by Kate Quinn
“Hadrian for a husband,” Sabina corrected, “and you to love.”
“Don’t even bother trying that on me.” I started my pacing again, hands wrapped through my belt so I couldn’t reach out and throttle her.
“I knew Hadrian wouldn’t be any use to me in bed,” Sabina said calmly. “So I thought you might show me the ropes. You certainly seemed like you’d know what to do… and I had a suspicion I might love you too, which was a bonus.”
“You have a funny way of showing it,” I snarled.
“Not really.” Her blue eyes were clear and guileless as she watched me pace back and forth. “I want to be in love as much as any girl, Vix. I just don’t want to be obligated by it. Hadrian as a husband won’t obligate me to anything, and you as a lover won’t either. Not since you’re going to the legions.”
Somehow that enraged more than anything she’d said yet. “I am not going to the bloody legions!”
“Yes, you are. It’s plain as the nose on your face. You’re what the legions are made of.” She rose, slipping her arms about my neck. “You’ll probably conquer us some new province, and the whole city will shout your name and shower you with rose petals.”
I reached up and gripped her wrists before she could come closer. “Stop that.”
“I’m not competing with that, Vix. I don’t even want to.”
“Shut up!”
“I don’t see why you’re so upset,” she pointed out. “I should be the one upset with you. Here I’ve just told you I love you, and you haven’t even been nice enough to say it back.”
“After you used me?” I growled.
“Who used who, Vix? I came to your room every night, bedded you, loved you, asked absolutely nothing in return. You seemed happy to get all you could.”
I ducked that one. “If you think I’m letting you set one foot in my room again—”
“I won’t come if you want,” she sighed. “Though I hope you’ll change your mind? It’s a month till my wedding, and I’d like to make the most of it.”
I wrenched away, pointing at her. “Sabina,” I yelled, using her name for once without feeling the least bit awkward, “I wouldn’t touch you now with a bloody pole!”
“I wonder where that saying comes from,” she mused. “Why a pole? What kind of pole? Why not a rod or a spar or a beam? I’ll have to look that up…”
She fished her scroll out of the frozen fountain and wandered away. I stared at her, fists clenching and unclenching at my sides, and I remembered something I’d overheard Hadrian say to the Empress. Sabina didn’t look anything like her beautiful snake of a mother, but she did have exactly the same way of gliding out of a room. Or in this case, a garden. She was welcome to glide right out of my life, the bitch. She and Hadrian deserved each other.
But when she tapped at my door that night, I went wordlessly and lifted the bar I’d sworn I wouldn’t lift even if she begged, and she slipped into my arms as if nothing had happened.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you, Vix.” Her voice came quiet in the dark. “I’ve never been in love before, you know—I suppose I mishandled it. I’ll go if you like.”
My voice sounded like a rusty scrape. “No.”
I used her hard that night, twisting my hand painfully tight into her hair, kissing her until her lips were swollen, marking her neck deliberately with my mouth. “Explain that to your betrothed,” I said in a savage whisper, but her arms just tightened wordlessly around me.
“Now you can get out,” I said when I’d finished. “Now that you got what you came for.”
It came through the dark, that low chuckle of hers I’d always liked so much. “Vix,” she said, gathering her clothes, “I do love you.”
PLOTINA
“So you see it all turned out well,” Plotina said contentedly. “I knew it would. Dear Publius has his bride, and his foot on the path. We both know where it will lead, don’t we?”
The massive statue of Juno gazed benignly over Plotina’s head. Rome had a great many statues of the queen of the heavens, but Plotina preferred this one in the Capitoline Hill’s great Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. This was not Juno as patron of women and marriage, overseeing her worshippers like a good housewife as they prayed for husbands and babies. This was Juno seated on a massive throne at Jupiter’s side, sternly beautiful in her diadem and goatskin cloak. Juno, empress of gods, just as Plotina was empress of mortals.
Plotina had come to the temple immediately after hearing the news, and the priest had shooed away the other worshippers so she could pray in private. But she did not pray, merely sat on the cold marble of the dais and allowed herself to slouch for once, leaning against the side of Juno’s oversized marble throne as she looked up at the massive statue and told the news. They understood each other very well, Juno and Plotina.
“Little Sabina will be a daughter to me,” Plotina told her sister queen. “I sent her a pearl necklace as soon as I heard the news, to welcome her to the family. I will take her in hand myself, train her for Publius. She will know how to mix his wine as he likes it, what dishes are his favorites, how he prefers his slaves disciplined and his house arranged. She seems most eager to take my advice…”
Plotina’s thoughts flitted momentarily to the moment Hadrian had brought his new betrothed to the palace with their news. “My dear girl,” Plotina had cried, kissing Sabina on both cheeks. “I cannot tell you how happy you have made me. You will be the daughter I never had—of course I will see to the wedding arrangements, and afterward you must both come live in the palace until a suitable villa can be readied. Dear Publius’s house is entirely unsuited for a new wife—”
“We won’t be needing a new villa just yet,” Sabina said, and tilted her head up at Hadrian, who put a fond arm about her shoulders. “We’re going to Greece. And after that, who knows?”
“He says he’s taking her to Greece after the wedding,” Plotina told Juno. “To spend a year as magistrate in Athens. But that’s absurd. He must be here in Rome if his career is to proceed as I’ve planned. I want him consul as soon as he is of age—how is he to manage that gallivanting about Athens?”
Juno looked sympathetic.
“You have sons,” Plotina conceded. “So you know what a trouble young men can be. Dear Publius has always had these useless dreams about traveling the world. What good will that do his career? He can think about leaving Rome after he’s consul, when he has a province to govern. Egypt, I think. Trajan won’t mind giving him that now that he’s a member of the family.”
Plotina frowned. The only blot on her happiness was her husband, who had most decidedly not been pleased by news of the impending marriage. “Little Sabina could do better,” he said shortly.
“She could not—” Plotina began in outrage, but Trajan had cut her off with rare rudeness.
“No more of your prating, Plotina! The boy’s capable enough, I grant you, so I’ll allow the match, but that doesn’t mean I like him any better. And don’t expect me to start treating him like he’s family just because he was cunning enough to marry into it!”
Trajan had stalked away in a bad temper, and Plotina had allowed him his huffy exit. “Husbands,” she said to Juno. “So troublesome.”
Juno understood.
“At least my husband has never humiliated me as yours does you.” Plotina rested an elbow on the dais, tilting her head so she could see the massive marble Jupiter in the center of the temple. “Mortal women and bastard children—really, my dear, I would not put up with it for a moment. But with Trajan it’s all strapping young men, and they are no trouble to me.”
She had not always been so sanguine. The early days of her marriage had been most disappointing. Men had certain tastes as bachelors, she had known that, but it was nothing to prevent them from doing their duty by their wives. Eventually they might grow out of such things altogether. So Plotina had waited, tolerant. Waited longer, less tolerant. Waited still longer. Until the day Trajan had said Those Things to her, quit
e gently over his morning plate of pears. As if being gentle would take the sting out of such words! “If you think I would ever take a lover,” she had told him stonily, “you are quite mistaken in my character. And I am grieved to hear you propose such a thing! Grieved!”
“Gods’ bones, Plotina—”
“As if it matters that you ‘don’t mind at all!’”
“I just want to see you happy,” he placated. “There are plenty who do the same and are happy all around.” But he had never referred to the matter again. Instead, chastened, he had offered to make her Augusta as soon as he became Emperor. Plotina had made a swift and icy refusal to that. “If you think I am the sort of wife to break her marriage vows,” she said in her coldest tones, “then I am obviously not worthy of the title of Augusta.”
He let the matter drop, though he proposed it every year after. This year Plotina had a mind to accept. Why not? I am already the Mother of Rome. This would just make it official.
“Dear Publius is so proud of me,” she told Juno. “My achievements are his, and his are mine… A pity he takes after Trajan in those ways, but perhaps a blessing. He’ll do his duty by little Sabina, I’ve made it clear to him that it’s necessary, but I’ll remain first in his heart. As a mother should.”
Juno agreed.
“Sabina will come to understand. The babies will console her—at least three sons. Dear Publius must have heirs. An emperor needs heirs, and he’s going to be Emperor of Rome.”
Juno approved.
Plotina rose, dusting off her skirts. “I fear I must go now, my dear.” She gave an affectionate pat to Juno’s marble foot, nearly on a level with her eyes. “I have a wedding to plan, and then I must see if I can’t get this journey to Greece stopped. Really, what an idea.”
Plotina raised her veil over her hair, lifting her skirts a modest inch as she descended the outer steps of the Temple of Jupiter. When Dear Publius was Emperor, perhaps she could have the statue of Jupiter recarved with her dear boy’s face? Her own face for Juno’s statue, of course. Sabina could take some minor goddess. Vesta, maybe. A little domestic goddess who troubled nobody.
Plotina knew every step of the path ahead of Dear Publius. Legate during Trajan’s upcoming war in Dacia, then governor of somewhere (Gaul, perhaps?), then consul, then Prefect of Egypt… and eventually, Emperor. Emperor Publius Aelius Hadrian. She was perfectly certain. So was Juno.
And really, was there any difference between the two of them?
VIX
“We’ll be sorry to lose you, Vix.” Lady Calpurnia set down the little robe she was embroidering for the coming baby. “Can I persuade you to stay on?”
“No, I’m grateful for everything—you’ll thank the senator for me?” I shifted from foot to foot. “But guarding’s not for me.”
“Send us word how you get on, then.” Lady Calpurnia gave me a purse. “And take this for all your service to us. You won’t wait an hour? My husband just left to take Sabina to the Capitoline Library.”
“No, I’ll be going now.” I’d been very sure to pick an hour when both Sabina and her father were out. “Thank you, Lady.”
The day was cold and blustery as I left the Norbanus gates. So much for a job. So much for the year to come—the city looked gray and listless after the previous night’s Agonalia festivities: forgotten pennants lying in the gutters, the occasional wreath of festival flowers lying brown and crushed underfoot. Men winced as they plodded along, nursing headaches from the night’s drinking, and housewives looked harassed and cross from the day’s cleaning they were doubtless facing. Hooray for a new year.
Last year in my father’s house in Brigantia, the year’s-end festival had been a cheerful thing. My mother had been born a Jew but wasn’t too strictly devout anymore after her upbringing in Rome; my father had had most of his belief in any kind of divine power drubbed out of him during his years in the Colosseum—but there had been a celebration anyway, meat and mead and games, my father and I fighting a friendly bout on the grass with wooden swords while my mother and sister cheered, my baby brother choosing that day to take his first steps, a neighboring family coming over to join us for a long and friendly firelight dinner.
The turn of this year had been far less pleasant.
I pulled my cloak about me and trudged along to the Subura, arguing with my old landlord to give me my room back. Half of Lady Calpurnia’s purse did the trick, and I promptly set out to dispose of the rest.
I got roaring drunk that night. Had a girl, had two, hoped Sabina was eating her faithless heart out. “Here’s to patrician bitches!” I shouted, raising my cup, and the rest of the tavern drank with me. I drank the rest of Lady Calpurnia’s purse away and was digging at my pouch for more coins when I found something and tinkling—an elaborate silver earring set with tiny garnets. I looked at it a while and was tempted to toss it to the table to pay my bill, but it was worth more than I’d drunk, and only the rich can afford grand gestures. I might as well have full value out of that earring. “First full value I got out of her,” I growled, and tucked it away again.
It was midnight by the time I staggered out, and I must have gotten used to living in a nicer part of the city because I forgot the cardinal rule of the Subura: Don’t travel alone.
“This is from Tribune Hadrian.” A snarl came from behind me, and a massive blow on my skull drove me to my knees.
I fought, but there were at least five of them and I was reeling drunk. Three of them held me while the other two alternated hitting me. By the time they were done I had a broken nose, a handful of broken ribs, and a face so bruised even my mother wouldn’t have known me. They dropped me and kicked me around for a while, and once I curled up in a ball trying to protect my innards, the leader leaned down and yanked my head back by the hair. “Next time you want to make a man look ridiculous in front of the Emperor,” he recited in the tones of a memorized message, “don’t choose Tribune Hadrian.”
“Tell the tribune his bride’s a whore,” I mumbled. “Tell him I had her three times a night for months.” But my mouth was full of blood and the thugs had already swaggered off. I lay there spitting out blood for a while. Some urchins came along and stole my sandals and cloak.
It really hadn’t been a very good week.
TITUS
Titus blinked, looking down. “Hello there,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“Lift me up,” the little girl said imperiously, tugging again at his sleeve. “I want to see.”
Titus reached down and lifted up the little fair-haired girl in her embroidered blue dress. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.”
“Yes, I am. I’m Antonia, my mother came to the wedding—”
“No, you little liar, you’re Faustina. You’re Sabina’s little sister, and after the wedding feast I distinctly heard your mother say that you were too little to walk along with the wedding procession.”
Faustina scowled, caught. “But I want to see!”
“So did I, at your age.” He shifted her to his right arm, her five-year-old weight warm and sweet-smelling, and joined the back of the wedding procession that had just formed at the Norbanus house. Senator Norbanus looked proud and a little rueful, reaching up to hold hands with his wife, who rode in a litter because she declared she could not walk one more step on her swollen feet, much less the mile to the house of her new son-in-law. Beaming slaves had come out with torches to light the way, casting shadows over the chattering crowd of guests. Tribune Hadrian stood triumphant, his massive handsome head thrown back against a darkening twilight sky as he spoke with a beaming Empress Plotina. And on Hadrian’s other arm stood a small figure in a saffron cloak: the bride, smiling serenely under her scarlet bridal veil. In the torchlight, the veil looked like a sheet of flame.
“I like the red veil,” Faustina said critically in Titus’s arms. “’Bina’s pretty in red.”
“Yes,” he said. “She is.”
The procession flowed down the str
eet in a wave of music and well-wishes. Slaves sang wedding songs, the bawdier verses causing the Empress to exhale threateningly. Hadrian paced along, tossing walnuts out at the guests who called congratulations—a symbol of the prosperity to come. Sabina was led along by a trio of pages, one at each hand and one lighting the way with a torch. Evening passersby pointed and waved, calling out good-luck wishes. Titus paced slowly at the back, Faustina craning in his arms.
“There’s the house,” she said breathlessly. “Now he carries her over the doorstep, Mama told me. Mama said she didn’t want Father to carry her when they were married; she thought he’d hurt his bad shoulder. But he said he’d manage it somehow; he didn’t even try with the first two wives and look how they turned out. An’ he did, he carried Mama right over—”
Titus watched as the threshold of Sabina’s new home was sanctified, the prayer uttered. Then Hadrian handed aside the basket of walnuts and came toward his bride, and she smiled at him and held her arms up. He lifted her easily, tossing her up as the crowd cheered, and carried her over the threshold. The guests followed in a bright stream.
“I think that’s all we can see,” Titus told little Faustina. “Your mother will catch us if we go in. I’ll take you back, and you’ll be safe in your bed with no one the wiser by the time they all get home.”
Faustina gave a reluctant nod. Titus shifted her to his other arm and summoned one of the torchbearers to light their way back to the Norbanus house. It was nearly dark, just a streak of red and purple remaining in the west where the sun had vanished.
“You’re sad,” Faustina said suddenly as they rounded the corner of the street and Hadrian’s house disappeared from sight.
“I am?” Titus tried to smile.
“Yes.” The little girl’s frown was implacable. She was pretty even when she frowned—a little blond thing with a snub nose. Nothing like Sabina.
“Well, I am a little sad, Faustina.”
“Why?”
“Because I am in love with your big sister.” The first time I’ve said it, he thought with a twist. Even to himself. “Quite wildly in love with her, actually, and I have just watched her marry someone else.”