‘No!’ Aemilius recoiled.
‘Weakling,’ said Little Boots. He held his own nose to the cup. The dregs of a thick brown liquid sat in the bottom. Whatever it was, it did not smell unpleasant. It smelled sweet, if anything, like wine brewed from honey.
‘What is it?’ asked Julilla, wide-eyed. ‘Is it poison?’
‘Why would Tiberius drink poison?’ said Drusilla.
‘To fortify himself against his enemies?’
‘That’s hell of a lot of fortifying he does then,’ said Aemilius, smirking at Little Boots. ‘He does it all day and all night.’
‘Perhaps it’s an antidote?’
Julilla’s theory was dismissed by the older children, who already had their own suspicions about what the strange liquid might be.
‘Drink it,’ said Little Boots to Aemilius.
‘No fear,’ said Aemilius. ‘I’m not touching anything the old man’s been drooling in.’
‘But it’s magic,’ said Little Boots. ‘You know it is. Don’t you want to see the trick?’
‘What trick? Turn into something like him? I see that trick every day when he does it, thanks.’
‘Weakling,’ said Little Boots again, making as if to throw the contents at him.
‘Don’t you dare!’ yelled Aemilius, trying to cover himself.
Drusilla’s eyes followed her brother’s best friend, secretly liking the way his long, bare limbs moved with such athletic grace in the sun. She knew what the drink did; she had watched her grandfather enough times to guess it. It removed inhibitions. It made a person bolder â and happier. She could see nothing wrong with attaining such things when forced, as she was, to live in constant unhappiness on this island. To be made free of conscience and self-loathing would be the greatest of gifts, she thought. It was no wonder the Emperor so jealously guarded it.
‘I’ll drink it,’ she said.
The boys turned to her in surprise before casting looks at each other.
‘Really?’ said Little Boots.
Drusilla clicked her fingers for her brother to pass it to her before her courage failed. ‘Why not? It’s magic, isn’t it?’
‘Go on then,’ said Little Boots, thrusting the thing at her. He doubted she had the nerve.
‘What’ll you give me if I do?’ said Drusilla, gazing into the cup. She raised her eyes and met Aemilius’s look.
‘Aemilius will give you a kiss,’ laughed Little Boots, thinking this would appall her.
It didn’t. Aemilius flushed red.
‘Don’t, Drusilla,’ said little Julilla, horrified. ‘The Emperor spat in it!’
Drusilla let the liquid touch her lips. It was as sweet as it smelled â like nectar. ‘Mmm,’ she purred, making a show of her daring for Aemilius’s benefit. ‘It really is quite nice …’
Burrus stood back as the midwives presented the tiny child to Ahenobarbus, placing it at his feet.
‘A girl, domine,’ said the older midwife. ‘An ornament to your house. And the mother is resting well.’
The companion midwife cast a glance at the woman standing next to this silent master, staring at the newborn with intensity. It was unorthodox for a husband to have a female friend in attendance with him during his firstborn’s birth â let alone one so immodestly dressed. But it was no more unorthodox, perhaps, than a domina holding the hand of a male slave throughout her labour.
‘She has come into this world with her mother’s beautiful fair hair,’ said the older midwife, hoping to elicit a response from Ahenobarbus. ‘But who knows? Perhaps she’ll grow her papa’s fiery locks before long?’
Something in these words snapped Ahenobarbus from his stare. He met eyes with Burrus, who looked down to the ground. The slave was not anxious at what Ahenobarbus’s response to the baby might be. He already knew that Nilla’s husband would pick up the child and acknowledge it. There was an agreement in place between all four of them â he and Nilla, Ahenobarbus and Albucilla â an agreement had been struck when Nilla’s monthly flow ceased and she had known she was carrying a child. Albucilla’s hand brushed her lover’s arm and he cocked his ear to let her whisper in it. Practised in tactfulness, the midwives gave no visible reaction to this provocative display, waiting in silence. Ahenobarbus stooped and picked up the child.
‘Ah. There now,’ said the older midwife, beaming.
Ahenobarbus and Albucilla raked the child with their eyes.
‘The hair,’ said Albucilla. ‘You say it will turn red?’
‘I’m sure it will, yes,’ said the midwife, good-naturedly. But she was not sure. Sometimes babies didn’t gain the colour of red-haired fathers â a misfortune that had been known to cause wills to be redrawn even when the mother was blameless. But in this case, the midwife already suspected, there was blame on all sides.
Ahenobarbus met eyes with Burrus again, expressionless. Then his lips split to reveal an unsettling grin.
Albucilla was not grinning. ‘Fetch its mother,’ she said to Burrus.
Burrus frowned. ‘She is asleep. She lost blood.’
‘Fetch her,’ she repeated. ‘Bring her down to your master now. He wishes to congratulate her.’
Burrus knew that something was awry. The agreement was threatened. ‘All right.’ He left the room.
The midwives were apprehensive without knowing why.
Burrus took the stairs two at a time, but slowed when he reached the upper gallery, not wanting to wake Nilla in alarm. He reached the door to her room they shared, the room that had once been the witch Aemilia’s. The aged maid was seated crosslegged on the pallet.
‘I must wake her,’ Burrus whispered.
The old woman shrugged. ‘What interest is that to me?’
Burrus went to go inside but the woman clutched at his ankle. ‘She is exhausted from the birth. Leave her be, for the gods’ sake. Let her sleep.’
‘The red-haired one demands it.’
The old woman stiffened. ‘Has he rejected the child?’
‘He picked her up. He has acknowledged her.’
She relaxed. ‘Then no one will know of the shameful secrets we harbour here.’
‘You and your “shame”, old woman. You walk the halls muttering that we’re the house of the walking damned, but you see the love Nilla and I share and you encourage it. Just as you do with red-hair and his whore.’
The old servant wouldn’t acknowledge this as true, even if it was. ‘Wake her gently, you oaf. Don’t worry her.’
‘What else do you think I’ll do?’
Burrus crept to sleeping Nilla in the bed. ‘My love,’ he whispered, softly kissing her cheek. ‘Wake up, my love.’
Nilla stirred from the depths of her exhaustion. ‘So tired, Burrus …’
‘The red-haired one wants you to come to him. The whore says he wants to congratulate you for the birth.’
‘My little girl?’
‘He has picked her up. The midwives are with her. All is well and happy, as we planned.’
‘That is good …’
Burrus lifted her from the bed, carrying her easily to the door. The old servant placed a sheepskin on Nilla. ‘Careful,’ she whispered. ‘Watch your step.’
Burrus didn’t need to be told. He took the stairs slowly, the mother of his child a sleeping bundle in his arms. Reaching the ground floor, he moved swiftly through the atrium and into the study, where Nilla’s husband was waiting. The oil lamps had been extinguished. The room was now in semi-darkness. Albucilla rose from a chair, silhouetted against the moonlit garden beyond.
‘I have brought Nilla to you,’ Burrus whispered. ‘Say your congratulations.’
The midwives were gone. Albucilla was the only other woman left in the room. ‘Congratulations,’ she said.
‘They’re your lover’s most heartfelt words, are they?’ said Burrus. Turning to the shadows, he called, ‘Show your wife a smile at least, domine, so that she can see that our agreement still stands.’
‘Our
agreement does not stand,’ said Albucilla.
Alarmed, Burrus realised she had a sword in her hand. ‘What do you mean? What is that for? You plan to attack us?’
‘I plan only to defend myself. Should the need arise.’
Burrus looked around the dark room and realised with dismay that Ahenobarbus was not even there. ‘I have woken his wife and brought her downstairs and now he’s playing jokes on us?’
‘He has left,’ said Albucilla simply, her fingers tightening around the sword.
A dread seized Burrus, with Nilla still sleeping in his arms. ‘The baby â where is our baby?’
‘He has taken it. Without the red hair, Rome would have whispered that the child wasn’t his. He was a fool to ever hope otherwise. He’s too softhearted, and you took advantage of him with your little “agreement”. I’ve made him see sense.’
If Burrus’s beloved Nilla had not been sleeping in his arms, he would have snatched the sword from Albucilla and slit her belly with it.
‘Where has he taken her?’
‘Beyond the walls,’ said Albucilla. ‘Just like any other needless child. He will leave her near a tombstone, slave, and there she will be exposed.’
Drusilla laughed and laughed, and when Aemilius touched her again, she laughed some more â a ringing, delighted cry that sounded like birdsong, she thought, as she rolled in the grass with flowers and leaves in her hair.
Aemilius’s voice was dulled and thick, as if coming from another room, even though he was right next to her with his warm, soft hands upon her skin.
‘That feels lovely,’ she said. ‘So balmy and nice. Do you like it?’
He answered with that thick voice again and she couldn’t determine the words.
‘Kiss me,’ she said. ‘Or have you already? That was what my present was to be for drinking it, remember?’ He kissed her hard on the mouth and she liked it. ‘You’re all wet inside,’ said Drusilla, laughing again, until she found she couldn’t stop laughing, or didn’t want to stop â she wasn’t sure which.
His hands were all over her and she thrilled to it. ‘Look at how the sunlight catches the hair on your tummy,’ she told him. Then it struck her as funny that she could see his tummy at all. ‘Look at your belly button,’ she said. She wanted to peer at it closely. ‘It’s so delicious!’ She was aware of her sister Julilla crying somewhere. ‘I’m all right,’ she called out, hoping to placate her. Then, to Aemilius’s stomach again, she cried, ‘I want to eat it!’ She clamped her lips to his skin, thrashing with her tongue. Then she thought she could hear Little Boots somewhere too.
She felt hot. Her garments constricted her. ‘Take them off,’ she moaned. ‘I feel suffocated.’
Aemilius’s hands were on her eagerly, clawing at her clothes.
‘That’s better,’ she told him. ‘That’s so much better …’ She was on her back in the grass, feeling free and alive. She spread her arms and legs and let the cool breeze reach her. ‘So much better,’ she murmured. ‘So nice …’
Aemilius’s hands were at her sex. ‘Naughty,’ she admonished. ‘I wouldn’t let anyone else do that, you know.’ She felt his fingers reach inside her. ‘That tickles … that tickles!’
Suddenly her brother was there with flailing fists. She heard his words distinctly. ‘Bastard!’ he cried. ‘That’s my sister, you bastard!’ The nice game in the grass had become an ugly fight. Little Boots pulled Aemilius from her and was beating him. She heard Julilla’s cries. Drusilla tried to direct her eyes, but she couldn’t see anything but flowers. ‘I don’t mind,’ she called out. ‘I want it to happen â I’m ready for it. It’s because I drank the potion.’
Her sex was filled before she knew it â then a mouth was on her mouth, a tongue tasting hers. ‘Aemilius,’ she murmured. ‘Did you win the fight? Did you make Little Boots go away?’
Bruised and bloody, Aemilius watched the taking of Drusilla’s virginity from the other side of the garden, where he cowered. Across the lawn, beneath the chestnut trees, Drusilla writhed beneath the lover she thought was him. Little Boots had been unable to bear his friend being the one to claim her, when he himself loved Drusilla so dearly. He beat Aemilius with his fists until his friend agreed to enjoy the drugged Drusilla only when Little Boots had claimed first prize.
Once, Aemilius supposed, he would have been disgusted with himself for partaking in such degeneracy. But this was the Emperor’s island. Still, he found his head turning away from the incestuous scene to watch little Julilla rocking back and forth inside a rosebush. The thorns looked very cruel, and he saw that they had torn her skin. But still he found it easier to watch the girl than her older sister. Aemilius wanted the image of Drusilla he held in his mind to be unsullied by anything Little Boots did to her.
Burrus returned to the House of the Aemilii with his arms around Nilla, wanting to protect her but knowing he had failed. Dawn came, bringing the fifth day since their daughter’s birth, but Nilla’s eyes, when the sun’s rays fell on them, were soulless. Her spirit had gone as surely as if she’d died. She drifted somewhere at the limits of Rome, calling for her child. The Nilla in Burrus’s arms was a shell, alive but not living. The aged maid let them in from the street, bolting the huge bronze doors behind them.
‘Will you keep up this search?’ she asked.
Burrus nodded.
‘It will kill her. Look at her eyes.’
‘It will kill her if we stop,’ said Burrus.
‘Then it will take both your lives,’ said the old woman. She had soup ready on a little brazier in the entrance hall and she gave Burrus a cup. ‘What would be the point of it, then? Both of you dead?’
Burrus tried to make Nilla take the cup in her hands, but when she would not grip it he held the soup to her mouth. The old woman nodded. ‘How can we ever stop looking?’ he said. ‘She is our baby. She is out there beyond the city walls.’
‘She is dead. Taken by foxes.’
‘No,’ Burrus moaned.
‘Enslaved then. Found by a mangon.’
‘Stop it,’ begged Burrus. ‘Stop it!’
‘You think your pain is unique? You think no other parent has suffered this before?’
Tears coursed down Burrus’s face as he pressed his lips to Nilla’s hair. Nilla heard nothing of the old woman’s words.
‘I want to kill them,’ Burrus wept. ‘I’ll kill them for what they’ve done.’
‘No, you won’t,’ said the old woman softly. ‘Your loss would only be the greater for it. Nilla might love you like a patrician but you are still a slave. Revenge cannot be yours. So you will live on together in this dishonoured house, just as the master and his slut will live on. You will all live your lives in here and Rome will never know the truth. If you slit them with a sword, Burrus, your Nilla will watch you torn to shreds by jackals.’ She took the cup of soup from where he held it to Nilla’s lips. ‘Drink this yourself. If she cannot eat, then so be it. But you must keep your strength for her sake.’
Burrus drank the soup and the three remained where they were in silence. The old woman shuffled in her shrouds to locate something, then Burrus saw she held a little bronze statue in her hands. ‘Take it,’ she said. It was the figure of a child.
‘What is this?’ Burrus asked.
‘I kept a little shrine for many years. The master’s grandfather once allowed me it. His guilt, it was.’
‘Guilt at what?’
‘At taking the child I bore him and selling it to a brothel.’
Burrus stared at her. ‘Your master sold your child?’
The old woman nodded. ‘If it had been a boy, he might have raised him as part of the household. But not a girl. Just another costly mouth to feed.’
Burrus said nothing.
‘I didn’t take the loss well,’ the old woman whispered. ‘When beatings made no difference, the old master gave me that little statue. It’s her genius, her soul. I placed it on a shrine and kept an oil lamp burning night and day.’
Nilla’s eyes were fixed on the thing. Burrus pressed it into her hands.
‘Make a shrine for your little one, as I did,’ said the old woman. ‘It will help you heal.’
‘Thank you,’ Burrus whispered. He led Nilla into the atrium and up the stairs while the old woman followed in silence. When Nilla’s head was placed upon the pillow, Burrus tried to ease the little figure from her hands.
‘Don’t,’ said the old woman.
Burrus let her sleep with it.
At the door the woman turned to him, preparing to retire to her pallet. ‘The child needs a name for the shrine. You must name the lost girl. Have you thought of one?’
With shame, Burrus told her that he hadn’t. She was just ‘the child’ to him.
‘That’s a pity,’ said the old woman.
‘Acte,’ said Nilla.
They turned to look at the bed.
‘Acte,’ Nilla repeated, her eyes closed in sleep. ‘Our little girl, Acte, taken from us. Our little one … Acte.’
Thus was named the girl who would one day transcribe my history.
The Kalends of April
AD 30
Fifteen months later: the writer Phaedrus
is accused of making unflattering allusions
to Praetorian Prefect Sejanus in his
translation of Aesop’s Fables.
All copies are seized
The reckless request was unheard at first, lost among the crowd’s screams for blood, but it began to grow louder as the tantalising nature of what was being asked tickled people’s fancy and compelled them to add their voices. Those in the stands who could see into the Imperial box where Sejanus sat first saw the movement’s potential. It was they who started the shout, insisting that the honour of raising or lowering his thumb should go to the Prefect in the absence of the Emperor. More and more spectators realised the implication â and got the joke of it â while the two helpless gladiators dripped sweat on the sand, one with the point of his sword at the other’s throat, waiting to see the decision.
‘Sejanus decide!’ they chanted. ‘Sejanus decide!’
Pressed into the shadows of the Imperial family’s box, I held my breath, waiting to see what would come. Sejanus remained in his chair, watching the crowd, his face a mask. But the corners of his mouth were twitching. He was electrified by what was being asked of him. I felt a hand brush my ear. Startled, I turned. My domina, by whose ivory chair I was crouching, smiled at me.
Nest of Vipers Page 37