Rapture's Slave

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Sergio made a half-strangled noise as he watched Nero take Acte into his arms and kiss her. Acte pulled away.

  Nero fairly danced for joy as he shouted, “When will I see him? A son—a male heir! This is too good to be true!”

  “You will not see him, Nero!” Acte replied firmly. “I only wished you to know that he exists.”

  His joy turning to rage, Nero screamed, “Take the prisoner back to his cell. I’ll arrange his torture personally.” Then turning to Acte, “And you will witness his slow and painful death.”

  “No!” Acte’s cry of agony tore at Sergio’s heart.

  “Then tell me where my son is so that I can see him.”

  The tears streamed down Acte’s face. “He’s at my villa.” Her whispered answer brought a smile to Nero’s face.

  At that, he ordered, “Now, take the prisoner back.”

  “No, Nero. You can’t torture him. You promised me!”

  “I said nothing of torture. As long as I see my son, your gladiator will not be harmed, nor will you.”

  Acte made herself touch Nero’s cheek in a loving gesture. “The gods be thanked! I was afraid you might banish him to Greece—away from me forever.”

  A new gleam played in Nero’s eye. “Greece? I hadn’t thought of that. Have we a ship leaving for there today, guards?”

  A tall Praetorian bowed. “Yes, Caesar, within the next few hours.”

  “Then speed him there and let’s be done with this man.” He smiled at Acte, who forced herself to look stricken, her happy tears disguised as sadness.

  Through her sobs Acte begged, “A moment alone with him, Nero, please. After today I’ll never see him again.”

  “Very well, but only a moment.”

  That brief time was all Acte needed to embrace Sergio and whisper in his ear her plan to join him in Athens. Then they both put on a great display of sorrow for Nero, and Sergio was taken away.

  Acte, too, was allowed to leave the palace, since Poppaea would be returning that day. Acte’s reunion with Lucius and Paulus was a joyful one. She told her son excitedly of their coming trip to Greece.

  Two days later, Nero presented himself at Acte’s villa. Except for Lucius and a few servants, she was alone. Nero’s face looked composed, but stern, as she led him to the terrace. He hadn’t said a word since his arrival.

  When Acte looked at him questioningly, he finally spoke. “I’ve come to meet my son, Acte.”

  Rather coldly, she responded, “You’ll see your son. But first we must talk. Lucius—”

  Nero beamed. “You named him after me. I approve.”

  “I thought it proper at the time. Lucius doesn’t know who you are. I’ve told him only that his father is a great poet and songster.”

  “And how do you explain his father’s desertion of such a beautiful and loving mother?”

  “I’ve said you’re on a command tour in the East. He accepts that, though he has a great curiosity to meet you. I’ve tried to protect him. I’ll have no one hurt him, not even you.”

  Nero frowned. “Acte, you do me injustice at times. Would I hurt my own son?”

  With her eyes cast down, Acte replied, “You’ve hurt me. Why should Lucius be any different? Besides, I fear Poppaea. She would have Lucius killed in an instant if she knew he was yours.”

  Nero’s frown remained. “You have a point there. My wife isn’t above murder, even of a child, to hold her status. This secret will be ours. Now, I wish to see Lucius.”

  “I have one more request, Nero. In the room next to mine there’s a musician’s robe. Would you change into it to help this deception along? That way he won’t find out you’re emperor. That wouldn’t be safe for him to know.”

  He rose and bowed. “Have the lad here when the musician returns. Perhaps I’ll even play a tune for him, if you have a lyre or fipple flute about.”

  Lucius was a bit shy on first seeing his long-awaited father. But he soon became animated and filled the air with happy chatter. The boy brought out his lyre and flute at Nero’s request, and begged, “May I accompany you, Pater? I’m not so good, but I’m learning.”

  Smiling down at him, Nero asked, “And who is your tutor, my son?”

  “Mater taught me.”

  Nero replied, “And a better teacher you couldn’t have, for she was taught by the best. Who do you think that might be?”

  Jumping up and down with enthusiasm, Lucius answered proudly, “Lucius the Great, the first among all the musicians of the Empire—my father!”

  Nero patted his head approvingly. “Well spoken, lad, well spoken.”

  As the sunlight over the city changed from gold to pink to violet, Acte sat back on the pillows of her couch and watched the family scene with a certain detachment. Her mind was miles away in Greece where Sergio would soon be. The sweet music which father and son played moved Acte into a dream world peopled with dark-haired foreigners who spoke in a lilting tongue. Soon she would be there—she and Lucius—far from the dangers of Rome and Nero.

  Nero stopped his music for a moment and commanded, “Dance for us, Acte, as you did in the old days. Show the lad what a talented mother he has.”

  At first she resisted, but when Lucius begged, she gave in. She flew about in graceful pirouettes, her dainty feet barely touching the ground. As the music finished, Acte collapsed to a graceful pose on the soft grass. Nero rose to leave.

  A stricken Lucius asked, “Pater, you aren’t going so soon?”

  Nero tousled the bronze curls so like his own. With regret he replied, “I must be off on another tour, Lucius, if I’m to retain my title. I’ll return as soon as I can. Now run along, son, and give me a moment alone with your mother.”

  When the boy was gone, Nero sat next to Acte. “A fine boy. I congratulate you—and myself. Now you must listen to me. Pack this very night and take the boy to your villa in the country. It’s not safe here for either of you.”

  Acte looked at him oddly. “Do you mean because of Poppaea? You haven’t told her about Lucius? You promised, Nero!”

  “Don’t question me on this matter. I can tell you no more.” His stern tone filled her with dread.

  She noticed that in his agitation he nervously twisted the ring on his finger—a habit inherited from his mother.

  “But, Nero—”

  “No questions, Acte. Only leave Rome quickly, as I command. You’ll both be safe in the country. And take everything you value with you.”

  Leaving her staring after him in bewilderment, Nero departed.

  Acte sat for a long time staring into the night. She had fulfilled her part of the bargain—Nero had met his son at last. What was to keep her in Rome now? His order gave her the perfect escape route. If she left immediately, she might elude his guards and board a ship at Ostia before they realized what had happened. She could be with Sergio within a few days. Her heart pounded at the idea.

  She leaned back and closed her eyes. Sergio’s face drifted before her, bits of gray now frosting his thick hair at the temples. Acte could almost feel his firm body next to hers, his hand on her thigh, his lips on her breast. The night breeze rustled her gown like a faraway whisper of longing from her love. Yes. She would go to Ostia, not to the country villa. Soon she would be with Sergio and then they’d be married.

  Then Nero’s command interrupted her dreams: “Leave Rome quickly!”

  Arousing the sleeping slaves, Acte set the household into motion. Wagons, carriages and litters were loaded with goods.

  As their little caravan reached the outskirts of Rome, total darkness closed in on them. Acte wondered why she’d been so foolish as to begin the journey so late at night. They could have waited until morning when they would have light.

  Then she looked back and saw a strange glare in the sky.

  Lucius, too, saw the odd light and exclaimed, “Look, Mater, Rome is on fire!”

  For the next hours, while they continued on the road, the
sky became brilliant with a malevolent glow. Many people passed them, on foot or horseback, racing away from the city and the flames.

  Acte hailed an elderly gentleman carrying all of his belongings on his back.

  “What news of Rome, old man?”

  His eyes wild, he muttered hysterically, “Terrible! Terrible! Thousands are dying. They say the blaze started at the Circus Maximus and has spread through the tenements, burning the poor while they sleep.”

  Acte shuddered at the thought of the row upon row of decrepit wooden houses leaning this way and that, dry as tinder, and housing most of the population of the city.

  “What started it, do you know?”

  The old man moved close and whispered to her, “Some say the Christians done it, but there’s others think the emperor himself ordered the fire, because they’ve seen Tigellinus ordering his people around.” He looked about anxiously, as if he were afraid he might have been overheard. “Not my words, mind you, but so they say.”

  And then he hurried along the dark road.

  When Acte reached Ostia her heart sank as she viewed the empty harbor. All the ships had taken to open sea to avoid the racing fire. The caravan would have to go on to the villa and wait.

  The scene back in Rome was one of unaccountable horror. Men were seen running through the streets setting fire to anything that would burn. The entire city was threatened.

  Many in the tenements suffocated before the flames reached their bodies. The odor of charred flesh overpowered that of burning buildings. Anguished screams of the dying could be heard above the roar of the fire. Most pitiful of all were those of the children and the old and crippled. With the city gone mad with fear, few stopped to try to help their fellows.

  Some people threw themselves into the Tiber River to escape, only to drown in the dark waters. Those who managed to swim to the far shore were met there by the Grim Reaper licking at them once more with his fiery tongue. Only those who got out of Rome survived.

  At the empty palace, the flames had fought their way up the Palatine to enter like invited guests through the golden doors. As they leaped upward from the atrium, the burning roof collapsed, boiling the golden fishes alive in their pool. The secret room where Nero and Poppaea had spent so many erotic hours together melted into a river of silver on the marble floor.

  The gilded statues of Fortuna dedicated to Claudia Augusta and Poppaea at the baby’s birth also melted in the intense heat, as did statues all over the city. Those made of marble cracked and split apart.

  For six days and nights the flames ravaged the city. When at last it seemed to be over, those who had escaped began to return to pick through the smoldering rubble for whatever might be left of their possessions. Suddenly fire broke out again and burned for three more days. Many who survived the first time died in the second conflagration.

  After warning Acte to leave, Nero escorted his entourage to Antium, thirty-five miles away. For days before the beginning of the blaze, Romans had watched with curiosity as mile-long trains of wagons drawn by the emperor’s silver-shod mules hauled treasure from the city. Even Nero’s ivory-and-gold chariot, the same one in which the Divine Augustus had ridden, was taken.

  From the distant vantage point at Antium, Nero was able to view the spectacular fire.

  Poppaea joined him on the balcony to watch. She wore a red silk gown with fire opals at her throat and ears.

  Slipping her arm around him, she said, “Isn’t it the most breathtaking sight, Nero?”

  He shook his head and looked into her smiling face.

  “It’s out of hand, Poppaea. Tigellinus assured me that the fire would be contained in the older section of the city. Now even my palace is gone. And think of the thousands who have lost their lives. This is madness! A horror beyond thinking!”

  Poppaea stroked his hair. “Ah, my pet,” she soothed, “don’t fret about your shabby palace. It wasn’t worthy of you. Now the way will be cleared to build a grander structure, something more fitting for the emperor and his empress. As for the people who’ve been lost, Rome was overcrowded. Those who survive will lead better lives. There’ll be more food and better housing. Look at it that way, my love.”

  Nero turned away from the distant blaze. “Once I told my mother that if Rome were mine, I’d burn it to the ground. But I never meant it. I never knew—”

  Poppaea handed Nero his lyre and demanded, “Play for me. It will take your mind away from all this.”

  With unusual reluctance he accepted the instrument from her hands. “What should I play?”

  “Why not your Troica? It’s one of your best works, and may remind you that though Troy suffered a similar fate to Rome’s, it survived and flourished.”

  Nero strummed away absently at the lyre, missing chords and forgetting some of the words he knew so well.

  A few miles away, Acte had arrived safely at her villa. Her thoughts flew to Nero. Was he safe? But of course he was. He’d known of the coming holocaust. That was his reason for telling her to go. But what of the others? What about Paulus, Peter and the other Christians? Surely they’d had no such warning.

  She prayed to God for their safety, but even as she prayed, she knew that her friends would be in the thick of things trying to help and comfort the unfortunates of the ruined city—even as she should now.

  Acte told Lucius that she had to leave him with the servants for a while. Then she quickly packed a few medical supplies—all that she had—into a bag, and set out for Rome on horseback alone. Acte must find Paulus or Eucerus. She would do what she could to help.

  Eighteen

  Acte knew that the best way to find Paulus would be to go to one of the Christians’ secret meeting places, an underground tomb on the Via Appia. If she went into Rome, she might spend days searching for him in vain and might lose her own life in the attempt.

  Following the crude sign of the fish carved into the tufa rock walls, Acte soon came to a small gathering of Paulus’s followers. She didn’t know them well, but they recognized her and all stood when she entered the hollowed-out room.

  She looked at their smoke-blackened faces, and then her eyes went to a badly burned figure lying in the corner. “Eucerus!” Acte rushed to him, bent down and touched his arm. He moaned in pain.

  Acte was horrified by his condition and at first didn’t know what to say. Why were the fates so cruel to her friends?

  “Eucerus, is there anything I can do?” she asked, though she couldn’t think of anything that would lessen his agony.

  “No, Lady Acte,” he answered in a barely audible voice. “You’re most kind.” He managed a weak smile. “Just take care of yourself and the boy.”

  “I will, Eucerus, don’t worry. But first I must find Paulus. Do you know where he is?”

  Eucerus only muttered, “Don’t—don’t go,” before he lapsed into unconsciousness.

  A woman standing nearby came up to her. “He’s better off now. He won’t live long. Better he should spend his last hours out of misery.”

  Acte nodded in agreement. Tears crept into her eyes.

  “You asked about Paulus,” the woman went on quietly. ‘1 don’t know where he is at present, but this I can tell you. The survivors are being taken to areas where the fire has already done its damage, where it won’t return because there’s nothing left to burn. Go to the Pantheon, the Campus Martius or the Baths of Agrippa. You’ll find him in one of those places.”

  “Lady Acte?”

  Acte turned as she heard the familiar voice. It was Ecloge, Nero’s old nurse. The two women embraced without a word.

  “I’ll go with you, Acte. I’ve been into the city and know which ways are safe to travel.”

  Acte tried to protest, but the old woman was determined. The two rode off together on Acte’s horse, heading for the heart of the city where flames still shot high into the night sky.

  When they reached the Campus Martius, Acte looked up at what had on
ce been her villa on the hill above. Nothing could be seen but a sheet of flame. And there on the plain where she’d so often watched Nero exercise his chariot horses lay the living dead, some burned beyond recognition but still miraculously breathing. The two woman dismounted. Acte sent Ecloge in one direction to search for Paulus while she struck out in another. Arms stretched out to her in mournful supplication. She felt sick to her stomach. No battlefield could be more horrible than this, no soldiers’ wounds so grotesque as the scars of these suffering souls.

  Then she felt strong hands on her shoulders and a voice said, “Acte, you’ve come. We can use all the help available.”

  She whirled around. With relief she cried, “Paulus, you’re alive!”

  “Yes. Now let’s see how many of these poor unfortunates we can save. What kind of ruler would do this to his people?” His tone was angry and disbelieving.

  Acte could find no words to defend Nero. Surely his madness was now total. She tried not to think of the love she’d once had for him. But he wasn’t the man she’d loved any more. He’d changed since—since when? Since the night of his mother’s death.

  Blocking thoughts of Nero from her mind, Acte listened to Paulus’s instructions and then moved among the people giving what comfort she could.

  The days passed in a dreadful and timeless blur as more and more injured arrived at the camp. Acte, nearly exhausted, marveled at Paulus’s energy. He never slept or rested. He was there to give his final blessing when a victim died—there to give water to a thirsty sufferer—there to help a lost child find its family, if any had survived—and there to give her an encouraging word when she thought she could go on no longer.

  In their brief moments together, they questioned each other about those who meant most to them.

  He passed by Acte as she bandaged a woman’s badly burned arm and asked, “Is young Luke safe?”