“I see.” It took all my self-control to say only those two words.
“Octavia was vulnerable to the attentions of Agrippina because she has been overlooked her whole life, and suddenly the light was shining on her and she was won over. She is as always a pawn.”
“Why have you come to me? Why did you not just sit back and let things unfold? Your lot is with them.”
“I choose my own lot,” she said. “My lot is now with you.”
“Why?”
She smiled, a hesitant smile that was tentative, nervous. “Because I wish to be. Because I admire you—and because I want you.”
And as quickly as that, we passed from acquaintances to lovers.
I held her to me. “I have wanted you ever since I saw you beside the mosaic,” I whispered. “But that was for your beauty. Now added to that is courage, which is much rarer and more to be prized.”
We retreated to the room adjacent to the workroom, where my bed was. Several small oil lamps were flickering on their stands. It was very cold in the room; only one brazier gave off a feeble glow. But I no longer noticed the cold; the warmth of her body, the heat that grew as we held one another, dispelled any chill. She was everything I had ever wished to hold, and her glorious hair, spread out all around her, slid under my hands and I buried my face in it. Between her breasts there was the smell of cypress, a faint scent just barely there. The danger all around us only fueled the desire and the urgency, made it seem more reckless and desperate.
Our first coupling was fierce and heated. Afterward, lying under the sheet, she laid her head on my shoulder, running her slender fingers up and down my arms. “I have known you ever since you came to the palace, have watched you grow to manhood. I have known you, but you have not known me.”
“I have seen you without knowing you.” I sighed. “Perhaps in my dreams I have known you, without truly knowing your form or face.” I held her closer. “But now I know both.”
We moved closer together, neither wanting to say the words Do I have you now? Or is this just for tonight, just because of the danger?
Now we made love languidly, joyfully. The brazier burned out, and the cold tightened its grip on the room, but we paid it no heed. The moment felt eternal, sacred, protected.
• • •
The oil lamps were spent, and a faint light was spreading along the eastern rim of the horizon when she woke me, caressing my shoulder and whispering, “I must go. I must not be seen here.”
Before I could protest, she was out of bed and leaning over me. “No one must know.”
My mind, still fogged, did not forget the important question. “About tonight? Or about nights to come?”
“Both,” she said, kissing my cheek. Then she was gone, stealing away in the early dawn.
XXXV
ACTE
I was safely back in my rooms. No one was stirring yet. Octavia was a late sleeper, and Britannicus likewise. Oh, I had done it. I had done it; I had saved him. For I had no doubt that he would now take measures to protect himself. What would befall the others I could not know, nor could I take responsibility for it.
Quickly I undressed and sought my own bed, so I could seem to have spent the whole night there. As soon as I lay beneath the sheet, a warmth and blush spread over me as I remembered details of our night. The first time, he had made ferocious love; the second revealed he knew considerable about the arts and refinements of love; the third . . . acute, aching desire characterized that one.
I smiled. I had indeed watched him grow up, but from my first glimpse of him I knew he would grow into a man to be reckoned with. I had first seen him at the palace celebration of the marriage of his mother to Claudius, when he was eleven, and I was seventeen. I had spoken to him in the crowd, but he would not remember that. I think his greatest appeal was his fresh-faced youth, so shining and clean. He never lost that.
When I met him again, grown to manhood, and Octavia presented me as the model of the mosaic, I suddenly wanted him. The force of that desire took me by surprise and had no excuse. He was her husband, and I have never been a thief. So I watched him from afar and left it at that. But after what I heard tonight in her chambers I could do nothing other than what I did. I did not plan to go to his bed—wanting is not the same as planning.
He had lovely hair, blond and thick, and tonight it had smelled of smoke, smoke from the brazier, a woody, heady scent.
I loved him until the day he died, and I shall love him until the day I die.
XXXVI
NERO
I never slept after she left. I lay in bed, watching the room grow lighter as the late-winter sun finally rose above the horizon. The faint scent of her was all there was to prove that the hours had not been a dream. I had spoken true when I said I might have dreamed of her, just not by name. She had long been in my consciousness, swaying gently in secret regions of my mind, an unseen presence.
The scent of her, and the dagger lying where I had dropped it . . . that was what remained of the night. I wanted to believe her, but such heinous accusations had to be confirmed. What had she said about the bier? That it was concealed behind a fence. It could only be in the Campus Martius, for that was tradition. Surely they would not rob me of the honor of a traditional funeral.
Funeral. One was being readied for me.
I hastily dressed, putting on old clothes and a dark wig, and told my attendants that I was going to inspect the grounds for my new baths in the Campus Martius but did not want the builders to know I was there. They could follow me, but not closely.
• • •
Once I knew what to look for, it was easy to find. Had I not known, I could have passed it by as others around me were doing. There was a tall fence of fresh-cut wood, a sheen of frost on it in this early morning. I peered through a chink and saw the workmen heaving logs onto a structure that was unmistakable in its geometry. A square of big logs formed the base, and arranged neatly on top of that were ever-decreasing levels of wood, climbing up almost to the top of the tall fence. A cremation tower. Atop it would go the litter with someone on it.
I did not try to enter. They must not know I had seen, and knew.
It is not every day that one beholds one’s funeral pyre, especially if one is feeling healthy. How did they plan to do it? An assassin with a dagger, like the thugs Messalina had sent against me as a child? Or would they surround me and strike me down like they did with Caligula? They would have to corrupt the Praetorians first, and there was no evidence they had unkind feelings or complaints toward me. Probably that would not be the way.
An accident? A fall from the palace roof or balcony? A horse that bolts? But they had only a few days to execute the plan, and this was not the season for riding, nor of seeking the palace rooftop.
There was only one sure way, one way that I knew Mother favored.
Therefore I was not in the least surprised to see Locusta near the apartments of Britannicus. In fact, I had waited for her there, sitting quietly on a bench hidden behind a marble urn.
XXXVII
LOCUSTA
We meet again.” The voice came out of nowhere, and then he materialized. Nero, suddenly in front of me. He blocked my way.
“Indeed,” was all I could say. My heart was racing. This was as bad as it could be.
“I thought you were in prison,” he said. I could not read his face. It seemed to have a blank expression.
“I have been released,” I said, “through the kindness of your mother.”
Now he laughed, a bitter laugh. “Beware the kindness of my mother. You have been sent for, that is what you mean. She has a task for you. After that task you will be returned to prison, as you were the last time.”
I stood silently. Whatever I said would be a trap for me.
“My mother is persuasive, and of course she is a longtime client. But a—what did you call yours
elf once? tradesman?—a tradesman must always seek new clients. So I am prepared to outbid her.”
“What are your terms?” I asked. I might as well be blunt with him, as he was with me. And I was ready—no, eager—to switch sides, because the thought of harming him weighed heavily with me. From the first time I had seen him, even as a child, we had developed a strange, strong bond.
“Turn your wares on the employer rather than the intended, and the intended—that is, I—will reward you beyond what you dream.” He paused. “Never to go to prison again. Much gold, in jewelry and in ingots. And I will arrange for you to have your own academy where you can train others. After all, you are a master, and you should pass on your skills and knowledge to others. There will always be a demand for them.”
My own academy! To openly teach my arts, but no longer have to practice them and be caught in the web of murderers, pursued by fear? To never see the walls of a prison again. And to spare the life of this extraordinary youth.
“It is a bargain,” I said.
“I thought it might be.” Oh, why didn’t he smile? His face was still a tight mask. “Now, let us withdraw to a private place where we can talk.”
• • •
He wished to know the details, but I told him it was a professional secret and that he must respect that. He asked how I would evade the tasters, and again I demurred, pleading professional courtesy. He was uneasy and I knew he would eat absolutely nothing. There was truly no reason he should trust me and I did not attempt to assuage his suspicion. After all, too many people have died of overtrusting and very few of overcaution.
He needn’t have worried about the tasters. Of course there would be tasters; amateurs are stopped by tasters, but I would not be. I had a foolproof two-step plan. The poison would be in the water used to cool the wine, which would already have been tested by the taster, then intentionally heated too hot for Britannicus’s taste.
Britannicus was a nasty sort and I felt no sorrow for him ending up on the bier he had planned for another. Such justice rarely happens, and I was honored to be its instrument.
XXXVIII
NERO
When the sun set that day, a bloody circle embedded in a red-streaked sky that looked like an inflamed wound, I wondered if anyone would consider it a portent. I was thankful that it wasn’t mine.
Yes, they had meant it to be my last night on earth, my last sunset. The pyre must be finished now, awaiting its victim. I shuddered and turned away, asking a slave to draw the curtain and veil that sky.
They set a supper before me, and I asked to be alone. The platter held cold meat, dried figs, cheese, and bread, but I wouldn’t touch any of this. I would dispose of it by dropping it over the balcony, leaving only a few crumbs on my plate, attesting to a hearty appetite. All must seem normal, and I, unsuspecting.
When it was still early I retreated to my inner chamber and attempted to read, but the words were meaningless and unintelligible. Even poetry, usually the most accessible to me, was out of reach. I put Catullus down and stared out in space, my eyes almost unseeing. There was a roar in my head, a steady swell that drowned out all coherent thought. Instead, images and feelings raced across my mind, twisting and fading. Oddly enough, they were of people I had never actually seen—Julius Caesar, Hannibal, Ptolemy, my grandmother Antonia. Perhaps when we come close to death we are visited by people already dead, expecting to welcome us. Last of all came Augustus, and unlike the others, he did not fade and recede but came right up to me, his face only a handsbreadth away. He turned and whispered in my ear, “It is not good to have too many Caesars.” Then he nodded and vanished.
Augustus had known that, and now, to my sorrow, I knew it, too.
So I was following in his footsteps, in the footsteps of all those before me who had found it prudent to prune the ancestral bush and eliminate the other branches. It was not what I had thought myself to be. I was not one of them. But it seemed that, after all, I was.
I sought my bed. Only sleep could vanquish these torturous thoughts and images. If sleep would come . . . oh, let sleep come. I dared not take a draft because it might leave me drugged the next day, when I needed to be utterly alert and in command of all my senses.
Waves of guilt washed over me as I lay there. But finally I got hold of myself and asked, Which would you rather be? A guilt-ridden survivor or a dead innocent? There is no other choice.
• • •
The banquet was ready, spread sumptuously in the large chamber reserved for such feasts. There were several couch arrangements of nine people, and in the center, a large table where imperial children and sons and daughters of aristocrats dined. This would be the last time Britannicus would sit at the “children’s table” and it was this occasion being celebrated, as the next day he would be fourteen. It was, in actuality, the last time he would sit at any table, as only Locusta and I knew.
An array of high-ranking guests were assembled: the imperial family, of course, but senators, court officials, and friends as well. They included Burrus, Seneca and his protégé Serenus, and Vitellius—that stout buzzard from back in Tiberius’s reign. Britannicus had gathered together a number of his friends, including Lucan, Seneca’s nephew; Titus, his schoolmate and General Vespasian’s son; and a coterie of sympathizers.
Mother glided up to me, wearing the pearl- and ruby-encrusted gown. Her manner was entirely natural, not that of a mother who would not see her son alive again after this night. What a family of actors we were. Is it any wonder that I later stepped over the line and turned professional?
“I see you are wearing my gift,” I said.
She shrugged dismissively. “A gift? All the imperial wardrobe was mine. You merely gave me something I already owned.”
Why argue with her? I held the power now and need not waste my energy trying to convince her of anything or win an argument. “I am sorry you see it that way, Mother,” was all I said.
Musicians sat discreetly in the back, playing the lyre, the flute, and the harp, soft melodies that blended into the background. Slaves sprayed scent around the room, attar of rose and lily. The wine was served in tall stemmed silver goblets, the finest from Albano, aged nine years, its distinctive trademarked amphoras lined up against the wall to assure the guests the supply was practically unlimited.
Britannicus was holding forth with his friends, being feted and flattered. Titus, a stocky, bull-necked boy, looked every inch a general’s son. Lucan, a more delicate-featured lad, was animated and flushed.
As the time came for us to take our places, it fell to me to say a few words. His mother and father were dead and there was no one to speak for him. So I welcomed the company and congratulated Britannicus. At that point Lucan asked if he could read a poem he had written for the upcoming birthday and proceeded to do so. It was surprisingly good. Then—I do not know what overcame me—I suddenly said that I was so happy to welcome my brother into his adulthood, as I would rely on his help in carrying the burdens of empire. It was perverse of me, but it just came out. I knew people would remember it the next day, while right now it would reassure Britannicus that I was ignorant of what was slated to happen. Satisfied, I took my place on the imperial couch and was joined by Mother, Octavia, Seneca, Burrus, and four senators.
I looked around the room. Tasters were stationed behind every couch, spearing food on the passing platters, sipping wine from slender pitchers. A huge platter of mushrooms was put before me and a taster dutifully took one from the edge, chewed it, waited a moment, then nodded. I took some but of course would not eat any. Britannicus glanced at me from time to time to see if I was eating. Mother, too, leaned over to glance at my plate.
I was still in ignorance about how Locusta would keep her commitment. The tasters were vigilant tonight. Could it be a poisoned cushion or a poisoned napkin? Perhaps it was not what we would eat but what we would handle or sit on. Or perhaps it was in the p
erfume being sprayed, lethal to breathe? Or in the smoke from the braziers? If in the air, it would be general, not specific. My chest started to feel tight.
Britannicus stood and held his goblet aloft. “I must say something. My dear friends, who have surrounded me with care, my dearest sister, Octavia, this is your night as much as mine. Be with me on the onward journey.” He raised his goblet, then sat back down. Everyone drank.
An instant later he jerked up, convulsed, and fell rigid onto the floor. His limbs twitched and his head rolled, then his eyes closed and everything went limp. In falling, he had swept the platters off the table and now they clanged around him, their food everywhere.
Everyone sat frozen like statues, then a number of the guests scrambled off the couches and ran for the doors. At Britannicus’s table, Titus grimaced and grabbed for his throat. On our couch, Octavia was speechless and wide-eyed.
It was up to me to lead the way. I leaned back and said, “It is of no concern. This happens to him often, as it does to epileptics. He has suffered from this since childhood. He will recover consciousness soon. He must be taken to his chamber.” I motioned to a petrified slave and told him to get a litter. Two slaves soon loaded the flaccid Britannicus onto it and out of the room.
As if a spell had been lifted, the company went back to eating, playing their parts. But Mother turned to look at me, terrified. Her eyes told me everything. Is there anything more frightening than realizing your enemy has outsmarted you and has you at his mercy? Especially if you pride yourself in always having the upper hand?
“A pity,” I said. “His birthday dinner is spoiled. But he had some lovely poems first.” I patted her hand.