by Kate Quinn
“No.” Marcus sat himself beside her on the marble bench. “Tonight was . . . exceptional.”
“I can’t go back there.” Brushing uselessly at her gown. “Not ever.”
“You saw the Emperor at his worst tonight. Tomorrow, when the effect of those Indian leaves wears off, he will have forgotten all about this evening and will treat you exactly as he treats all other women: he will ignore you.”
“I still can’t go back.”
“As Paulinus’s wife, you’ll have to.”
“Then I won’t marry Paulinus.” She looked up in desperate apology. “It—it isn’t him. He seems perfectly pleasant when he’s not—”
Gazing glaze-eyed at his stepmother?
“But surely he doesn’t care much about marrying me, and I can’t—can’t deal with this life. Banquets and drinking and—and Indian leaves. Oh, maybe my family’s been around since the Republic, but I’m a country girl.” She leaned forward. “I grew up in Toscana, with vineyards and ponies and swimming holes. It’s supposed to be a great thing for me, marrying the Praetorian Prefect, but I don’t belong in palaces. Not palaces like that.”
He thought she might burst into tears, but she looked away and controlled herself. Country-born, but patrician-bred.
Marcus considered his words. “Perhaps you won’t believe me, considering what you’ve seen tonight, but this isn’t Paulinus’s world, either.”
Calpurnia looked at him.
“My son is a simple sort: a soldier, an idealist, a good Roman. It’s a great honor, his position as Prefect, but he’s floundering. If someone were to help him find his feet, he’d be grateful.”
“You want me to do that?”
“I think you could do that,” Marcus said gravely. “You’re a fine honorable girl, Calpurnia Sulpicia. I don’t have to know you long to see that. My son needs a girl like you. He knows it.”
“Maybe so.” She pleated a fold of stained silk between her fingers. “But it’s not what he wants. What he wants is—” She bit her lip just in time. She might not have known Lepida long but then again, one didn’t have to.
Marcus looked at her baldly. Yes. Your betrothed wants my wife.
They both looked away.
“May I ask a favor of you?” Marcus spoke as formally as if he were quoting a point of law in the Senate. “Think long and hard before you end the betrothal. That’s all I ask.”
Calpurnia looked, twisting the ruby around her finger, and Marcus thought she would strip it off then and there. But she offered her hand instead. “All right, Senator.”
“Marcus, please.” He took her hand in both of his, and smiled. “And thank you.”
Twenty-four
TIVOLI
YOU’RE late,” Arius greeted Vix.
“Had to rub down the horses.”
“Run twice around the vineyard to warm up. Then start drill number five.”
They sparred in the spring rains, slipping through liquid mud. Sparred under scorching midday sun as summer advanced, sweat slicking the hilts of the wooden practice swords. Sparred until the muscles screamed, until the bones creaked, until the palms of Vix’s hands split and Arius staggered home wondering why he was doing this at all.
Maybe because his life behind the vineyard had gotten a little too quiet. Maybe swords and drills and practice bouts had gotten into his blood, like it or not.
“When do I get a real sword?” Vix complained.
“When you earn it,” Arius growled, just as his brothers and endless gladiatorial trainers had growled at him.
“I have earned it!”
“Show me.”
Vix launched an overhand attack. Arius clipped the wooden blade out of his hand and sent him sprawling.
Vix scowled. “Just because you’re bigger.”
“If you’d stepped inside and gone low, you’d have thrown me off balance. Keep pretending you’re a big man when you fight, and you’ll die. Fight like a ten-year-old boy, you might be able to kill someone someday. Quit trying to impress me.”
Vix swore. “Again?”
They circled briefly, then closed. Vix stepped under the swing of the sword, throwing his weight against Arius’s side. The Barbarian staggered briefly; Vix brought the wooden sword up to clip his jaw.
“Better. Again.”
“Yeah, and don’t pull your blows this time.”
Vix tried the same trick and came up against a solid wall of shoulder. He swung his wooden blade around in a hasty swing; Arius seized his arm, jerking him off balance, and the joint in his shoulder came apart with a pop. Vix yelled.
“Lie facedown and lift your arm straight back.”
“What arm? You son of a bitch, I don’t have any arm left—”
“Quit whining.” Arius planted a foot on Vix’s back, seized the misaligned arm, and tugged it briskly back into place. “Go ahead and throw up.”
“I never puke.” Vix reeled upright, flexing his elbow. “I’m good for another hour.”
“Then go another hour with this.” Arius tossed Vix his sword.
Vix caught the hilt in both hands, staggering. “Jeez, it’s heavy.”
“Too heavy for a boy, by rights. But it’ll make you strong. Fight with that, you can fight with anything.”
“Yessir.” Vix turned the blade along the light, admiring the honed steel. “People said you fought with a lightning bolt for a sword and a thundercloud for a shield.”
“People are idiots. Start drill number two, but twice as slow. Builds control.”
“This how they taught you in gladiator school?” Groaning as he swung the heavy blade inch by slow, agonizing inch.
“No. This is how my brothers taught me. We’ll start conditioning, next week, sprints and weights. You’re fast, but you have no stamina. Again, five more times. Slower.”
“Why didn’t you like being a gladiator?” Lifting the blade in increments.
“It’s a lousy profession.”
“Sounds fun to me.”
“You’re young. Seen too many games.”
“Only saw one, actually. M’mother says they’re barbaric.”
“Your mother’s a sensible woman. Again. Slower.”
“My arm’s gonna drop off.”
“Then you’re doing it right.”
“Bully.”
“Whiner,” said Arius, enjoying himself. “Ten more sets.”
ROME
JUSTINA.” Paulinus focused weary eyes on the disapproving Vestal. “I need to see Justina.”
“Vestal Justina is occupied with her sacred duties.”
“Get her. Prefect’s orders.”
He settled against the marble wall of the temple, ignoring the scandalized looks of the worshippers. He knew what he looked like: bloodshot, untidy, unshaven . . . It had been months since his betrothal banquet, but he still felt the need to get drunk at night so he could forget the things he’d done.
“Prefect?” Justina’s voice. “Is there trouble? I haven’t seen you in months.”
Since his betrothal, he’d been too ashamed to visit, too embarrassed to look her in the eye. If he hadn’t gotten half drunk this afternoon to get his courage up, he’d never be here now. “I’m sorry.” He opened his eyes with an effort. “I just—I had to see you.”
“I see.” Her eyes ran over him, and he waited for a look of disgust. But—“It must be important. Sit down.”
“Can—can we go someplace quiet?” He was aware of the other Vestals’ disapproving eyes.
“I must be in public view whenever I speak to a man.” She sat opposite him, white robes falling into place. “Just tell me.”
He sat, cradling his aching head in his aching hands. “I—am—a—worm,” he said carefully. Best to get that out of the way first.
“. . . I see.”
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Oh, no.”
“I don’t blame you.” Morbidly. “I’m dirt. I’m scum—”
“All right, why don’t
we stop all the—”
“—and I’m in love with my father’s wife.”
“—name-calling.” She blinked. “Well. That I didn’t expect.”
It was like shrugging off a great thorny weight. He hunched forward, locking his hands around his knees. “I—I don’t know if it’s love. Not love like I ever imagined it. I can’t stop wanting her. She’s more than beautiful; she’s intoxicating. It’s evil. She’s evil. I swear she started it. I know that’s what all men say, ‘she led me on; it was her idea,’ but she did. To get at my father.”
“And does your father know?” Justina’s voice was calm.
“Yes.” He turned his eyes away from the memory. “He found us. I still can’t—can’t look him in the eye.”
“Then she’s won, hasn’t she?” Justina shifted tack when he didn’t answer. “Why the need to confess? Why now?”
“Because it hasn’t stopped. It won’t ever stop. She snaps her fingers, and I come like a dog. She knows it, my father knows it, gods, even my betrothed knows it now—” He ran his fingers through his hair. He had only seen Calpurnia a handful of times since their betrothal feast—and her eyes, regarding him, were always wary. “Oh, gods.”
It all came spilling out: the banquet, the Emperor, the Indian drug, Lepida . . . “I took her, right there on the couch in the middle of the hall. Like an animal. The drug, that was part of it—I hardly knew what I was doing, but that’s no excuse. I’m only glad my father wasn’t there to see that part.”
“And what did the Emperor say?” Justina sounded as if she were discussing the weather rather than a palatial orgy.
“He—didn’t notice. He had his mistress there—we were all dizzy from the wine, whatever it was he put into it—”
“His mistress?” Justina’s voice sharpened.
“Lady Athena. Thea. A singer. She’s—she’s a nice girl—and I remember—” He bit the words off. Babbling fool or not, there were some things one didn’t say to a Vestal.
“What? Remember what?”
His head throbbed at her sharp tone. “I don’t know what I remember. Don’t know if it’s right or if I dreamed it up. But—”
“What?”
“Thea. And the Emperor. He—I wasn’t watching, but he—there were some things he . . . it was probably just the drug! Who knows what I saw? I saw snakes winding down from the ceiling and I saw the mosaics come to life and I saw Thea’s blood turn green; who’s to say what really happened?”
“Did you go to see her afterward? That would prove things.”
He avoided Justina’s eyes. “The Emperor would never hurt Thea. He loves her.”
“Perhaps he does. Do you think that for all men love is kisses in the moonlight? For some men, love is pain.”
“Justina”—very carefully—“I didn’t come here to listen to you blacken my Emperor’s name.”
“What did you come here for, then?”
“I—I don’t know. Confession? I need someone to know—what I am. The world looks at me and they see a hero. The Emperor’s right arm. But it’s all lies. I’m as stupid as my father is brilliant, I’m as fearful as my friend Trajan is brave, and I—am—a—fake.”
“So you’ve confessed. What do you want now? Forgiveness?” He nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Paulinus. No one can give you that but the gods.”
It was the first time she had ever used his name.
“Comfort, then?” His tongue felt thick, and he looked at her humbly.
“Comfort I can give you.”
Her hand was cool, calming his confused blood.
Twenty-five
THEA
A. D. 95
ANOTHER new year, Athena. We’ll drink to that.” “As you please, Caesar.” I sipped my wine, sitting where Domitian liked me to sit: at his feet, where he could stroke my head or strike it as the mood took him.
“To a new year.” He drank, cheerful for now. “How long has it been for us?”
“Nearly four years.” I felt I could hardly remember the whole last year—just a long continuous dream of pain.
“Four years. I hear the plebs call you the mistress of Rome . . .” A faint frown, and his hand stilled in my hair. “I suppose it’s true enough, since I am Rome and you are my mistress, but I still dislike it. It’s been four years, after all, and I know you no better than I did at the beginning.” His hand began its stroking again. “You know what the new year heralds, Athena?”
“What?”
“The telling of secrets.”
“I have no secrets.”
“Oh, I think you have many. Tell me one.”
“All right. Yes, all right. I’ll tell you one. Just don’t—all right!” Drawing in a sharp breath. “I was—I was taking a walk a month or so ago, past the Temple of Vesta, and a Vestal looked at me.”
“And?”
“. . . She pitied me.”
“This is a secret?”
“It seemed important somehow.” Her eyes had been enormous, a ll-knowing.
“The gaping of a dried-up old virgin? She was probably jealous. Tell me another secret.”
“I have nothing to tell, Caesar.”
“Shall I tell one for you, then? Shall I tell you about the gladiators you serviced at the age of fifteen? Oh yes, I know about that.”
“I—I never—”
“You lie poorly, Athena. Lepida Pollia said you always did.”
“You shouldn’t believe Lepida Pollia, Caesar.” I clutched for calm. “She hates me.”
“Correct. Transparently. But she was such a font of information, what could I be but grateful? So, what was the Barbarian like in person?”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out—nothing. Inside I was freezing cold.
“Not your only catch, I understand, but certainly the prize. The gladiator they called the god of war—quite a prestigious achievement for a common slave girl. How much did he pay you?”
“No, I—he never—”
“Ah, so it was love, then. How touching, the Barbarian and his Jewess. Did you writhe and giggle for him, as you won’t for me?”
“That—that hurts—”
“It hurt you more, watching him go to his death. Didn’t it? Did it hurt as much as this?”
“I—”
“I don’t suppose I have to be jealous of him anymore. But now I almost wish he were alive again. Just so I could look him in the eye and tell him that I have his woman. Twice a night, if I like. And she moans like the whore she is and wears my collar and takes my gold—”
I flung my goblet against the wall and it rebounded in a tinny clatter. “Stop it!”
“So the goddess of wisdom cracks at last? What a pretty little display. Please feel free to weep. I like tears in a woman. You’ve been a good girl this evening, Athena. Good enough to deserve a reward. Would you like one?”
“No, Caesar.” Fighting the tears back.
“No reward? Perhaps I’ll just tell you one of my secrets, then. Yes, that seems fair.” He settled back, stroking my head against his knee. “I’ve told you a good deal about my brother, haven’t I? Titus the Golden, the darling of the people, cut off so tragically in the prime of his youth . . . well, I killed him. White arsenic in his wine. I killed my brother and then took his daughter. I think Julia suspected something. It may even have driven her mad. Will it drive you mad? I doubt it. You’re too coarse-grained to go mad. The first person I’ve ever told . . . I imagine I’ll have to keep you for good, now. Can’t have you running away with a secret like that, can I?”
No. I suppose he couldn’t.
“Drink up, Athena. Drink up.” He sat back, jovial. “It’s a whole new year.”
JUSTINA looked amused. “And why do you think me so cheated?”
“Not cheated,” Paulinus amended. “I can see you’re suited here. But that’s just luck. If they took you when you were nine years old, you didn’t know that it would all be worth giving up marriage and children and—and everything else. No one kn
ows anything when they’re nine years old.”
“I did know it was a great honor to be chosen to serve Vesta. And in some ways, it’s given me more power than you.”
“How?” He rested his chin on his hand and looked at her.
“Whatever I say is believed wholly and absolutely, because as a priestess my word is sacred. Can you say as much?”
“No,” he admitted. “No matter what I say, people assume I’m being devious.”
“I am safe wherever I travel, because those who attack a priestess risk the wrath of her goddess. Can you say as much?”
“Certainly not. I’ve had two assassination attempts this year alone. I made a lot of enemies when the Emperor promoted me over so many other heads.”
“If I meet a condemned prisoner on his way to execution, I can grant a divine pardon that not even the Emperor can revoke. Can you say as much?”
“Really?” said Paulinus, diverted. “You can pardon a criminal, just on whim?”
“Not on whim. On divine certainty. If Vesta whispers innocence in my ear.”
“Does she whisper to you often?”
“On occasion.” Justina folded her hands in goddesslike repose, but a little smile twitched her mouth.
“Well, I suppose you’ve got me beaten.” Paulinus leaned back. “Unless . . . can you ride a horse at full gallop toward a herd of screaming blue-painted savages?”
“No.” Gravely. “My veil would get dirty.”
“Then let’s call it even.” Paulinus linked his hands behind his head.
“Paulinus.”
“What?”
“You’re bragging.”
“. . . Maybe I am.”
“Why bother bragging to a woman who’s taken a vow of chastity?”
“Because I want you to think well of me.”
“I already do, Paulinus Norbanus. No need to brag.”
“Good. Can I just ask one thing?”
“Of course.”
“Are you impressed?”
She burst out laughing.
He grinned and looked at the floor, ruffling his hair. “Are you?” he insisted.
“Immeasurably.”
“Really?” He felt like a boy again.