The knife of Nero’s words stabbed Acte’s heart. Her son raised by that woman? Never! The very thought sickened her.
Her voice was low when she answered, “No, Nero, you misunderstood. You have no son.”
He released her and looked at her with pained disappointment in his eyes. “But you said—”
“You didn’t let me finish. You have no son, but it’s not your fault. You once planted a seed which grew. Do you remember your trip to Puteoli? I was carrying your child then. I didn’t tell you because of your betrothal to Octavia. I’d planned to tell you as soon as you returned from the trip, but while you were away, I lost the baby. My body was too young to bring him to full term. But you’re not incapable of fathering a son. That’s all I was trying to tell you.”
Nero turned from Acte and gazed out the window at the passing landscape. The rest of the trip was silent.
In spite of Nero’s changed mood and her own depressed spirits, Acte felt excitement as their carriage neared the great archway over the entrance to the villa where she’d been raised—where her mother, Sophia, had been loved by the Emperor Claudius and had given Acte birth.
The sun cast a blinding light on the white walls, and a shimmering wave of heat made the bay seem to dance before her eyes.
Here, too, she thought, I first met Sergio. Her mind went back to the young girl who had tended the wounded gladiator, and her heart swelled with love and longing.
Before the carriage halted, Octavia came rushing to greet her friend. As a slave handed Acte out, Octavia ran into her arms. They wept happy tears together. It had been so long, it seemed.
Taking Acte by the arm, Octavia led her into the villa through the atrium and then onto the terrace overlooking the jewel-like bay. Garlands and flowers adorned the columns and tables.
Though Octavia kept up a steady stream of happy chatter, Acte was shocked by her appearance. She seemed to have aged many years in the past few months. Seeing the two together, one would never have guessed they were born on the same day. Octavia’s pale complexion had gone gray, her eyes shadowed by dark circles. Her hair lay limp and lusterless about her shoulders, and bones protruded through her translucent skin where flesh had been only a few months before. Acte thought that Octavia looked exactly like what she was, an aging virgin withering away from lack of love.
In contrast to his sister’s wilted looks, Britannicus appeared more fit than Acte had ever seen him. After a few weeks on the seashore, he was bronzed by the sun and his strange eyes seemed to sparkle with a new light of assurance. He looked more man than boy. Spying Acte, he came forward to take her hand and place a kiss there. Acte greeted him and smiled with sincere warmth.
While many of the young men of the best families of Rome gathered in the garden for a lively game of ball, Nero took his seat of honor to observe. Acte and Octavia strolled through the gardens for a private chat.
“Octavia, I’ve never seen Britannicus look better. It is a wonder.”
Smiling weakly, Octavia replied, “That it is. But I fear his recovery has brought about my own decline.”
“What do you mean?”
Acte noticed the beginning of tears in Octavia’s eyes as she spoke. “I’m a very selfish woman. Since Father’s death, Britannicus has occupied my whole mind and time. Now that he no longer needs me, I have nothing—no one.”
Picking a pink rose and placing it in Octavia’s hair, Acte replied slyly, “You have a husband. Why don’t you fight for him?”
A dry laugh broke from Octavia’s lips. “A husband? You, better than anyone, Acte, know that I’ve never had a husband.”
“But why not play the part? Seduce him, if you must. Wouldn’t it be worth the price of your precious chastity to see that whore Poppaea thrown out of the palace?”
Octavia gazed steadily at Acte. “I would do anything to be rid of her. She’s a demon straight from Hades who makes life miserable for everyone, including Nero. If I thought I could, I’d gladly give up my maidenhead to have her gone. But Nero has thought of me as just a fixture about the palace for so long that I’d have little chance of capturing his attention, much less his love. No, it’s too late for that, Acte.”
“Then why not take a lover, Octavia?”
A smile spread over her thin lips. She giggled, “Don’t think I haven’t thought of that. But who would have me? No, Acte, Britannicus has been my whole life, and now I’m losing him. Agrippina has been very kind to me, though. I hated her so fiercely when she married my father, but she’s been my closest friend lately. Perhaps our mutual hatred of Poppaea has brought us closer. And, too, she’s been so kind to Britannicus.”
Acte’s questions about this new relationship between Octavia and Agrippina were stayed by the announcement that the banquet was about to begin. They wandered back up to the terrace and took their places, one on each side of Nero. Agrippina had given up her position of honor to Octavia. Between them sat Britannicus, a beaming center of attention. The rest of the company was made up of young couples, all handsome and of the most prominent families of Rome. Acte recognized most of them, but knew only Petronius well. He had long been a fixture in Nero’s life, providing the emperor with varied ideas for entertainment. Since Otho’s exile to Lusitania, Petronius had taken his place in Nero’s life.
As dozens of slaves served course after course to the assembled guests, Acte marveled at the way Agrippina never changed. Glowingly gorgeous in a summer gown of iridescent gauze, she held court as if she were still empress. Her radiant smile and scintillating conversation took in all at the table, but centered on Britannicus, Octavia and Nero.
Just before the hot, honeyed wine was brought out to complete the feast along with fresh grapes, figs and cheeses, Petronius stood and requested that Nero add his voice to the music of the strolling players who had entertained during the feast. Always anxious for an audience, Nero obliged, to the thunderous applause of all. When Nero took his seat once more, he turned to Britannicus.
“As a child, you often sang for your own amusement, my good man. Why not entertain your guests now with a song?”
To Nero’s disgusted amazement, Britannicus smiled, nodded and without hesitation joined the musicians. Silence fell over the group as he filled the summer air with sweet notes. All shyness seemed to fall away from Britannicus when he saw his friends’ enthusiasm for his performance. At the end of the song, the group, all but Nero, stood with shouts of “Bravo! Bravo!”
Acte alone noticed the thundercloud which had descended over Nero’s face. The applause for Britannicus had been more enthusiastic than that given to him.
A happy Britannicus returned to his place between his sister and Agrippina. Acte shivered for no apparent reason when Agrippina covered Britannicus’s hand with her own in an affectionate gesture.
As if to divert attention from Britannicus and his triumph, Nero boomed, “Bring on the wine!”
The slaves appeared with steaming goblets for each guest. Britannicus, unaccustomed to drinking wine, but feeling very much a man, turned up his goblet, then screamed as the hot potion scorched his mouth.
“It’s too hot, Britannicus,” Agrippina cautioned. “Here, let me add some water to cool it.”
Britannicus thanked her and raised the goblet gingerly to his lips once more. He drank deeply, then turning to Agrippina, started to say, “This is good wi—”
Before the sentence passed his lips, the goblet slipped through his fingers, staining his spotless tunic. His head twisted, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, and he fell face down on the marble floor, where he lay writhing and foaming at the mouth.
The women at the table either screamed or looked on in dazed silence. The men were sickened at the sight.
While Octavia hovered over her brother, Nero shouted to the slaves, “Take him to one of the rooms until he recovers. We haven’t yet finished our meal.”
Once the sick boy had been removed, with only Octavia in attendance, Nero exp
lained to his distressed guests, “It’s only his falling sickness. He’ll recover soon. Have no fear. More wine, Petronius?”
Within a few moments, Octavia burst onto the terrace, her eyes wild. The guests sat in shock as she screamed, “He’s dead! My brother is dead, Nero! Couldn’t you stand the competition of his sweet voice? Or were you afraid that since he’d become a man he might make his rightful claim to the throne? I hate you! I’ll kill you myself and put an end to this madness of yours!”
She grabbed the goblet which had fallen from her brother’s hand, charged at Nero and beat him about the head with it. Not until Agrippina came did she collapse sobbing into her stepmother’s arms. As Agrippina led her away, she cast a withering and accusing glance at her son. Nero was speechless.
Quietly, the guest took their leave, until only Nero and Acte remained at the table. Nero sat staring down at his plate and shaking his head.
At length, he spoke, as much to himself as to Acte. “I didn’t kill Britannicus! I thought it was a fit. But who? No one here could have wanted him dead.” His laugh was humorless, as he added, “No one but I. How clever of the culprit. Of course, it doesn’t matter that I didn’t poison him. The whole world will believe I did. What can I do? How can I make them see the truth?”
Acte came to sit beside Nero once more. “I believe you, Nero. What possible reason would you have to kill Britannicus? I think I know who the murderer is—and the reason.”
Nero looked at Acte with anguish in his eyes as he begged, “Then, by all the gods, tell me!”
She lowered her gaze, unable to meet his. “The one who wishes to be emperor herself—your own mother.”
Nero clutched Acte’s wrist, and his eyes blazed angrily.
“You lie! My mother would never do such a thing! She was fond of Britannicus—perhaps too fond for my own good.”
Acte winced in pain at Nero’s grip, but managed to keep her voice low and steady. “Isn’t it common knowledge that she’s killed before for lesser gain? As for her motive, you gave it to me on the way here. She wished to place Britannicus on the throne. When that plan failed, she decided to do the thing which would damage you most—kill Britannicus and make you look like his murderer. All Rome knows of her plot to put Britannicus on the throne. She won’t be blamed, since he was her instrument to power. But you, Nero, have every reason to be happy that he’s dead.”
He raged at her, “I am not happy! I held no grudge against him. Any plot against me was my mother’s doing, not his.”
“No doubt she has another lined up to take your place now. I’ve heard that Sulla was her first choice. He’s gone. Now Britannicus. Someone else will take his place. Do you know that she’s been seeing Fenius Rufus, second in command under Tigellinus?”
Nero’s face turned dark. “I know the man, and I don’t trust him. I’ve heard rumors that my mother has taken him as a lover. I should have guessed it was more than physical appeal. I must admit, Acte, your vision is clearer than mine. My mind is too often fogged by emotions where my mother’s concerned.”
Suddenly Nero grabbed Acte and crushed her to his breast. His voice held a hopelessness she’d never heard from him before. “What can I do, Acte? How can I save myself? Forgive me for what I did to you today. You’re the only one I can trust. Help me, Acte. Please! Help me!”
She soothed him, but dared not speak the solution to his problem, which she knew he must find in his own heart. Agrippina would have to be destroyed or she would go on murdering.
Instead of telling him all this, Acte spoke firmly. “I must go now, Nero. Please, have the slaves bring the carriage around.”
He rose to his feet and made a visible effort to pull himself together. “You’ll stay to witness the funeral pyre with the rest of the family. Already the slaves are preparing it.”
Acte was shocked at the sudden disposal of Britannicus’s body. But she didn’t protest.
The night was turning into dawn when Nero’s carriage rounded the curve of Acte’s drive. Alone, she’d slept during most of the journey, worn out physically and emotionally by the day’s unhappy events. But as the door of the carriage opened and she saw Sergio’s face before her, her body filled with new life.
Going into his arms, she sobbed, “Oh, my love, I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you. It couldn’t be helped.”
He went with her into the villa. “Nike told me of your command performance at the emperor’s villa. It doesn’t matter,” he said reassuringly. “You’re here now.”
Without preliminaries, Sergio led the way to Acte’s bedroom. She shuddered slightly as she entered the chamber, trying not to remember her time there with Nero. But Sergio took her gently into his arms, and all unpleasant thoughts fled. Without words, Sergio placed his love on the pale-green sheets.
He let his lips travel the familiar paths of her body, loved every inch of her. Then he lay back as she covered his flesh with the flame of her gentle touch. When she had tasted him almost beyond his endurance, he began his tender caresses all over again until she begged for him. Ever so gently he entered her. As her body moved with his, the stars seemed to twinkle their approval in the night canopy above.
At last, Acte felt she would burst with him. The rising sensation of pleasure flooded through her, starting first in her legs and moving up over her until every cell of her flesh knew the tingling warmth of satisfaction. At that moment, she felt a hot fountain bubble up inside her and her own cry of happiness and peace was joined by Sergio’s. It was as it had always been with him—better than the time before, but not as good as the next time would be. They both knew it.
Rising reluctantly from her arms, Sergio drew on his tunic. Acte sat up in shocked disappointment.
“You’re leaving so soon?”
He cast a longing glance at her. “I must go. I’ve joined a special force to try to keep peace in Rome. Before you came home a runner arrived with news of Britannicus’s death. There’ll be serious trouble. Take care not to allow any strangers in. And above all, my love, stay out of the city for the next few days. I’ll let you know when all is well.” He bent and kissed her tenderly. Then he slipped out the door, leaving Acte with an empty feeling.
Fifteen
The next night Acte lay in her dark room long after the rest of her household slept.
Although it was the midsummer dry season, just hours after the death of Britannicus a raging storm moved in out of the clear southern skies of Veletri. Lightning flashed outside and the sea tossed below. Acte sat up in bed and hugged her knees to her breasts to stop shivering. The night was almost unbearably humid, but she felt cold—the cold of the unknown.
The unseasonable weather had made removal of Britannicus’s body to Rome for burial impossible. In her mind Acte could still see the sputtering funeral pyre with the boy’s remains atop it, taking hours to be consumed by the damp flames whipped by howling winds. Would she ever forget Octavia’s pitiful sobs, Agrippina’s accusing glances, Nero’s hopelessness?
Sergio’s visit had helped her through the first aftershock, but now she was alone with her fears and memories.
Sergio. Where was he now? Was he in the thick of the madness that gripped Rome?
And how was Nero handling the grief-stricken mobs? Strange how one despised in life could be so mourned in death. All of Rome had made fun of Britannicus, the sickly one with the rolling eyes. But now with his death and the false rumors being spread by Agrippina’s henchmen, Britannicus was adored, Nero despised.
A sharp rap at the downstairs door caused Acte to leap from her bed. She threw a warm wrapper around her shoulders and took the stairs two at a time. The unlatched door flew open and the raging wind hurled rain and debris into the atrium. A dark shadow hurried in. It was Eucerus.
“My lady, I’ve just come from Rome. All is chaos!”
“Take a moment, Eucerus, and catch your breath, then tell me everything. But first, is the emperor safe?”
N
odding, the slave answered after a few gasps, “Safe for the moment, mistress. He’s barricaded in the palace with several hundred Praetorians guarding every entrance and exit. The rest of the armies are trying to restore some order in the city.”
Fearfully she asked, “How bad is it, Eucerus?”
He shook his head. “Worse than we could have imagined. The rabble are casting down the emperor’s statues. I saw one filthy brute urinate into the face of his fallen image. And the omens—”
“Yes, go on. I must know!”
“Lightning struck the great tree which sheltered Romulus and Remus. For over eight centuries it has stood as a symbol of Rome’s strength and stability. Now it’s only a pile of burned ashes and splintered branches.”
“And what about the Lady Agrippina?”
“The mobs gather around her villa to praise her as their savior. They denounce the emperor. Rome is hers!”
Acte’s mind raced with wild thoughts. “Did you see or hear anything of Sergio, Eucerus?” She waited nervously for her trusted slave’s answer.
He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “No, my lady. Many of the special guard lie dead and mutilated in the streets. I searched, but couldn’t find him. But have no fear. He’s used to combat and will survive, if any in Rome do.”
When another knock came at the door, Eucerus pushed Acte into the shadows of the hall before he opened it a crack to see who was there.
A great Praetorian forced the door wide open and strode in. “I have come for the emperor’s mistress. He wishes her at the palace at once.”
Eucerus tried to object. “She’s not here. Tell the emperor she’s gone—”
The giant guard drew his short sword threateningly. “Do you know what I do with lying slaves? I slit their tongues!” With that, he grabbed Eucerus by the throat.
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