Mistress of Rome

  “My dear Paulinus,” Marcus had written in his firm unaged hand. “The Senate has finished its wrangling over the problem of the drains and the new aqueduct and the declining birth rate (at least briefly) so I am coming home to visit. You may expect me—”

  “I thought I’d see you this morning,” Lepida yawned as Paulinus appeared in the atrium. She was still wrapped in her white sleeping robe. “Got one of these, did you?” She waved a roll of parchment between the tips of her fingers.

  “He’s coming back.”

  “Yes, so I read. Care for some barley water?”

  “No.” His feet took him across the room and back, across and back. “He’s coming back.”

  “Will you stop repeating yourself?” She arranged herself among the couch cushions.

  “Lepida, it’s got to stop. Now.” He could see the slaves clustered in the anteroom beyond the atrium, whispering behind their hands.

  “Why?” She reached out and caught him by the wrist. “Won’t you miss me?” Her other hand found his knee.

  “Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t do this to me.”

  “Do what?” Her fingers slid up his thigh, higher. “This?”

  He closed his eyes with a groan, hearing the slaves scatter.

  PAULINUS!” Marcus gave an open-handed wave out of his litter. “Give me your arm, boy. I’ve been riding in this contraption since dawn and I’m stiff as a board.”

  Paulinus handed his father down before the gate and was enveloped in a one-armed hug. The familiar smells of unpressed linen and fresh ink enveloped him. He buried his burning eyes briefly in the humped shoulder. The gray morning was crisp and cool, but his face flamed.

  “Good to see you, boy.” Dusty and beaming, Marcus looked him over. “You look tired. Are they working you too hard in those barracks?”

  Paulinus felt his ears burning. He was spared an answer when an armload of scrolls fell out of the litter. “Did you bring a whole library, Father?”

  “Not at all. Just Seneca’s meditations, a little Cato, some Pliny, Martial’s satiric verses—gods, there goes the rest of them. Here, take these. No, take them all while I give my daughter a kiss.”

  Sabina skimmed out of the house like a bird. “Father, Father!” She swarmed up into his arms.

  “Miss me, little one?” Marcus kissed her soundly. “I missed you, too. And I believe I’ve got a present with your name on it.”

  “A pony?” she asked eagerly.

  “No, I couldn’t fit one in the litter. Just a very pretty set of coral beads. Guaranteed to make you as beautiful as your mother.”

  “Marcus.” Lepida floated down the stairs in green silk and her wedding pearls. “Home at last!”

  Paulinus dropped his armload of scrolls and bent clumsily after them. He could see her cooing into his father’s ear, her face fi xed in a breathless smile . . . how could she do it? Less than an hour ago she had been writhing underneath him, limbs locked around his hips, nails leaving long cat-scratches in his back. How could she do all that, and still look his father in the eye and say, “Welcome back”?

  “Welcome back.” She kissed her husband on the cheek, and her eyes slid over his shoulder to rest on Paulinus.

  He didn’t think he could ever look at his father again.

  At least it was finally over. It was over, and his father would never know. Not even Lepida would try anything with his father in the same house . . .

  Her blue gaze locked with his over the dinner table that evening, and she ran her tongue around the rim of the wine cup.

  He knocked over a bowl of grapes.

  “Careful, there.” Marcus caught the bowl before it could slide off the table. “Are you feeling all right, Paulinus? You don’t look well.”

  “They keep him so busy at the barracks, darling.” Lepida stretched to refill her husband’s wine cup. “I’ve hardly seen hide or hair of him for two months. Sabina is quite desolate at the way he’s been neglecting her.”

  “I’m—I’m asking for a transfer,” Paulinus blurted out. “There’s a company of Praetorians with the Emperor in Dacia—”

  “Just when I’ve come back?” Marcus protested.

  “Surely there’s no rush.” Lepida gave her slow white smile.

  Paulinus rose, nearly upsetting the grapes again. “I should get back to the barracks.” He grabbed the bowl just in time.

  “Stay.” Marcus rose, too. “I’ll put Sabina to bed and catalogue those new scrolls, and you can entertain Lepida with all your tales of valor.”

  Paulinus’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.

  “You’ll do all that cataloguing this evening, Marcus?” Lepida’s eyes never shifted from Paulinus. “It will take all night.”

  “Better get it done now. If I leave the scrolls out the slaves will insist on putting them away, and then I’ll never be able to find anything.”

  “I have to go.” Paulinus hated the note of entreaty in his voice.

  “Stay.” Lepida’s soft hand descended on his arm.

  Go. Go before you wish you were dead.

  He followed her.

  MARCUS only meant to take a moment organizing his scrolls—his first evening home, after all, and he should spend it with his wife and son. But he sat down for a moment to look at the new copy of Martial’s verses, and that reminded him of a line he’d read in Catullus so he went rummaging to find that . . .

  “Father?” a little voice piped from the door. Marcus smiled at his daughter, already dressed for bed in a little white robe.

  “Don’t worry, Vibia Sabina, I’ll come to kiss you good night.”

  “No, Mother sent me. She took me aside today and said she had a surprise for you after supper, so”—he could hear Lepida’s voice through his daughter’s—“if you weren’t out of your library an hour after dinner, I had to come fetch you to her chamber immed’ately.”

  Marcus laughed. “Then I abandon Catullus and surrender to the ladies of the house.”

  Sabina tugged him by the hand through the library doors, little bare feet pattering the mosaics, and up the stairs toward her mother’s chamber. “I like Mother’s room. It’s all blue an’ silvery an’ it has a bed like a shell. She let me play on the bed today, with her jewels. When she was telling me how to bring you down.”

  “Did she?” He’d been right, bringing them all to Brundisium—he’d never seen Lepida play with her daughter like that before. But she’d been hardly more than a child herself when she bore Sabina. Now she was growing up.

  They halted outside Lepida’s chamber door. “To bed now, little one,” said Marcus. “I’ll come tell you a story later.” He smiled, watching Sabina’s nursemaid tug her away down the hall, and pushed open the door of Lepida’s chamber. Her bed did look like a shell, all veiled in white and silver—he always thought Lepida could have been a pretty mermaid inside it, curled shyly inside her hair.

  It was then he heard a groan. Hoarse gasps. A cry inside the veiled curtains.

  For a moment he thought of attackers—burglars through the window. He took a limping step forward, drawing breath to raise the alarm, and saw more.

  A soft white body. A hard brown one. Intertwined limbs. A sweep of blue-black hair across the pillow. A Roman-nosed profile arching toward the ceiling, mouth open in a silent rictus of agony, or release. Pale hands clenched around straight young shoulders. The couch vibrating under the rocking bodies.

  Paulinus.

  Lepida.

  As he gazed numbly, the intertwined bodies rolled and it was his wife on top, his wife raking her nails down his son’s chest—his wife who tossed her black hair out of her eyes and looked calmly over her shoulder at the doorway.

  Lepida.

  Paulinus.

  That was when Paulinus opened his eyes. Dark eyes, a Caesar’s eyes, dull and stupid with lust. Then his gaze fell on the door, and his face snapped open with an almost comic shock.

  “Father!” Jerking away from Lepida, he tumbled off the edge
of the bed to the marble floor, scrabbling too late for a sheet to cover his nakedness. Lepida did not scrabble. She leaned back on her elbows with a little cat’s smile.

  “Father, I—”

  Quietly Marcus closed the door. There was no fury, no betrayal—only stone crumbling into dust.

  Twelve

  FATHER, please—” Paulinus tumbled through the door of the chamber into the hall, still tying the cord of his tunic. “Let me explain—” His face felt stiff, a marble mask. Slaves were gathering, blurs in his eyes, but his father’s figure was razor-sharp. “If you’ll just let me—”

  “It can wait.” He felt his father’s eyes, but couldn’t meet them. “I promised your sister a bedtime story.”

  “Father, you have to believe me.” His voice felt too high, but he couldn’t stop it rising. “I never meant—I never planned—”

  “Oh, I believe you.” Marcus gave a flick of his fingers, and the slaves scattered. Behind him, still visible through the half-open door, Lepida had retrieved her robe and sat down humming at her dressing table to brush her hair. Marcus ignored her utterly.

  “I’m not trying to—” Paulinus wrenched a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “I’m not saying it isn’t my fault, but—”

  “Please.”

  “Please what—”

  “I don’t want details.”

  “But I have to—”

  “No.”

  Paulinus knew that “no.” He’d not heard it since he was fourteen years old and whining to go to Baiae for a festival. It was his father’s Senate voice, the one that cut like an edge of steel. Paulinus’s voice stopped at once, chopped off in his throat.

  “Your cousin Lappius is in Agrippinensis by now. In Germania.” Marcus’s voice was low and even. He stood quite still; no different than ever in his tunic and sandals, but something had happened to the corners of his mouth. “A change of scene might do you good. Lappius thinks I am an old fool, but he likes you. He’ll be glad to have you for a month or two.”

  “I’ll leave tomorrow.” Paulinus felt a tortured thrust of eagerness. “As soon as I speak to Centurion Densus—”

  “I’ll arrange it.”

  “Then—then I’ll leave now.”

  “I think you should.”

  “Oh, gods, Father—” Paulinus’s voice cracked. He tried to force out the words I’m sorry, but it was so hopelessly inadequate. He stared at his father, standing so gray and bent in the hall, and tried to keep from weeping.

  LEPIDA

  IT was a good hour before I heard my husband’s hesitant footstep outside my door. “Come in, Marcus,” I called out, picking through a dish of candies. “The sooner we get this over with the sooner I can get some sleep.”

  He limped in, old and shabby and broken as one of Sabina’s decrepit old dolls. He managed to look me in the eye, but the lines about his mouth had reappeared.

  “You’re late,” I greeted him.

  “Putting my daughter to bed.”

  I smiled sweetly, popping three little candies into my mouth. Let him make the opening gambit.

  “Are you in love with my son, Lepida?”

  I stared. “What?” Of all the opening gambits I’d expected . . .

  “Phaedre loved Hippolytus.” Marcus seated himself wearily on my blue silk couch. “I doubted you had any such feelings, but it’s best to eliminate all possibilities.”

  “You’re such a romantic, darling. In love with Paulinus? Don’t be absurd. Who’s Phaedre?”

  “No one you know.”

  “Your Paulinus was terribly amusing, but he’s far too much like you for comfort. Well, in some ways, that is.” I shook my hair back so Marcus could see the marks Paulinus’s mouth had left on my throat.

  He closed his eyes. “If you’ll allow me another silly question, Lepida? Not an original one, I’m afraid. Just ‘why?’ ”

  “Isn’t it obvious? If you hadn’t been so tiresome about taking me back to Rome—”

  “Ah.” He rubbed the high bridge of his nose. “I should have known. I presume you’ll divorce me, then?”

  “Why would I want that?”

  “Why else would you put on that charming little spectacle upstairs?”

  “Just to teach you a lesson, Marcus. You did deserve one, didn’t you? After swooping me out of Rome just when I caught the Emperor’s eye—”

  “The Emperor.” He actually laughed. “Catch him with my blessing, Lepida.”

  “Oh, I intend to. But I can hardly catch myself a lover unless I’ve got a husband, can I? Men don’t like unattached mistresses.”

  “Get another husband. I’ll return your dowry; you could marry anyone you liked.”

  “Could I? When I’m just a middle-class rich girl back in my father’s house? The best I could catch the first time around was you, and then I was a virgin.”

  “I’m afraid that’s your problem, Lepida.” He looked at me coolly. “I won’t have you in the same house as my daughter.”

  “Your daughter? How can you be sure, when I was entertaining every worthy Roman citizen in the city behind your back?”

  “Oh, Sabina’s mine. You’re a creature of society, Lepida, and society says that the whoring doesn’t start until the children are born.”

  His detached tone caught me off-guard. And his expression—as if he were studying an interesting legal concept instead of his own wife. I tossed my head. “Well, you’ll have to put up with me, Marcus. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You thought you’d open my eyes, Lepida? They’re opened. And I don’t particularly like what I see—can that possibly surprise you?—so I intend to divorce you. Do you understand Roman divorce, my dear? All I have to do is speak the words and have you gone from my house. But you needn’t worry,” he added. “I’ll let you keep your dowry. You gave a fine performance. Worth a few thousand sesterces, even if you did your best to corrupt my son.”

  His eyes were cold and hooded, his voice a slow patrician drumroll. How dare he look at me as if he were an Emperor and I were an insect?

  I let the smile drop. “No, Marcus. No divorce. You’ll go back to Rome, and you’ll take me with you, and you’ll pay all my bills, and you won’t ask questions when I come in at dawn smelling like the Emperor. That’s what you’ll do. Or I’ll ruin you.”

  “Try,” he said calmly. “You’ll ruin yourself.”

  “Do you understand the courts, my dear?” I leaned forward, nailing his eyes with mine. “Courts are made up of men. Susceptible, sympathetic men. I know men, Marcus. I fooled you, didn’t I? And Paulinus, the upright honorable soldier. The men in those courts are no different from any others. I can make them believe me.”

  “Believe what?” He dissected me with his eyes. “An unfaithful wife? How many of those do you think they see every week?”

  “But do they see this every week?” Straightening, I covered my face with my hands and let my shoulders heave. “ ‘Paulinus made me—I never wanted to, never; he’s my stepson! But he forced me, and when I went to Marcus afterward he just laughed—he said it was part of a wife’s duty! I knew it wasn’t natural, not the—the things Paulinus made me do—but I was so frightened—’ ”

  “Seen enough?” I lifted my head. “Why, Marcus. You’re looking at me as if I had snakes for hair.”

  “I wish you did.” The words came with a kind of wonder. “I’d have had better luck with Medusa.”

  “If you divorce me, I’ll have Paulinus charged with rape. The courts will believe me, Marcus. They’ll believe me when I tell them Paulinus raped me and you agreed to it. They’ll believe me when I say that I turned to other men because I was mistreated. They’ll believe me when I say that Sabina isn’t your child at all, but Paulinus’s. When I’m done, you’ll just be a dirty old man who couldn’t wait to get his hands on a fi fteen-year-old girl and her money. Paulinus will just be a rapist who the Praetorians can’t wait to be rid of, and Sabina will be an incest-born bastard.” I leaned back, smiling. “
As for me, I’ll be divorced and free and rich, and my father will breathe fire at you for daring to hurt his little girl, and I’ll be married again in no time. Because I’ll be sure to get all of your money as well as mine, darling. I think the Emperor will allow that—he’s never been fond of you, after all. So you see, it really is to your advantage to keep on my good side.”

  He didn’t bother begging me not to do it. He just looked at me, and his eyes were wondering. “What is it you want?”

  “Your cooperation. Your compliance. Your silence. That’s all. We don’t even need to live together, or hardly at all. Just enough for appearances’ sake.” I rose, yawning. “Goodness, it’s late. I believe we’ve said everything there is to say, don’t you? If we’re leaving for Rome this week, I’ve got a lot of packing to do.”

  He sat as still and silent as a catacomb, staring out in front of him with blind eyes. Yes, this was the way it should be—I was the Empress and he the insect. It was enough to make me feel positively benevolent. I stooped and brushed my lips carelessly across his cheek. “Don’t despair, darling. If you don’t sulk too loudly then perhaps I’ll slip back into your room now and then. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  He caught my wrist as I drew a finger down the side of his face. “Madam,” he said formally, “I’d sooner bed a snake.”

  I felt my smile slipping. He limped out.

  THERE was just enough light from the half moon for Marcus to see his son riding through the stable gates. Riding north for Agrippinensis, far away in Germania. His breath showed in faint puffs on the cool night air, and the slump of his shoulders was visible even from the window.

  Lappius will welcome him, Marcus thought. He’ll fill Paulinus’s days with parties, and his nights with hired courtesans. The matrons of Agrippinensis will throw their daughters in his path, and perhaps he’ll make a hasty marriage in hopes of forgetting. But he won’t forget. He’ll throw his window open on those freezing German nights and sit shivering till dawn, thinking of Lepida and wanting to fall on his sword. Oh, Paulinus—