Empire (53 page)

He put his mouth on hers and tasted her sweet breath. He slid his hands inside the cloak and touched warm, sleek flesh. He gasped. Beneath the cloak, she was wearing nothing at all, not even a sleeping gown or a simple tunic. She had crossed the city like this, naked except for slippers and a hooded cloak.

“Madness!” he whispered. He pushed back the cloak and buried his face against her neck. She laughed softly, touching her lips to the inner folds of his ear, nipping gently at the earlobe with her teeth. She opened the cloak and let it fall, so that she was suddenly naked in his arms

He threw off his tunic and made love to her, as quickly and desperately as a boy. It was selfish of him, because he knew she preferred a much slower rhythm. But she indulged him, and seemed to draw pleasure from his trembling, uncontrollable excitement. All his emotions crested at once and poured from him in a flood. He wept, which aroused her; as if to draw more tears from him she dug her fingernails into his back and drew him closer to her, exerting a strength that never failed to surprise him, wrapping her limbs around him as the tendrils of a vine embrace a stone.

He did not have to work to reach the climax: it came upon him unbidden, like a fire that consumes all before it. It consumed her as well, for he felt her shudder against his sweating flesh and clench the part of him inside her. She cried out so long and so loudly that people in the neighboring houses must have heard.
Let them hear,
he thought; they would
know they heard a woman in ecstasy, but they could not know she was a Vestal.

When it was over, they lay close together, their naked bodies touching, saying nothing and savoring the afterglow.

When he had first met her, he was struck at once by the beauty of her face, but he could not have imagined how beautiful her body was. It took his breath away the first time he saw her naked; it still took his breath away. Over the years he had paid to take his pleasure with some of the most accomplished and alluring courtesans in Roma, but he had never known any woman with more beautiful breasts or more sensual hips than Cornelia; the voluptuous curves and the pale, marmoreal perfection of her flesh induced him to explore every part of her with his hands, eager to discover the most secret and sensitive parts of her body. Her breasts and hips were like those of Venus, ripe and womanly; her slender calves, her small hands, and the hollows of her neck and throat were as smooth and delicate as those of a child.

She was beautiful. She was also passionate. Not even the most skilled courtesan had ever responded to his touches with so much vitality, or touched him so lewdly and shamelessly in return. At times he felt he was the more vulnerable partner, a quivering slave of pleasure at the mercy of a completely uninhibited lover able to give or withhold ecstasy with the merest brush of her fingers or the soft caress of her breath.

She was beautiful, passionate—and dangerous. What he did with Cornelia was not only illicit and irreverent, it was illegal. Their lovemaking was a crime as serious as murder. He took no perverse pleasure in that fact, or so he told himself. Yet why had he chosen Cornelia, of all women? Deep down, he sensed that the forbidden nature of their relationship played some role in his excitement, but like a leaf caught on the flood he did not question how he had come to be in such a situation, or make any attempt to resist the force that carried him along. He simply accepted that he was at the mercy of a power greater than himself and submitted to it.

Cornelia gave him the greatest physical pleasure he had ever experienced, but she also fascinated him in ways that had nothing to do with her body. He had never known a woman who could converse so knowledgeably about the world; she was as educated as Epictetus, as witty as Martial, as worldly as Dio. As a Vestal, she knew everyone of importance and was in a position to follow everything of significance that happened in the city. She was far more connected than was Lucius to the spheres of politics and society; she opened a window to those worlds through which he could gaze from a comfortable distance, maintaining his customary detachment. She was not only the best possible bedmate but the most interesting conversationalist he knew. He could talk to Cornelia about anything, and what she had to say was always of interest.

As the glow of their frenzied lovemaking subsided and the sweat of their bodies cooled, they gradually drew apart. They lay side by side, touching at the hips and shoulders, staring at the ceiling above.

“What excuse did you give this time?” he said.

“For my absence from the House of the Vestals? I’ve assumed responsibility for looking after the lotus tree in the sacred grove attached to the Temple of Lucina here on the Esquiline.”

“How much care does a lotus tree need?”

“This one is over five hundred years old. We tend it very lovingly.”

“And what makes it special to the Vestals?”

“All lotus trees are sacred. There’s a lotus tree in the grove next to the House of the Vestals. When a girl is inducted, her hair is cut for the first time and the locks are hung on the tree as an offering to the goddess. It’s a beautiful ceremony.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Something’s troubling you. What is it, Lucius?”

He sighed. “A messenger came to my house yesterday. He delivered a letter from Dio of Prusa.”

“Ah, your dear friend who was exiled by the emperor. Where is the famous sophist now?”

“In Dacia, if you can believe it’s possible for a letter to travel all the way to Roma from beyond the Danube.”

“They say that Dacia is one of the few civilized lands that the Romans have yet to conquer.”

“One of the few wealthy lands we’ve not yet looted, you mean.”

“How cynical you are, Lucius. Do you not accept the notion that Roma has a special role given to her by the gods, to bring Roman religion and Roman law to the rest of the world, one province at a time?”

He was never quite sure how seriously to take Cornelia when she spoke in a patriotic vein. When all was said and done, despite her disregard for her vow of chastity, she considered herself a devoted priestess of the state religion.

“They say the Dacians have been crossing the Danube and making incursions into Roman territory,” she said, “enslaving farmers on the frontier, looting villages, raping women and boys. It’s almost as if King Decebalus is deliberately provoking Domitian to attack him.”

“Or at least that’s what the emperor wants us to think. It’s an old Roman ploy, pretending that an enemy is responsible for the start of a war we greatly desire to wage. Titus spent the last of the treasure their father looted from the Jews, so Domitian needs money. If he wants to get his hands on King Decabalus’s gold, a war to revenge outrages against Roman citizens will serve his purposes nicely.”

She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Enough of that! I won’t waste our time together debating the Dacian question. You were talking about your friend Dio. Is he terribly despondent?”

“Not at all. His letter was actually quite cheerful. Still, his exile weighs heavily on me.”

She sighed. “Men cross Domitian at their peril—even a harmless sophist like Dio.”

“But philosophers aren’t harmless, or so Dio says. He believes the power of words and ideas is as great as the power of armies. Apparently, Domitian believes that, too. What a contrast to his brother, who proclaimed that he had no fear of words and let people say whatever they wished. The reign of Titus is beginning to look like a golden age.”

“Curious, how golden ages are always so brief,” said Cornelia. “I wonder if Titus’s reign in retrospect seems so golden precisely because it lasted for only a few years. ‘He put not a single senator to death,’ they say. Perhaps he simply didn’t live long enough. When he died of that sudden illness—no one ever suggested there was foul play—Domitian took over without bloodshed. Right away he banished some of Titus’s most fervent supporters,
men he felt he couldn’t rely on. But when brother succeeded brother, what really changed? Very little. Still, people were at once nostalgic for Titus, because he died young and handsome and beloved, so Domitian started at a disadvantage. He was never as personable or even-tempered as his brother—”

“That’s an understatement! You’ve seen Domitian’s behavior at the amphitheater—his apoplectic fits during gladiator matches, the way he shouts encouragement to one fighter and yells threats at anybody who favors the other. He lowers the tone of the whole place. Spectators emulate him. Fights break out. Some days there’s more blood in the stands than on the sand.”

“You exaggerate, Lucius. Like you, I would prefer to see more decorum in the amphitheater—the place is dedicated to Mars, and the spectacles are religious rituals—but the sight of so much bloodshed releases powerful emotions in people, even in the emperor, it seems. More disturbing to me are the maneuverings in the imperial court. I suppose trouble must develop in every reign, sooner or later—factions form, rivalries emerge, intrigues simmer. It was all made worse when Domitian’s son died.”

“How he loved that little boy! The child was the mirror image of his father, always with him at the games, emulating his every movement.”

“The boy wasn’t just a beloved child. For an emperor, an heir is insurance, because the very existence of a son discourages rivals. When the boy died, Domitian was not only grief stricken, he became acutely suspicious of everyone around him. His courtiers in turn became suspicious of him. Once such an atmosphere develops, even the smallest action by the emperor sets people’s nerves on edge.”

“Exile is hardly a ‘small action’ if you’re the one who’s banished.”

“True,” she said.

“Nor is losing your head.”

“You’re talking about Flavius Sabinus, the husband of Domitian’s niece. That was most unfortunate, and almost certainly uncalled for. My friends in the imperial court tell me Domitian had no real cause to believe Flavius was conspiring against him; the man was arrested and beheaded nonetheless. Unfortunately for your friend, Dio was often seen in the company of Flavius Sabinus.”

“Was that a crime?”

“Perhaps not, but if Domitian had accused Dio of conspiring against him, your friend would have lost his head along with Flavius. Instead, Domitian banished him. Dio is lucky to be alive.”

“Alive, but exiled from Italy, and forbidden to return to his native Bythinia. That’s a steep price to pay for having been a welcome visitor to the home of Titus’s daughter and son-in-law. Do you know the first thing Dio did after he fled Roma? He went to Greece to consult the oracle at Delphi. The oracle is famous for giving ambiguous guidance, but not this time. ‘Put on beggar’s rags,’ Dio was told, ‘and head for the farthest reaches of the empire and beyond.’ So off he went, beyond the Danube.”

“For a man with Dio’s curiosity,” said Cornelia, “travel to far-off lands must offer a splendid chance to learn more about the world. Think of all the obscure metaphors and allusions he’ll be able to work into those learned discourses of his.”

Lucius smiled. “He used just such a metaphor in his letter, referring to the funeral practices of the Scythians. ‘Just as these barbarians bury cupbearers, cooks, and concubines along with a dead king, so it is a Roman custom to punish friends, family, and advisers for no good reason when a good man is executed.’ ”

Cornelia drew a sharp breath. “Did you burn the letter?”

“Of course, after I read it aloud to Epaphroditus and Epictetus.”

“Did you read it to anyone else?”

“To Martial, you mean? How he would have loved it! But no, I didn’t share it with him. Dear Martial—Titus’s fawning poet one day, Domitian’s lapdog the next. He was still working on those poems about the inaugural games when Titus died. What to do with all that hard work? Rewrite the verses to suit the new emperor, of course. The book’s just been published. Domitian is apparently quite pleased, and that pleases Martial, because he says Domitian is a more discerning critic than his brother ever was. But Martial would say that. A poet has to eat.”

“While philosophers starve?” Cornelia stretched her arms above her head and extended her toes. Her body rubbed against his, and Lucius felt a stirring of renewed excitement.

“Dio isn’t starving,” he said. “He says the Dacians are actually quite civilized, despite the fact that they worship only one god. The temples and
libraries of Sarmizegetusa can’t have much to offer compared to those of Roma, but King Decebalus is reputed to have one of the largest hoards of gold in the world. Where there’s that much wealth, a celebrated philosopher from Roma needn’t go hungry. There’ll always be some Dacian nobleman willing to feed a man who can bring a bit of wit and erudition to his table.”

Lucius rolled onto his side, facing her. He ran his hand over the sinuous curve of her hip, then trailed his fingers across the delta formed by her thighs. “His letter was actually rather inspiring. Nothing seems to dampen his sprits; he always looks for the good in the bad. Dio says his exile may actually be a blessing, despite the trouble it’s caused him. That’s what the Stoics teach. Every misfortune that befalls a man—poverty, illness, a broken heart, old age, exile—is simply another opportunity for a lesson to be learned.”