I’m not only a great poet and songster, but a sculptor of note as well. The gods be thanked, though, that I work in warm flesh rather than heartless stone. For what I have created, I want to love. And I’d know no response from a marble goddess.”

  “Nero,” Acte said with a slight shiver in her voice, “come add your form to mine. The chill wind makes me half believe that I am a cold marble statue. Make me know that I’m a woman of flesh—flesh that burns for your touch.”

  Slowly, Nero advanced toward her and touched her like an artist paying homage to a newly created masterpiece. Acte’s arms moved to encircle him, and their lips met.

  Nero pulled away and freed himself of his toga. “You aren’t a statue, Acte,” he said, “but a goddess, surely.”

  And then flesh met flesh, warming the nook.

  Agrippina held her lantern high as she entered the cave below the tombs on the Via Appia. Winding her way down the dark corridor, she could smell smoke. Then a fire came into view ahead. Several dark hooded figures stood about the flames which cast grotesque shadows on the blackened walls.

  One figure looked up, showing a lined and ancient visage above a pure-white beard that fell to his knees. His eyes seemed to glow from within as they caught the reflection of the firelight.

  “You’ve come, my lady.”

  Agrippina didn’t bother with formalities. “You have the answer to my question, soothsayer?”

  The fortune-teller didn’t blink when he replied, “I have answers to many questions, my lady. Some you wouldn’t be pleased to hear.”

  The choking smoke, and her urgent need to know and be away, told in Agrippina’s voice. She snapped, “Don’t tell me things that won’t help or comfort me. Only tell me what I asked. Will the feast of Augustus one week from now be an advantageous time to see my son made emperor?”

  Another bearded figure raised his head. He wore a conical cap silvered with stars and the phases of the moon. His voice fell hollow and thin on Agrippina’s ears. “I’ve studied the heavens. The stars are against you. The Feast of Augustus is an ominous time. You must wait or face disaster.”

  Agrippina looked in disappointment to the one with the glowing eyes. “Does this doomsayer speak the truth? Is it hopeless, then?”

  “The stars speak the truth, my lady. But there are many truths. And hopeless? I would be inclined to say no. A better word to describe the situation would be precarious.”

  Agrippina, once more taking hope, begged, “I don’t understand. If there is a way, then explain it to me, please.”

  “You will have only one hour in which to achieve your goal. It will begin at the stroke of noon on the thirteenth day of October. A minute before that hour or a fragment of a second after it, and your ruin will be inevitable.”

  Agrippina’s mind became a maelstrom of plans. She would need a slow-acting poison for her ring to be followed by a sure and sudden dose of a different sort. Locusta could do it. Yes, timing. So often timing had been her key to success.

  Handing over a pouch of gold to the ancient, she hurried back to her waiting litter. Her heart was lighter than it had been in months.

  The celebration of the Feast of Augustus threw the palace staff into a flurry of excitement and preparation. Five thousand of Rome’s elite would attend, and the most infinitesimal details needed to be worked out. How many millions of pearls would they need from the royal oyster beds to dissolve in how many thousands of gallons of vinegar to provide the royal aphrodisiac? How many live white doves for the emperor to free from the delicate pastry shell of the fowl pie when he sliced it open? How many hundreds of extra slave girls? And how many dwarves to act as jesters or however the guests desired their services? In addition to the stationary marble trough, how many extra portable vomitoriums would the thousands of guests require? The empress had requested that the emperor be allowed as many fresh mushrooms as he could eat that night. But how many was that?

  The details may have seemed trivial to some, but to Halotus, the royal chef, everything was of the utmost importance. No matter how minute, nothing went without his notice and approval. Besides wedding and funeral banquets, nothing could be as important to him as the feast of Augustus. And so when the day arrived, all was ready.

  Acte helped Octavia prepare for the banquet. She had to handle the usual barrage of intimate questions concerning her nights with Nero. With relief she retired to her own chamber to dress.

  Acte clasped on a golden butterfly brooch with mother-of-pearl wings which Nero had given her to celebrate the date. She stared at herself in her polished metal looking glass and saw that the corners of her mouth were drawn down. Nero wouldn’t be pleased by such a sad expression. Of all nights, she should be gay on this one. Though Nero tempted her with gifts and promises of greater things to come, the sound of the bubbling fountain and a picture of Sergio dipping his fingers in to trace the cool water over her flesh had become a recurring dream. But at least Sergio was far away now and she wouldn’t have to suffer the sight of him with another woman while she sat submissively beside Nero. Such a thought did little to lessen her depression. The night held about it an ominous feel, deeper than simple female jealousy or unrest.

  She sat at her couch stroking her hair with the ornately carved ivory comb, another gift from Nero. Her gaze fell on the silver viper coiled on the lid of the jar of cream Nero had brought her from Puteoli. Acte had never used its contents, having little need of Queen Cleopatra’s help in the course of her love affairs. She twisted the silver lid gently open in her hands and released an intoxicating fragrance. Without hesitation Acte dipped her fingertips into the creamy mixture and smoothed it over her hands, arms, neck and breasts. She dared go no farther for fear of the magical mixture’s untried effects.

  Readjusting her gown of topaz silk, Acte lay back against her pillows. She closed her eyes to inhald deeply. Cleopatra’s potion made her body tingle and gradually wiped the clouds from her mind. Her frown righted itself into a glowing smile. She would please Nero that night.

  Agrippina, too, had dressed carefully for the night’s banquet. She alone knew of the important event about to take place. Instead of her usual gleaming gold, she had chosen a pale-blue brocade gown of simple, almost demure, lines. Most of the guests, she knew, would come in their most extravagant and outlandish costumes. She smiled to herself, thinking how the frugal traditionalist Augustus would have detested this lavish celebration in his name.

  A sound at her chamber door made her turn. The emperor e
ntered, looking many years younger than his age. His purple-and-gold robes disguised his paunch, and Agrippina noticed that he had his face made up to hide some of the age lines. The golden laurel crown on his head nestled in a thatch of dark-brown hair not his own.

  Offering his arm, Claudius smiled at her. “Are you ready, my dear? Our guests are eager to begin their revels.”

  Agrippina smiled back and placed her slender hand upon his arm. There was a momentary deadly blue glow about her pearl ring.

  When the emperor and empress entered the triclinium, thousands rose to their feet and shouted in deafening adulation, “Hail Caesar! Hail Augustus! Hail Caesar!”

  Agrippina continued to smile. Her eyes cast about the crowd, and she spotted Nero flanked by Octavia and Acte. Seated with them were Britannicus; the emperor’s married daughter, Antonia, and her husband, Sulla; along with that despicable pair Marcus Otho and Poppaea Sabina. What Nero saw in either the perverted Otho or the whorish Poppaea was beyond Agrippina. But it didn’t matter now. What was important was that all of Claudius’s children were gathered for her special surprise.

  Acte’s conspicious clinging to Nero hadn’t failed to attract Agrippina’s attention. For an instant the eyes of the two women in Nero’s life met, exchanging hate for hate. Then Acte turned away, once more nuzzling the sensitive spot on Nero’s neck. Her tongue flicked out to further titillate him as her hand crept beneath his dinner robe of silk.

  Acte knew her behavior was being noticed and whispered about, but she couldn’t control her actions. It seemed she was made to love and be loved. The fact that thousands of eyes looked on while tongues wagged made no difference.