Mistress of Rome

  THEA

  DOMITIAN’S tricky,” I said. “But not trickier than Vix. Vix will do all right.”

  Arius, squatting by the fire, didn’t answer. He’d hardly spoken ten words to me the past day.

  “Really,” I said as if he’d argued. “Vix will be fine. Domitian’s weakness is games; he can’t stop playing games with people. Vix will play him right back—”

  Arius’s dog growled in my lap. I stroked her over and over. “He’ll be all right. He will.”

  Arius picked his head up. “Quiet.” His nostrils flared, and for a moment he looked like nothing so much as a wolf catching the scent of the wind. In one fluid motion he was out the door. I sat clutching the dog, frozen.

  He reappeared. “Praetorians,” he said coolly. “Get your cloak.”

  After a day’s rest I felt stronger again. I flung our cloaks over my arm and hastily bundled up the bread left over from dinner. Arius groped under his mattress, coming up with a long glimmer of metal it took me a moment to recognize.

  “I didn’t know you still had a sword,” I said.

  He hefted it a moment, carving a figure eight in the air, and a flash of light from the blade cut across his eyes. The Barbarian’s eyes.

  No, the sword wasn’t gone. Neither was the blackness in his gaze.

  “Ready?”

  I scooped up the dog and ducked out of his hut. I risked a quick glance toward the villa, hearing the shatter of pottery even from a distance. Domitian’s guards had already come once, no doubt to take anything valuable for their master, but now they were back to complete a more thorough destruction. The possessions of all traitors were forfeit to the Imperium, their fields no doubt sown with salt and their names never spoken again. For a man who hated Jews, Domitian certainly had a streak of Hebrew vengefulness.

  Arius cut straight through the vineyards, holding back the branches for me not out of courtesy, but because I would slow him down if I had to fight my own way through. That was how he had been since he’d seen my strange bruises, since I’d flinched away from him. Silent. Cold. He hadn’t tried to touch me again.

  With the blackness reappearing in his eyes, I didn’t want him to.

  The dog yapped shrilly at the orange glow of flames licking toward the sky from the roof of the villa. I closed my hand around her muzzle and followed Arius’s broad back straight toward Rome.

  Toward our son.

  Twenty-nine

  ROME

  JUSTINA turned away from the little window of her dank cell. “Why,

  Paulinus. I believe that’s the first time you’ve ever shouted at me.”

  “Shouted at you?” he shouted. “Shouted at you? The story’s all over the city! The Vestal who stepped in front of the Praetorians and granted a goddess’s mercy—”

  She looked at him calmly. The frantic anger shriveled. “Justina—Justina, I don’t know what he’ll—”

  “Sssshhh. It’s in Vesta’s hands, now.” She smiled, a thin smile that quivered at the corners, and pulled her veil down over her face. “Take me to him.”

  He stared at her a moment, trying to find her eyes through the barrier of pale silk. Vestal Virgins, he remembered, veiled their faces at only one occasion.

  At the time of sacrifice.

  So,” said Domitian. “This is the Vestal.” He was sitting at his desk with a pile of petitions and maps and letters, Thea’s son cross-legged at his feet as he always was these days. The boy was nodding; Domitian himself looked sleepy, genial, barely interested in traitors after a long day’s work at his desk. Paulinus felt an instant’s flicker of hope.

  Then Justina pulled off her veil. Pulled off her whole Vestal’s headdress, shaking loose a head of fine pale hair. She smiled at the Emperor. “Hello, Uncle.”

  For an instant there was silence so absolute that Paulinus thought there would never be sound again.

  Vix opened his eyes, turning a puzzled gaze on the Vestal. So did Paulinus, looking for the girl he loved—

  Instead he found a stranger. Saw the bold Flavian nose shadowed against the lamplight; the curling Flavian hair he’d seen carved in marble, curling now over the collar of a Vestal’s robe; the dark Flavian eyes filled with Domitian’s enigma.

  A buried memory surfaced: a tiny princess carrying the flags of childhood games.

  “I’ve known you forever,” he’d said to her once, “long before I ever set eyes on you.”

  “Julia?” he said to the daughter of Emperor Titus, the grand-daughter of Emperor Vespasian, the niece and—according to some—mistress of Emperor Domitian: Lady Julia Flavia of the Imperial and divine Flavian dynasty.

  I offered to marry her, he thought foolishly.

  “Julia,” echoed the Emperor. The look on his face was so strange, so complicated, that Paulinus knew he couldn’t identify it in a thousand years.

  But he was afraid of it.

  “Sir,” he said rapidly, “I apologize for allowing this impostor into your presence. I will remove and deal with her as she deserves to—”

  “No,” the Emperor said absently, eating his niece with his eyes. “No impostor. Tell me, Paulinus—did you know?”

  His mouth was dry.

  “No,” said Justina—Julia. “He suspected nothing.”

  “Much becomes clear.” Still in that musing tone. “Why, for instance, you chose to pardon that worthless Flavia. The pardon is invalid, of course. Since only Vestal Virgins can override an Imperial death sentence, and you—you are no virgin of any kind.”

  Incredibly, she smiled. Becoming Justina again, instead of some anonymous Flavian princess. “Ah, but if you were to override my so-very-public pardon, then the people would demand an explanation. What would you tell them?”

  “An Emperor does not explain himself.”

  “You’ve been explaining your way out of my father’s shadow all your life.”

  A restless movement. “And where have you been all this time, Julia?”

  Paulinus opened his mouth—and found himself desperately wanting to hear the answer. He closed it again.

  “In the Temple of Vesta. Where I always wanted to go. I had to die before I could go there.”

  “People said it was a child—”

  “No child. I tried to stab myself, but—” A smile illuminated her face. “Vesta did not want me dead yet. So I went to her. She didn’t seem to mind about the virgin part.”

  “Someone helped you to escape,” Domitian snapped.

  “The Chief Vestal—dead now. One or two others, whom I won’t name.”

  A long pause. “I can still kill Flavia, you know.” Abruptly. “I may have remanded execution to exile, but she goes tomorrow to Pandateria. Do you know what that is? A bare rock in the middle of the ocean, not even a mile square. A number of Imperial women have died there, one or two bearing your own name. Who’s to know if one more royal prisoner falls off that rock and breaks her neck?”

  “The people will know. They’ll believe the worst because, Uncle, they don’t much like you.”

  Vix, curled up on the floor like a dog, let out a faint snort. Domitian sent him a sharp glance before turning his eyes back to his niece. “So they dislike me. You think I torture myself over that?”

  Her voice deepened in imitation of his. “Correct.”

  Before Paulinus could blink, Domitian had his hands around his niece’s throat. It took Paulinus and two guards to pry him away. Vix took the opportunity to lunge back into the farthest corner, well out of the way.

  “Tie her up,” the Emperor snapped to the guards, breathing in fast snorts. “Tie her up. Do it!” he screamed as they hesitated, visibly, to lay hands on a princess—Vestal—whatever she was.

  Paulinus turned away from the sight of Julia, red finger marks gleaming on her throat, passively surrendering her wrists. “Sir—” To Domitian. “Caesar, please—”

  The Flavian voice overrode his own. “Guards. Restrain Prefect Norbanus.”

  The Praetorians grabbed his elbows. P
aulinus got a hand free, grabbed for the Emperor’s arm. “Caesar, have I ever asked you for anything?”

  Domitian paused. The furious gaze lightened briefly and purely with love. “No,” he said, covering Paulinus’s hand with his own. “No. You haven’t. Quiet, now.”

  He turned away, back to Julia, and touched her hair where the fine pale gold strands fell around her shoulders like a Vestal’s veil. “I have a piece of this hair in my private chambers,” he mused. “Resting alongside the urn containing your ashes. Although I suppose they aren’t really your ashes, are they? Only the hair is real . . . You gave up your life for your half-sister, Julia. Was it worth it?”

  “It was the will of my goddess.”

  “Would you do it again?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I’ll give you the opportunity, shall I? Guards!”

  Whispered orders. Paulinus turned his face away. He couldn’t bear to see Lady Flavia. But it wasn’t Lady Flavia the guards shoved into the room—it was her second son. Pale, chained, gaunt, trying desperately to keep a brave face. The last heir of the Flavian house. Exactly Vix’s age. From the corner, Vix’s eyes flickered.

  “Flavia Domatilla’s son,” said Domitian, unnecessarily. “Bow to your aunt Julia, boy.”

  Trembling, the boy bowed.

  “The last of his family,” the Emperor continued. “His brother dead, his father dead, his mother all but dead. So what’s to become of him? Will you save him, too?”

  Her voice was low and even. “If I can.”

  “Ah, but can you? That’s the question. What would you give to save this boy?”

  “My life.”

  “But you’ve already given that, haven’t you? For his mother. What can you possibly give for him?”

  The boy looked from his uncle to his aunt and back, a moan deep in his throat. Vix sat frozen in his corner. Paulinus did not dare make a sound.

  “What is it you want, Uncle?” Julia, very quiet. “That is the real question.”

  Domitian laughed, that open charming laugh he so rarely let loose. “Of course it is,” he said, amused. “It always is. For you, it always will be. Because that’s what you were put on this earth to do, Julia. To please me. And if you please me again, now, and promise to go on pleasing me for the rest of your life, then I’ll let the boy go.”

  “Oh, Uncle,” Julia said rather sadly. “I don’t think there is anything in this world that would truly please you.”

  Paulinus blinked. Flavia’s son opened his mouth in a silent scream.

  “You’re quite right,” Domitian admitted. “You always did understand me better than anyone, Julia.”

  Paulinus was still surprised. Even with his hackles prickling, he was still surprised when Domitian drew his dagger and gutted Flavia’s son.

  The boy’s mouth opened soundlessly. He fell—slowly, it seemed to Paulinus. So slowly.

  For a terrible moment all was frozen. Paulinus, his hands half out to stop the fatal blow. The boy clutching his torn belly on the floor, blood pooling over the mosaics. The Emperor, wiping his hands aimlessly down his tunic, leaving red smears. Vix, stopped midlunge from his corner. Julia, still as a statue of her goddess. Then the goddess turned from marble back to flesh and spoke.

  “Paulinus,” Julia said quite calmly. “Take the boy out. Vix, you will help him.”

  Prefect and slave boy found themselves moving as one.

  “Yes,” said Domitian to no one in particular. He dropped the dagger. “Yes, that’s it—Julia—” He fell on his niece, wrenching the veil from her shoulders.

  Paulinus half-turned, but Julia caught his eyes again over her uncle’s shoulder, and her gaze was so stern that he turned back, hauling Flavia’s moaning son out into the anteroom of the Emperor’s bedchamber.

  “She can take care of herself,” Vix snapped. “Help me!” He had something wadded up in his hand, trying to close the gaping slash in the prince’s belly. Julia’s veil—he had Julia’s veil.

  From the bedroom Paulinus heard guttural sounds. Nothing from Julia—nothing. He rose, shoving back toward the bedchamber, but the guards pushed him away.

  “You want to die, Prefect?” the optio snarled. “Let him at it!”

  Somehow Paulinus found himself kneeling, looking for a pulse in the dying prince. Blood pulsed thickly, almost black. Vix’s fingers were gloved in it. “He’s dying,” Paulinus said numbly. “Surely he’s dying—”

  “You gonna help me, Prefect?” Vix was sweating, swearing, but he kept the wadded veil sunk over the wound.

  Low anguished grunts from the bedroom, more like a rutting animal than an Emperor. Not a sound from Justina. Paulinus felt a sob catch like a splinter of ice in his throat. The thought came, small and terrible: Maybe if he takes her, he’ll spare her life.

  A moan sounded from Lady Flavia’s son. Frantically Vix leaned his whole weight on the veil, his tunic and knees tacky with blood. A clammy eyelid flickered. Slaves were starting to gather, wide-eyed, and Paulinus spat curses at them. They scattered.

  Flavia’s son cried out, his hands coming up weakly to clutch at his belly. Vix leaned harder.

  A pair of young Flavian eyes opened and stared into Vix’s, alive with pain.

  Kneeling in a puddle of blood, Paulinus found his skin crawling.

  “Bitch,” he heard indistinctly from the bedchamber. The Emperor’s voice, thick and slurred. “You unmanning bitch—get out—”

  The guards outside exchanged glances. “You heard him!” Paulinus snapped, scrambling to his feet and half-falling into the bedchamber. He took it all in, in one glance; the Emperor collapsed half off the couch, Julia quietly pulling her white robes around her.

  “Take her,” the Emperor said, and his whole body shook. “Oh, gods, just take her.”

  Paulinus raised Julia with trembling hands, but her own steps as she left the bedchamber were rock-steady. He led her through the blood, past Vix, who was now helping Flavia’s son to sit up.

  “The guards will take me,” she said. “Help Vix with my nephew, Paulinus. He needs your help getting out of the palace.”

  “He won’t live—he was gutted, ripped in half—”

  “Was he?”

  Vix was slinging an arm under his friend’s shoulders and hauling him upright. He looked up, wary, and Julia gave him a cordial little nod. Her eyes, catching a glow from the lamps, didn’t look quite . . . human.

  “Give my regards to your mother, Vercingetorix,” she said, and then the guards were hauling her away. They held her by the sleeve rather than her bare wrists, though, as if she might burn them. She left small bloody footprints behind her on the mosaics.

  “We’ve gotta get him out.” Vix had Flavia’s son on his feet, moaning but unmistakably not dying. He still clutched Julia’s veil against his stomach, now red rather than white.

  “I imagined it,” Paulinus muttered. “I didn’t really see the Emperor gut him—couldn’t have—”

  “You’re gonna faint,” Vix said in disgust.

  Paulinus felt laughter welling, huge hysterical bursts of laughter. He wanted to laugh until he died. But more guards were approaching at a trot, and curious courtiers, and gawking slaves. He took off his red Praetorian cloak, fingers moving stupidly, and dropped it around Flavia’s son. Vix hauled a fold over his face.

  “Tend to the Emperor,” Paulinus ordered the guards. “Send for his physician. I’ll see to the boy myself.”

  “Prefect, where are you taking him?”

  “Emperor’s orders,” Paulinus said coldly. “Private orders.” The guard’s eyes dropped at once.

  “How’s it feel?” Vix whispered at the young prince as they hauled him away from the hall and its rapidly growing audience.

  “It’s—it’s strange—it feels—I don’t know.” The boy was near tears.

  Under the cloak, Paulinus peeled back Julia’s veil. Underneath there was—a long shallow cut, oozing a little. Not the bloody wound Paulinus had expected.

&
nbsp; “Guess the freak missed,” Vix shrugged. “You’re a lucky one.”

  Luck? Paulinus didn’t want to think about that.

  Vix was turned back at the outer gate, and Paulinus took Lady Flavia’s son on himself. “What will you do with me?” the young prince gasped.

  Tell the Emperor you died of your wound, thought Paulinus. And that I disposed of your body quietly. “Keep still,” he snapped, and he kicked his horse forward with Flavia’s son bent weakly over the saddle before him.

  A quick canter to his father’s house in the falling dark, marshaling desperate explanations, but his father required surprisingly few words. “Good lad,” was all he said, and in half a moment he had the slaves dismissed and the fainting boy whisked inside.

  “The Emperor—” Paulinus spoke around a leaden tongue. “The Emperor can’t know you ever—”

  “He won’t.” Coolly. “I’ll have the boy out of the city before dawn.”

  “The Vestal,” said Paulinus. “She was—she wasn’t a Vestal—Julia, Lady Julia who was dead—”

  “No time for that now.” Marcus didn’t seem surprised. Paulinus stared.

  “You knew?”

  “You think she faked her own death without help? Get back to the palace, boy, before you’re missed.”

  Paulinus’s feet took him past the circular Temple of Vesta first. Looking up, he saw the other Vestal Virgins watching; a silent white line. Their faces were all veiled.

  He bunched Julia’s bloody veil up and laid it on the first step. His knees gave out, and he sat there beside it until a pair of Praetorians came in search of him.

  THE old year had died—and by the Emperor’s decree, Rome would see the new year in with a death.

  It was a strange, resentful crowd that gathered to watch Lady Flavia go into exile and the Vestal into death. The Emperor pronounced it a day of celebration, but the banners looked limp and the flowers fell like tears and the trumpets could have been dirges. Bad luck, people whispered, bad luck. A priestess and a princess both doomed before the year was a day old—the coming year would surely bring nothing good.