by Kate Quinn
“Lepida?”
“I’m resting, Marcus.” Dreaming, as Iris lacquered my toenails scarlet, of the jewels Domitian might clasp about my throat.
He struck the door open, and I hastily assembled my sweet smile.
“Marcus? What—”
He cut me off. “You’ve received an invitation to dine? From the Emperor?”
“Well—yes.” Which one of the slaves had told him? I hadn’t planned on letting him know at all. He was better off in his usual cloud.
“You’re planning to go?” His eyes took in my scattered rouge pots and perfume bottles, the open jewelry chest, the gowns thrown over every chair.
“How can I refuse the Emperor, Marcus?” I said in my sweetest tones.
Marcus reached out and traced the line of my cheek. “Iris,” he said, “would you carry a message to my steward? Tell him to send to the palace at once. Lady Lepida has been taken ill.”
I sat up with a jolt. “What?”
His voice carried over mine. “In fact, she is so ill that we are leaving at once for Brundisium in the hopes that the sea air will restore her health.”
“Marcus, you can’t—”
“Yes.” Stroking my cheek. “I can.”
He gave me a lot of twaddle after that about how innocent I was, how I didn’t realize what such an invitation meant. How it was time I left my wheel of parties and went with him to Brundisium to visit Paulinus that summer. How the Emperor would forget all about me.
“No!” I cried and stormed at Marcus, and when that didn’t work I kissed and cuddled him, and when that didn’t work . . . why didn’t it work? Why?
“I’m sorry, Lepida,” he repeated as I climbed unbelievingly into the litter that would carry us down the Via Appia to Brundisium.
Sorry? He hadn’t even begun to be sorry.
It wasn’t too late. Not yet. I could still persuade him to take me back to Rome.
“Iris.” I turned away from my bedroom window with its view of Brundisium’s blue harbor. “Get out the pale pink stola and the pink pearls. No perfume, he hates perfume. Tell the steward that I want fresh flowers in the outside triclinium, arum lilies and pale pink roses. Lute players in the alcove. A plain dinner; you know he likes simple foods . . .”
CATCHING fish, Sabina?” Marcus smiled down at his daughter, plumped earnestly on her knees by the fountain in the garden, trailing her fingers in the water.
“Petting them.” She stretched out toward a flicker of iridescent scales. “Trying to pet them,” she corrected herself.
“Let me help.” Marcus dropped to his knees beside her. “I’ll shoo them toward you, and you can pet them all you like. But gently.”
She trailed one finger down a carp’s gray-scaled back. A quiet girl, his Sabina. Excitement brought on her seizures.
They swished the water back and forth. Marcus wondered if his grandfather Augustus had ever paddled his feet in a fountain with his own daughter. But Augustus’s daughter had ended badly, dying alone and in exile. And his adopted sons had all died before him: murdered, poisoned, drowned. All young. All dead. Marcus stroked Sabina’s shiny brown hair; thought of Paulinus’s straight soldierly bearing and serious eyes. Better not to be an Emperor.
Sabina looked up at him and smiled, and for a moment his heart chilled. Julia had looked like that once, when she had been four years old and toddling after the adventurous Paulinus like a baby legionnaire. Happy and trusting and whole . . .
“Father?” Sabina’s voice. “Father, you let the fish get away.”
Marcus looked down at Sabina. “I did, didn’t I?” He smiled again as she skimmed her hands through the water. Better not to be an Emperor.
LEPIDA
THE evening came off beautifully. The dinner was superb, the flowers lovely; the lutes chimed softly in the hidden alcove. The triclinium, all austere gray-veined marble and simple cushions in the republican style, was far too plain to be fashionable, but it worked to my advantage. In my pale pink stola and pearls I was the center of the room, framed by the window overlooking Brundisium’s jewel-blue bay.
“I hope you didn’t promise Sabina a story?” I toyed with a stray tendril of hair. “I was thinking about retiring early this evening.”
“I’d planned to start my new treatise,” Marcus said mildly, but with a gleam in his eye. “I suppose it can wait.”
“Good.”
A weighted silence. Just as he reached for my hand, I murmured casually, “Marcus . . . have you given any thought to going back to Rome?”
“I’m glad you mentioned it.” He bent his graying head to fold a kiss into my palm. “I’ve made plans to go back.”
“You have?” I flung my arms around him. Jewels, banquets, lovers, Emperor . . . “Oh, Marcus, I adore you!”
“Lepida.” He pulled away to look into my eyes. “Sweetheart, you’ll stay here. It’s time you slowed down a bit. Sabina hardly sees you—”
“Sabina doesn’t need me!”
“Yes, she does. It’s partly for her sake that I’ve decided to leave you both in Brundisium. The sea air is good for her. I’ve asked Paulinus to look after you both. He’ll squire you about if you’re bored.”
I leaned forward, twining my arms about his neck. “You can’t leave me,” I murmured in his ear. “I’ll miss you too much. Won’t you miss me?” And when he opened his mouth to answer—if only I could get him to stop talking!—I kissed him.
“Still want to abandon me?” I murmured much later. He couldn’t say no now. I’d sleep with him every night if I had to; I’d tell him his ugly crooked body looked just like Apollo’s, but he was taking me back to Rome.
“It’s hard to leave you.” He smoothed my throat. “But I’d rather be a trifle lonely than see you swept away on a whirlwind.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Even after five years of marriage I couldn’t break him of speaking in those stupid riddles.
“Nothing.” He kissed my cheek. “I leave next week.”
I sat bolt upright in bed, clutching the sheet. “What about me?”
“I’m sorry, Lepida.”
That’s all he would say. Through all my arguments, my tears, and my kisses, that’s all he would say. I’m sorry. I still couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t say no. Not Marcus, as malleable and obliging as my father.
But he did. He left me without a backward glance.
“Will he be back soon?” Sabina said wistfully.
“Who cares?” I snapped, and stamped back inside. Back to the stupid boring house in the stupid boring city, where stupid boring Paulinus waited earnestly to entertain me. “I have a headache,” I snarled at him, and then my stupid boring daughter distracted them all by bursting into tears and then collapsing in a twitching heap. I retreated upstairs as they fussed over her, and flung myself across my couch.
It wasn’t too late. It couldn’t be too late. Domitian was gone, yes, back to Germania and his armies. But I’d get him—it wasn’t too late for that. And it certainly wasn’t too late to teach my husband a lesson.
Ten
WILL I see you after Lappius’s dinner party?” “I’m afraid not.” Paulinus dragged himself reluctantly out of bed. Gods, he’d be late for duty. “I’m not going.”
“Why not? He’s your cousin, isn’t he?” Athena smiled, propping her folded arms on the rumpled pillows. “Half the Praetorians are begging invitations. He sets the best table in Brundisium.”
“He’s never had much use for my father and me.” Paulinus shrugged into his tunic, reaching for his sandals. “Thinks we’re both duty-bound sticks.”
“Perhaps that’s why I like you.” Athena kissed the back of his neck.
“Are you singing?”
“Yes.” She reached for her own robe. “So why aren’t you coming? It’s one of the last real parties of the season.”
“I’m under orders from my father to keep my stepmother cheered up. She’s been very downcast since he left for Rome.”
�
�Your stepmother?”
Paulinus glanced at Athena, but she was absorbed in tying back her dark hair. “Lady Lepida Pollia. You’ve heard of her?”
“How could I fail to hear of one of Rome’s brightest stars?” Her marvelous alto voice was dry.
“Are you sure you—”
“I’ll see you next week. I’m to sing at Senator Geta’s party.” Her smile was bright, telling nothing, and Paulinus wondered—not for the first time—how well a man really knew any woman, even if he shared her bed. Athena had been an easy companion for the past year; a tall dark girl hired to sing for a Praetorian barracks party, who had impressed him by settling a fight between two drunken tribunes, tactfully putting off an amorous centurion, and joking in Greek all at the same time. One of Praetor Larcius’s stable of slave musicians; a good companion and an easy lover. He would have said he knew her well. But now her mouth was drawn in a hard line and he had no idea why. “What are you—”
“Next week,” she said cheerfully enough, dismissing him, and he shrugged away his puzzlement. Women were odd creatures.
It was an easy ride to his father’s villa. Paulinus took his horse on the long route around the harbor, enjoying the smell of salt on the warm breeze, the cheerful shouts of the vendors by the waterfront, the bright tunics of the women against the blue of the harbor. Even the thief who tried to steal Paulinus’s coin purse looked cheerful, shying off with amiable curses when Paulinus touched his sword hilt in warning. Paulinus was already smiling as he reined up his horse outside his father’s villa, and the smile broadened to a grin as Sabina tumbled out to meet him.
“I watched for you all morning,” she said, tugging her hand free of her nurse and running to his side. “Can I pet your horse?”
“Of course. His name’s Hannibal. My crazy Aunt Diana gave him to me when I joined the Praetorians.”
“Why is she crazy?” Sabina reached timidly toward the broad nose.
“Because she’s very beautiful, almost as beautiful as you, and rather than get married she ran off to the countryside to breed the best horses in Rome. Hannibal here is one of her finest. Would you like a ride?”
She beamed and held up her arms. He scooped her up, plopped her into the saddle before him, and wound her fingers through the mane. “Hold on tight.” She shrieked joyfully as he kicked Hannibal into a slow lope.
They’d ridden up the street and back three times when Paulinus’s stepmother appeared in the garden gateway. “You’re both children,” she observed, shading her eyes from the hot morning sun. “Sabina, get down at once.”
Paulinus dismounted, lifted Sabina off, and bowed all in the same motion. “Lady Lepida.” He looked at her with a new curiosity: the woman who had caught the Emperor’s eye.
She turned in a rustle of silk. “Come in.”
Sabina grabbed Paulinus’s hand and dragged him inside. “Can I show you my new doll? She’s Cleopatra. I named her after Father’s stories about the Queen of Eeejit—”
“Don’t pester Paulinus, Sabina,” Lepida broke in. “Go find your nurse.”
“That’s all right, I don’t mind—” But Sabina had already dashed off.
“Now she’ll be wanting a pony. Marcus spoils her dreadfully.” Lepida draped herself across the couch. “So. Have you come to keep me entertained?”
“Um. My father did ask me to keep an eye on you.”
“And report back to him on my progress? What a good soldier.” She sighed, fiddling with a black curl. “Well, I’m absolutely bored to tears.”
“You must miss him.” Paulinus was touched by the wistfulness on her face. What would it be like, having a girl look wistful when you were gone? Maybe it would be nice to have a wife at that.
“I’m screaming for something to do, but there’s just not much in Brundisium. Absolutely everyone’s moving back to their town houses, and then there’s me. Stuck in a villa with a four-year-old child.”
She looked unexpectedly like Sabina, bored and pretty and very young. “Come to a dinner party tonight?” Paulinus offered impulsively.
Her blue eyes flicked up to his. “A party?”
“My cousin, Lappius Maximus Norbanus. You’ve probably never met him—he doesn’t bother with us much; thinks Father’s a terrible bore, I’m afraid. But he’s just been made governor of Lower Germania, and he’s hosting a huge farewell banquet.”
She gave him a slow open-lipped smile, and he could see suddenly why the Emperor had taken a second look. “Really?” She danced across the room, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “What should I wear?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He bowed over her hand with all the gallantry he could muster. “You’ll still be the most beautiful woman there.”
THEA
A party like any other. Tinkling laughter, jeweled guests, wine in silver cups and grapes in golden bowls, couches heaped with tasseled cushions and musicians plucking softly at lyres. I waited in the anteroom until I was summoned, in the lull between the cakes and the cheeses, and then I swirled forward with my warmest professional smile: Athena, the nightingale of Brundisium’s fashionable set.
A good crowd. Brundisium’s patricians weren’t always polite; I’d been to parties where my voice was drowned out by the buzz of conversation, and parties where the men whistled at my bare arms and didn’t listen to a note of the music I’d worked so hard to prepare. But this was a polite gathering, and they listened appreciatively as I strummed the first chords on my lyre and launched into “Song of Eos.” In the second verse I saw Paulinus on the far couch, a female figure in blue beside him, and I knew then what a professional Larcius had made of me. My voice never quivered when I laid eyes on Lepida Pollia.
She was staring at me with those peacock-blue eyes I remembered so well. A great lady now, her silks draped with a flair she’d never achieved as the daughter of a games organizer. Sapphires about her neck the size of grapes. Her lacquered fingernails twitched once on the velvet cushion, and then her smooth smile blinked back into place. I remembered that smile as she tugged the curtains of her litter shut, the scarlet print of my hand marking her face.
Somehow I finished the song, and the next.
“Marvelous!” Paulinus led the clapping as I bowed. They came to me afterward with congratulations, as I laughed and chatted as Penelope had taught me and Lepida reclined on her couch, her blue eyes never leaving mine over the rim of her wine cup. I longed to cross the room in one long stride and smash her pretty face into the mosaics.
“I believe you have never met my stepmother, Athena.” Paulinus tucked my unwilling hand into his arm, bringing me to her couch. Such a dear boy—so many patrician men talked over my head as if I were a statue—but why did he have to be so polite now? “Lady Lepida Pollia.”
I extended my fingertips. The hand that clasped mine was as white and pampered as ever.
“Such an interesting performance,” she drawled. “Athena—a Greek name? Surely you aren’t from Greece.”
I unreeled a fluid line of my finest Greek, and saw her flush. She still couldn’t speak Greek. I would have bet she still couldn’t spell, either. In any language.
“Athena’s Greek is far better than mine,” Paulinus was saying, oblivious. “She’s from a noble family in Athens.”
“I would have guessed the slum quarter of Jerusalem,” Lepida murmured. “How long have you been singing in Brundisium . . . Athena?”
“Oh, five years or so.”
“Before that?”
“Here and there.” I sketched an airy professional gesture. “Enjoying myself.”
“Indeed. A great pity Brundisium has no arena, so you can’t enjoy yourself at the games. I hear you have a great passion for gladiators.”
“I prefer music to blood, Domina.”
“But the games are so thrilling.” She stretched a languid hand for a cluster of grapes. “Why, just last week in the arena Arius the Barbarian lost a hand to a Turk. That must have been a sight. Grapes?”
“N
o, thank you.” I kept my face still. Oh, God, she was lying, she had to be. I listened for all the news from the Colosseum; I would have heard if Arius had lost a hand. She had to be lying. I’d have to make inquiries among the grooms and the litter-bearers, just to make sure—they always followed the games . . .
A little smile flicked her mouth, and I blindly turned toward Paulinus, smoothing a stray fold of his white lawn synthesis. “Still coming to dinner tomorrow night?”
“I thought we agreed next week?”
“I have a cancellation tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid he can’t come tomorrow,” Lepida broke in smoothly, insinuating a hand into Paulinus’s elbow. “He’s promised to take me to the last play of the season.”
He looked down at her. “I did?”
“You did.” Her eyes never shifted from mine.
“All right. Next week then, Athena?”
“Next week might be tight, too . . .” Lepida traced one finger along Paulinus’s hard shoulder.
“Then perhaps at the barracks party next month.” I drew my arm from Paulinus’s, giving his hand a last small squeeze. “If you wish to hire me for any little entertainments of your own, Lady Lepida, then talk to Praetor Larcius. The great music patron; you’ve heard of him? Well, perhaps music isn’t quite your forte. He handles my career. Be sure to book at least three weeks in advance. I’m in great demand these days.”
“You always were. Among a certain set.”
I smiled. She smiled. I strolled away.
“Do you know Athena?” I heard Paulinus ask his stepmother.
“No,” she said easily. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
My breath came short as if I’d dashed a mile. But I had another party to sing at, and no time to think about Lepida Pollia. Even if I was a singer and a success, I was still a slave—and I couldn’t go home and grind my teeth and weep into my pillow the way I wanted to. I had to make music and smile prettily for whatever guests had hired me from Larcius . . . and sometimes that sat as heavily as the slaps and jabs of my days as Lepida’s shadow.