Mistress of Rome (50 page)

A long pause. Then—“Yes.”

“Good,” said Marcus. “Then we have a chain of two.”

Arius and Paulinus eyed each other unenthusiastically. I looked down at my lap. I didn’t want to sit at home, waiting to see if my lover came back alive. I was tired of that. I wanted—I wanted to be a link in the chain for once.

Arius spoke over Paulinus’s head, to Marcus. “One more thing,” he said. “How do we know we can trust you?”

Paulinus blinked. Marcus and the Empress looked impassive.

“You patricians are used to sacrificing people for your politics,” Arius rumbled. “What’s a worn-out old gladiator’s life worth to you? What’s a Jewish singer’s life? Who says you won’t throw us to the lions once we do your dirty work?”

“Listen—” Paulinus bristled. Marcus quelled him with a finger.

“How do you know you can trust us?” he asked Arius. “You don’t. But you won’t get your son back any other way.”

A brief silence. I looked at the Empress, and the Empress looked at me. Arius looked at Marcus, and Marcus looked at him. Paulinus scowled between them.

The Empress rustled her green silk gown as she set down her wine cup. “It looks like we’ll just have to trust each other, Athena,” she said. “No, it’s Thea, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” I said. “So how soon can you smuggle Arius into the palace?”

“Not soon,” said the Empress. “We wait until September.”

“September?” Arius and I broke out in unison. Months away—and Vix was scheduled to fight again in the Colosseum next month. Sketches of him armed and helmeted like his father were already plastered all over the city. I’d even seen the words chalked on a schoolroom door:
‘Vercingetorix the Young Barbarian makes all the little girls’ hearts beat faster.’
“I want Domitian dead now!”

“It’s only been whispered so far,” said the Empress, “but my husband has recently received from Nessus the date of his death. According to Nessus and the stars, Domitian will die on the eighteenth of this September, in the fifth hour of the evening. Until that day and that hour is past, he’ll be impossible to catch off-guard. We strike the next day, when he is rejoicing at his survival. Just when he is feeling invincible.”

“You’re saying we have to wait nearly three
months
?” I cried out. “My son may die within weeks!”

“Vix will get through,” said the Empress. “That little hooligan of yours is a horror, but he keeps Domitian entertained. As long as my husband is entertained, he won’t kill anyone.”

“Understand one thing.” Arius’s hands locked around each other like carved wood. “We’ll wait. But if my son dies in the arena, then Domitian dies, too. Same day. Same hour. Hell with your plans.”

The Empress looked at him, considering. “Did you train your son, Barbarian?”

“I did.”

“Then I’m confident he will survive the arena in style.”

I turned my face away. Arius’s hand found mine and swallowed it.

“I believe we’ve covered everything now.” The Empress reached for her
palla
. “And I believe it’s time I got back to the Domus Augustana. If I’m even a minute late, Domitian will send the guards out to question my sister. She’d lie for me, though she dislikes me heartily, but that stalwart husband of hers couldn’t tell a lie to save his life.”

We broke apart without speaking. Paulinus stood turning his Praetorian’s helmet over in his hands and looking awkward. The Empress nodded a general farewell and climbed into a hired litter. Marcus tidied up the wine cups, the cushions, and circle of chairs with the calm of one long used to covering his tracks. Arius and I slipped out the slave entrance into the dark street without a word.

“Congratulations,” I said. “From gladiator to assassin. I hope it’s worth giving up our son.”

“He’ll survive.” Gripping my hand. “Thea. Trust me.”

W
HAT do you mean, he won’t see me?” I stared down my nose at the Imperial chamberlain, but he stared right back.

“The Emperor is engaged at the moment, Domina.”

“But he’ll see
me
.” I arched subtly inside my jade silk drapes, a reminder of exactly what I was to the Lord and God of Rome.

“He commands you to wait with the others, Domina.”

Fuming, I waited. Outside his door in the marble hall like a loitering slave with all the rest of the petitioners and servants and courtiers who hovered in hopes of any brief moment of Imperial favor. Suffering the curiosity, the glances, the whispers of those who both fawned on me and prayed for my downfall.

At last the doors swung wide—but it was not my Imperial lover who sallied forth. It was a girl with golden hair and a simper; a Lady Aurelia Rufina, senator’s wife and much-gossiped-about beauty. A seventeen-year-old girl fanning herself prettily as she slouched out of Domitian’s private chambers. A seventeen-year-old girl who bestowed on me, as she strolled past, an unmistakable smirk.

Stretching my lips into a smile, I boldly struck open the door of the Imperial tablinum before the steward could object.

“Lepida Pollia.” Domitian barely glanced up, scribbling away at a postscript for a letter while one secretary hovered at his elbow with a slate, another brought a pile of fresh pens, two couriers hurried in with more scrolls and out with freshly sealed Imperial screeds, and a centurion shifted from foot to foot waiting to make a report. “I thought I might see you.”

“How could I possibly stay away from you any longer, Lord and God?” I held my smile with an effort. No doubt he was testing my loyalty, seeing if I’d fuss over a little indiscretion. “Why don’t you send the secretaries away? Don’t you think you’ve worked enough for now?”

“I’m busy.” He sealed a packet of letters and tossed it over to a slave.

I trailed my fingers over Domitian’s arm. “Then I’ll see you at the games tomorrow morning?” I was to sit in the Imperial box for the Ludi Saeculares, the biggest games of the year. I had a new flame-colored
stola
, specially made to set off the collar of fire opals Domitian had given me last month—

“I shan’t need you during the games tomorrow.” He flicked his fingers, and I found an unctuous freedman at my elbow, murmuring me out the door. A few petitioners flew to my side at once, bowing and gushing; a few courtiers with honey tongues and envying eyes—but even more were clustered around that simpering blond child, Aurelia Rufina.

“Too bad, Lady Lepida.” The loathsome voice of Thea’s brat piped up at my elbow. “The Emperor get tired of you already? Toldja you had lousy luck.”

“Shut up,” I hissed. “Shut up; you’ll be dead anyway; killed in the arena just like your father, so what do you know about luck?” I slapped the grinning face as hard as I could.

“Sure. Maybe I’ll be dead.” He danced out of reach, rubbing his face comically. “But nobody forgets a dead gladiator—they go out heroes. How do old whores like you go out?”

“You’re not a gladiator, you little runt!” I lunged for him, but he slipped grinning out of my hands. “You only won last time because you threw sand in the Gaul’s face! Your father might have been a man, but you’re just a cowardly slave brat!”

He made an obscene gesture and sauntered away. Little monster. I smoothed a lock of hair off my forehead and the frown off my face, putting the brat’s words behind me. I certainly had not lost the Emperor. He was just having a little indulgence, and he’d come back to me when it was sated. He’d done that in the past, after all. The trick was not to look worried.

I sallied out to the Saeculares games the following morning, bestowing a lavish smile on every speculative glance that came my way, my flame-colored gown and fire opals wasted on Marcus. I entered the Norbanus box on my husband’s arm, displacing the plain Calpurnia in her brown silk—really, why was she still such a regular guest? Shortly after the Vestal had been executed, Paulinus had asked Domitian rather halfheartedly if he could break the betrothal. “No,” snapped Domitian, and that had been that. Still, she had to know she wasn’t wanted. I bumped her off Marcus’s arm and outdid her laughing at Marcus’s mild jests. No one would catch
me
looking worried.

“Overdoing it a bit, aren’t you?” my husband murmured.

“Just smile and kiss me, darling,” I ordered under cover of my peacock fan as we settled into our seats. “If you know what’s good for you. Look, there’s the parade.” I directed a serene gaze out over the arena; ignoring my husband’s slow dry smile, ignoring my daughter drawing away from me—and especially ignoring the stares that slipped my way as the Emperor appeared in the Imperial box. What did I have to worry about? I was the most beautiful, the most alluring and seductive woman in Rome. No yellow-haired chit of seventeen could compete. Domitian would be calling me back to his bed by the end of the week.

I watched the opening wild beast duels, the comic acts, the white bulls plodding past in their garlands of flowers. I reached to refill my wine goblet, and my eyes fell on Paulinus. He looked rather well these days—fit and brown, even smiling now and then. Perhaps he’d gotten over his touching little crush on the dead Vestal. Paulinus and a
Vestal
—how utterly, utterly typical.

His friend—Majan or Trajan or something, a regular guest in our box since Marcus had learned he was some kind of distant cousin—leaned over to give Paulinus a nudge, looking exasperated, and Paulinus turned rather dutifully to his betrothed.

“I trust you are enjoying the parade, Calpurnia?”

“It’s very splendid.”

“I’ve seen very little of you lately. My duties have been pressing. Perhaps you would like to accompany me to an Imperial banquet next week?”

“The first time I went to an Imperial banquet I saw an orgy,” Calpurnia said bluntly. “And the second time I went I saw an assassination attempt, an arrest, and a murder. I don’t really think I want to try a third time.”

Paulinus could not stifle a smile, teeth gleaming in his sun-darkened face. “I suppose I can’t blame you.”

“I’ve been to see the augurs, Paulinus,” Calpurnia said. “About a date for our wedding.”

“Oh?” said Paulinus cautiously.

“It seems there is nothing auspicious enough,” said Calpurnia. “Not for months.”

“Oh,” said Paulinus.

They exchanged a certain glance, and restored their attention to Trajan and Marcus respectively. I sent Paulinus the slow smile that always turned his knees to water. He nodded back curtly, and looked away. Playing cool in front of his friend and fiancée, of course. We’d see how cool he was once I got him alone. Really, if Domitian could amuse himself, why shouldn’t I?

The midday executions dragged past, and then the gladiators marched through the Gate of Life in their purple cloaks, pairing off for the preliminary fights. My daughter leaned forward, her eyes bending on the muscled armored figures. I looked at her irritably. “Since when is Little Lady Squeamish a gladiator fan?”

“I’m not,” she said, eyes still fixed on the arena. “I went for the first time at Matralia, and it was all fairly awful. But it is interesting.”

I brushed a fly away from my wine cup. “You’ve got a crush on a trident fighter, I suppose.”

“No . . . it’s just that the gladiators are supposed to care about dying well, and all they care about is not dying at all.” Her eyes traveled from the arena to the packed tiers of the Colosseum, the laughing cheering crowds of plebs and patricians alike. “People don’t seem to see that.”

“Perhaps it’s the young Barbarian who makes your heart pound?” I smiled. “Such low tastes, Sabina. Even an ugly little girl with foaming fits can do better than a gladiator.”

“Trade seats with me, Sabina,” Marcus intervened smoothly. “My view is better.”

They traded seats, a move that placed her on Marcus’s other side next to Calpurnia. Sabina leaned forward toward the arena again, and my husband immediately engaged his almost-daughter-in-law in some boring discussion. Paulinus was busy listening to Trajan outline a proposed method of revamping the legions, and around us the crowd was shouting encouragement to the gladiators as they warmed up with wooden weapons. “Marcus,” I said, “fill my cup, will you?”

“Of course, my dear.” He leaned over to fill my goblet, and I leaned toward the arena, at last starting to enjoy myself as the Emperor gave the signal and the gladiators fell on each other with hoarse shouts. Nothing like a good slaughter to clear the head.

“By the way,” Marcus said casually, handing me my goblet. “I’m divorcing you.”

“Mmm?” I blinked, looking up from a pair of Egyptians tussling over a trident.

His voice was clear, carrying over the shouts around the box. “I’m divorcing you.” Calpurnia glanced over.

Sabina glanced up at me. Behind her a Numidian shrieked as a little Gaul chopped his knee out from under him.

“You shouldn’t joke, Marcus.” I tossed my head. “You know what the Emperor will do to you if I whisper in his ear.”

“It looks like someone else is whispering in his ear now.” Marcus indicated the Imperial box. The Empress had retired for the afternoon, and a figure in a pink silk
stola
had just slouched in to perch on the arm of Domitian’s chair. A yellow-haired figure.

“Aurelia Rufina? She’s temporary, just a whim—it’s me Domitian wants—”

“I think he’s done with you, Lepida. And so am I.” Marcus looked at me the way he looked at opposing senators in debates about water rights. “I am hereby divorcing you—legally, of course, I can do that with a word. I’ll give you until the end of the day to remove what possessions you have from my house.”

I thrust the question of the Emperor aside. What did Marcus know about Domitian? Nothing, that’s what, but the other attack had come so suddenly and I unsheathed my claws. “Emperor or no Emperor, Marcus, you know what I’ll do to you if you divorce me. Your precious Paulinus will—”

“In addition,” Marcus overrode me, “I will be charging you with adultery. Within the sixty days prescribed by law I will present the courts with my extensively gathered evidence.” He smiled at me, quite gently. “Yes, Lepida. I’m putting my foot down.”