Rapture's Slave

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “The watchword for this night is ‘The Best of Mothers.’”

  Twelve

  In the months after Claudius’s funeral, changes were made at the palace. Agrippina ordered Pallas to refurbish the old emperor’s quarters for Nero. Agrippina vacated her adjoining suite, hoping that Octavia would take up residence there. But Octavia declined the offer, saying she was quite comfortable where she was. Agrippina knew that Octavia meant to keep as much distance between herself and her husband as she could. To Agrippina’s horror, Nero installed Acte in the empress’s suite.

  Agrippina chose her own quarters carefully. Now that she was once more a widow and no longer empress, she had no reason to hide her passion for the handsome treasurer, Pallas. Her new chambers were adjacent to his. Though still discreet, they enjoyed the new arrangement fully.

  Nero soon found that he had little to do as emperor. His mother made all decisions for him, while Seneca put the proper words in his mouth on every occasion. Not given to luxurious idleness, Nero now felt free to apply himself to the two things he loved most in the world—Acte and the arts.

  The busy Agrippina took no notice at first of Nero’s daily sessions with Terpnus, the music master. Under his tutelage Nero mastered the fipple flute and the lyre, and began to develop his voice and acting talents.

  It wasn’t until one particularly balmy spring afternoon that Agrippina’s attention was drawn to Nero’s revived hobby. Searching him out to deliver a new speech from Seneca, Agrippina stopped and stared agape at the scene in the garden.

  Amid the backdrop of lupine and stately cypresses, Nero sat cross-legged on a marble bench with the robed musician, Terpnus, at his side. Nero coaxed sweet trills from his flute while Terpnus accompanied him on lyre. Acte danced before them, looking more Nereid than human as the swirling motion of her dance and the spring breeze fluttered her short, transparent drape about her lithe form.

  “Nero, I would like a word with you.” Agrippina’s stern voice stopped the music and left Acte poised in mid-dance.

  Nero excused himself and joined his mother on the terrace. Her look was like the thunderclouds of Jupiter.

  “Is this the proper way for the Emperor of Rome to spend his days?” she scolded.

  “There’s no harm in it, Mater. The sound of music is gentler on the ear than the clash of swords in battle.”

  Her expression didn’t change as she warned, “Better that the Roman Empire should lose its leader in battle than have him give in to such frivolous vices.”

  Nero drew himself up to full height, eye level with his enraged mother. He flared, “You don’t allow me to rule. Our territories are at peace. What do you want me to do? Spend the gold that Pallas hordes so carefully on lavish banquets for the rabble of Rome?” Then, squinting with sudden realization, he accused, “Or is it Pallas who guards the royal treasury so closely? Do you rule him with your body the way you do me with your mind?”

  “That’s none of your affair, Nero. My life is my own business. But you are the emperor. There are things which you can do and things which you can’t.”

  The time seemed right then for Nero to bring up the subject he’d wanted to discuss with his mother for some time.

  “I, too, have a life of my own, Mater. For instance, I intend to divorce Octavia for barrenness and marry Acte.”

  So, Agrippina thought, her son hadn’t given up his silly notion of marrying the girl. The problem of music seemed infinitesimal beside this plan of Nero’s.

  “Has the hot sun affected your brain, Nero? The people would never allow you to divorce Octavia! Nor could the emperor take a freedwoman as his wife.”

  “‘The people’ aren’t married to that virgin bitch! I’m the one who has to suffer her rages and her silences, along with her humiliating contempt.”

  Agrippina stroked his arm and replied in a sugared voice, “But, Nero, doesn’t Acte provide all that you could desire in the way of love, and with Octavia’s full approval? What more could any man ask?”

  Nero’s voice rose in anger. “I could ask—no, I could demand that Acte be my wife, so that I might have her with me always. So that her children would be my legal heirs!”

  Agrippina’s hand went to her throat, and she gasped, “Children? You aren’t telling me that Acte is carrying your child?”

  Nero laughed sardonically. “I wish she were! I’m beginning to think that I may be incapable of impregnating any woman.”

  Agrippina let out her breath in relief. “Have no fear of that, Nero. Acte’s probably wiser than you know in these matters. Women have certain ways to avoid conceiving unwanted children. Perhaps she doesn’t want to mother your offspring.”

  The comment was meant to hurt. It did. Nero turned away from Agrippina and rejoined Acte and Terpnus in the garden.

  Taking Acte by the arm, he ordered, “Come with me!”

  She followed meekly, surprised by the furious tone in his voice, wondering what she’d done to anger him.

  When they reached the privacy of his chamber, Nero shoved Acte roughly onto the bed and stood glowering down at her thinly clad form.

  “How long has it been, Acte?” he raged at her.

  Acte squirmed under his blazing eyes, not understanding his question.

  He seized her wrists roughly. “How long has it been since we were first together in the garden?”

  Acte thought for a moment, calculating the years, before she answered. “That was the time of your betrothal to Octavia. So we’ve been together over five years. And they’ve been good years, haven’t they, Nero?” she asked hesitantly.

  Nero’s accusing expression didn’t change. “Over five years, and still I have no son. What’s your explanation for that? Have you been turning away my seed with some secret potion or incantation?”

  Acte looked down, afraid to meet Nero’s eyes. “Yes,” she said softly.

  He grasped her shoulders and shook her. “Why? Why, in the name of Jupiter, don’t you want my child?”

  Tears streamed down Acte’s face. Nero could never be told the true reason for the potion she’d accepted so long ago from Fortuna—he must never know of the child he’d fathered, but she’d lost. She calmed herself.

  “Nero, I would love your child more than anything in this world. But think about it. Should we have a child and then Octavia also give you an heir—a true heir with royal blood—our son would be killed. Could you live with that? I couldn’t! Better that a child should never be conceived than be born, cherished and then destroyed.”

  Nero’s voice was incredulous. “But how could you imagine that I would ever have a child with Octavia? I have yet to touch her!”

  Acte’s voice remained quiet. “You’re still young, Nero. Someday there may be another woman in your life. A woman fit to be your empress, who’ll give you proper heirs.”

  Seeing the tears in her eyes once more, Nero softened and knelt beside the bed. “Never, Acte, never,” he whispered, laying his head in her lap. “You are my one and only love.”

  She fingered the bright curls about his forehead and caressed his face and neck. In moments he rose, shed his tunic, and took his place beside her on the bed. Acte felt his gentle hands beneath her dancing drape, and began to respond.

  At the moment she most needed him, Nero suddenly stopped and asked, “This potion, have you taken it today?”

  Her voice came in a soft gasp. “No, Nero, no! I hadn’t expected to be with you until tonight.”

  Kissing her lips, her neck, her breasts, Nero whispered, “Good. Then we’ll make a son.”

  Acte settled into her role as the emperor’s official mistress, considering it fate. A few days after Nero’s plea for a son, a letter came from Pompeii—from Sergio. She had completely forgotten that with Claudius’s death, Sergio was now truly a free man, no longer imprisoned by the arena.

  Her heart pounded as she read:

  My dearest love, Acte,

  I’m com
ing for you! I’ll be in Rome in a few weeks to steal you away from your palace-prison. I’ve made plans carefully so that we’ll be out of the reach of those who might wish to harm us. If love lives anywhere in this world, then surely it lives within the two of us. I long for the moment my arms can hold you once again.

  Yours forever,

  Sergio

  On reading the letter, Acte knew at last where her heart lay. She worked at hiding her joy from Nero.

  Though Nero had made his vow of eternal love for Acte with great conviction at the time, Acte’s prediction of another woman in his life came sooner than either of them could have imagined.

  While Acte still awaited further word from Sergio, Otho and Poppaea reappeared at the palace after a short absence.

  Nero hailed Otho as he saw him enter the banquet hall with a beaming Poppaea on his arm. The pair had come to pay their respects.

  Otho bowed deeply and offered Poppaea’s hand to Nero to receive his kiss. “May I present my wife, Caesar.”

  Nero’s lips hovered over the hand of Poppaea, as creamy as the donkey’s milk in which she bathed.

  “Your wife? Surely, you’re joking! I’ve been taken in by your fabrications before, but the great Otho married? Never!”

  Poppaea, her voice like honey in warm wine, answered, “Otho speaks the truth, my lord. We’ve been man and wife for just a week. This is the first time since that we’ve stirred from our bed. And we did so this evening only to honor you, Caesar.”

  Nero stared into the perfect face before him. “I believe it now. Such wondrous lips couldn’t lie.”

  So saying, he pulled Poppaea to him and covered her ripe lips with his, tasting her mouth for the first intoxicating time.

  “Come! The bride and groom must sit at the emperor’s table. I want to shower my two best friends with honor on this special occasion.”

  Nero positioned Otho and Poppaea as he wished them, ordering Acte and Octavia down the table so that his guests could sit one on either side of him. All night he gloried in Poppaea’s scintillating conversation and beauty. To compensate for his nervousness at being so near her, Nero drank goblet after goblet of wine. This only resulted in a growing pain in his loins.

  After Nero had well fortified himself, he slapped Otho on the back and blurted out, “My old friend, do you remember the first night we met?”

  Otho, with a gleam in his eye, whispered, “Could I ever forget it? You were mine before you ever knew a woman’s touch.”

  “Ah, but I’ve known it since and grown quite fond of it. Stellana taught me much about the ways of a woman. I wager I could show your new wife more pleasure than you’ve yet provided.”

  Poppaea laughed aloud at the proposition. “Oh, Nero, you’d have to go a long way to accomplish that feat. Otho’s the finest lover I’ve ever known.”

  Nero’s eyes gleamed now with lust as he turned to Poppaea and touched her pale breast above the green silk of her gown.

  “But, my dear lady, have you ever been bedded by an emperor?”

  She laughed once more and tossed her flaming hair. “I must admit, that’s an honor I’ve been denied.”

  “Until tonight,” Nero was quick to add.

  Otho was becoming uncomfortable with the tone of sincerity the conversation had taken on.

  “Nero, surely you don’t mean to suggest—”

  Nero cut Otho off. “You promised me on that first night that you would give me anything I ever asked for. All I wish is a simple test of male prowess with your wife. For who else could judge who is the better lover?”

  Giddy with wine, Poppaea urged Nero on. “Come now, Otho. Surely you’re not jealous. You know I’ve known many men, some even my husbands. This is merely a test. Let the emperor show me what he has to offer and allow me the one pleasure I’ve never experienced. Then I can tell our grandchildren that I once slept with an emperor, but that my dear Otho proved a superior lover.”

  Nero, now with his hand inside the green silk, followed up the challenge. “Of course, Otho, if you’re afraid to pit your manliness against mine, we’ll understand.”

  No more needed to be said. Otho placed a purse of gold before Nero.

  “Very well! This is my wager, and my wife will be the judge. I’ll come for her tomorrow.”

  As Otho left the banquet table, Nero called after him, “Don’t make it too early tomorrow. I’m at my best in the morning.”

  Nero leaned forward with a smile of triumph and exposed Poppaea’s erect nipple.

  “Stay there. I have a few preparations to make before the contest begins, my dear.”

  Poppaea’s green eyes fairly danced when she answered, “I’m at my emperor’s command.”

  Nero chuckled, “So you are, my beauty, so you are!”

  Acte left the banquet hall discreetly. At last the time she’d envisioned for so long had come. Nero’s lust for the fabulous Poppaea Sabina was still obvious. They were well suited. Her conquests were legend in Rome. She drove men mad, then left them broken and unable to love any other.

  Acte didn’t go to her chamber, for surely that would be too near the site where Nero and Poppaea meant to hold their “contest.” Instead, she went out into the garden, to the arbor where she had first known Nero’s love. There, secretly, she let her heart and mind reach out to Sergio. Soon he would free her. Perhaps Poppaea would unwittingly ease her path to happiness.

  In his previous wanderings about the unused portions of the rambling palace, Nero had discovered a room unlike any other he’d ever seen. Some lusty emperor long dead had fitted it out for the sole service of his erotic pleasure. The chamber contained no bed, but on the floor there were plush oriental carpets and soft piHows of satin. The walls and low ceiling were plated with metal, which Nero had had polished, meaning to surprise Acte. He chuckled to himself as he gave the room a final inspection before leading his prize, Poppaea, to the place. He’d never dreamed he’d have her in any surroundings, much less this private pleasure chamber.

  Satisfied that all was ready, Nero ordered a mute slave to bring refreshments there and stand guard outside once he returned.

  As Nero led his lady down the dark and winding corridor, Poppaea’s laugh echoed in the emptiness.

  “Where are you taking me, Nero? I’ve never seen this part of the palace before. Is this where you keep your prisoners locked away?”

  Nero let his hand slide down her back to feel her well-formed buttocks. “Only my prisoners of love, fair lady,” he answered.

  When he opened the door, Poppaea caught her breath. Lamps burning perfumed oil were reflected into infinity on the walls. The vibrant colors of the oriental carpets were picked up and magnified by the lounging pillows.

  Then Poppaea spied the swing. It hung from twin golden robes suspended from the ceiling. The soft cushioned seat could easily accommodate two. She climbed into it and kicked off her soft slippers, moving her body back and forth to set the swing in motion. As she flew higher and higher, her filmy gown fluttered up to expose her knees and finally her rounded thighs. Nero glimpsed the golden hair between her legs. Waiting for the exact moment, he grasped her ankles as the swing came toward him and half pulled her to the floor. She clung to the golden ropes and struggled against him in giggling battle until her gown slipped from her shoulders.

  At last, he won. She lost her hold on the ropes and fell into a pile of pillows, her gown disarrayed about her. Nero flung himself down beside her and offered her a goblet of wine flavored with satyrion, though he doubted that Poppaea’s high spirits needed any awakening. Still, it couldn’t hurt, and might help his wager.

  He sipped his wine and gazed into her laughing eyes. Then he slipped the already loosened strap of her gown down to free her thrusting breasts. Starting at the tip, Nero made ever enlarging circles with his finger around the nipple and watched it rise.

  “You know, Poppaea, that swing is meant for other purposes.”

  She looked
at him, half laughing, half serious. “Really? Tell me, Nero.”

  He answered just before his lips met hers, “I’ll show you in time. Let’s not rush our pleasure.”

  Nero pressed Poppaea against the silken pillows and easily removed her gown, while he continued to kiss her lips. The room was quiet except for heavy breathing. When at last he raised his face from hers, her red-gold hair was spread about the purple pillow like a peacock’s fan and her wondrous body lay naked before his eyes.

  Poppaea’s eyes were not on him, but staring up at the low, reflecting ceiling and her image there. Her words came matter-of-factly. “I’ve never seen myself from this direction. Now I understand why men go so insane for me. I’m quite the loveliest creature I’ve ever seen.”

  Then, still staring at her reflection, she ordered, “Undress, Nero. I want to watch myself being made love to by the emperor.”

  Nero was more than willing to comply with her demands. He divested himself quickly and was ready to fall on her when she stopped him.

  “Wait! What about the wager? You can’t just take me. You must love me better than my Otho, and that will take some effort. Kiss me.”

  Nero lunged for the pillow beside her and pressed his lips once more to hers. She pushed him away.

  “No! No! Kiss me all over. You may start with my feet. I think it might be amusing to watch the emperor kiss my feet.” She wriggled her toes with pleasure.

  Nero did as instructed, giving attention to every part of her lower body until he neared the place he longed to be. When he grasped the fine gold tuft in his fingers, he was once more interrupted.

  “That’s enough. Now start over with my lips and work your way down.”

  In his anxiety to reach the meeting point between north and south, Nero didn’t spend as much time as he would have liked over the tempting bulk of her breasts.

  Poppaea protested. “You move on so quickly, Nero. How do you expect to satisfy me if you aren’t willing to give me the attention I desire?”