“Sh-she w-won’t be coming.”
“Who?” Nero asked, impatiently.
“Fla-flavia Rubria. Sh-she’s betrothed.”
“Betrothed to whom?” Egnatius said.
Justinus stared at him. That was a good question; it rolled around his head. For lack of an answer, he blurted, “Betrothed to me.”
“That’s a lie, you drunk.” Egnatius grabbed Justinus by his toga, shook him. “Flavia is mine!”
Justinus batted at him, wildly, and the banquet hall grew quiet.
A voice rang out from the entryway, “I’m not yours, Egnatius! I’m not betrothed to anyone.”
Flavia’s stola was disheveled, and a tangle of silvery hair fell about her face. But the flush of her cheeks only heightened her beauty, Justinus noticed despite his stupor.
Tigellinus blocked her from entering.
“Let her in,” Nero said.
She glided toward Nero, her head high and defiant, her green eyes shining.
Justinus started toward her, intending to drag her away from the banquet hall, away from Nero. But he stumbled and banged into a couch. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, but the room would not stop spinning.
The banquet hall was more splendid than Flavia had imagined it—guests in dazzling attire, rose-petals strewn across the floor, banquet boards draped in fine linens and laden with foods she couldn’t even name. The princeps walked toward her, arms outstretched in welcome.
“Not betrothed. Splendid news!”
She offered him the smile she’d been practicing.
Justinus walked behind Nero, his gait off kilter. The princeps glanced at him and said. “I thought you were an honest man. This girl isn’t betrothed to you.”
“You shouldn’t have come,” Justinus said. “I’ll take you home.”
“I just arrived, and I intend to stay.”
Nero clapped his hands like a delighted child. “Finally, the night shows promise! Welcome to my feast, Flavia Rubria.”
As if in a dream, she floated toward him. Everything she saw, everything she touched, exceeded her imaginings. The princeps appeared godlike in his spangled toga, his head crowned by a golden wreath. Anticipation bubbled in Flavia’s stomach as all eyes in the banquet hall were riveted on her.
“Caesar,” she said, lowering her gaze and noticing his feet—hennaed toes wrapped in golden sandals. “This must be Olympus, for certainly you are Apollo.”
“And you are Venus.” Nero kissed her hand.
Excitement coursed through her body, and she tingled with a newborn heat. What would it be like to gain the admiration of the most powerful ruler in the world? To have slaves and senators grovel at your feet? To be revered as a goddess?
Nero led her across the room.
“I want to introduce you to Flavia Rubria,” he said to a woman who reclined on a couch, her head cushioned by silk pillows, her ample breasts slipping from her stola. She looked like a satiated cow. Flavia had seen Poppaea Sabina in processions, but at close range she appeared older. And fatter.
“So this is your new pet,” Poppaea said, eyes sparking with jealousy.
Nero reclined on the pink couch next to Poppaea and drew Flavia beside him.
“Something to drink?” he asked.
“I’ll have what you’re drinking.”
Poppaea snorted, the rude noise of a pig.
Nero offered Flavia his chalice. She peered into the cup at something greenish.
“It’s my special elixir,” he said. “It won’t hurt you.”
The slime looked bad and tasted worse. It slipped down her throat, and she stuck out her tongue.
Nero laughed. “Can you touch your nose with that?”
She demonstrated.
“What talent!”
Poppaea groaned.
Nero snapped his fingers and a slave scurried over. Kneeling before Flavia, the slave removed her sandals, then dosed her feet with aromatic oil. Expertly, he massaged her toes, and she giggled.
“Have some wine,” Nero said.
Flavia drank it too fast and coughed.
The slave stroked the soles of her feet, his thumbs digging into her arches.
She moaned.
“Good girl,” Nero said. “Pleasure is an art, and like any art, it requires skill and practice.”
He plucked a grape from a glass bowl, holding the fruit between his forefinger and thumb. “Open your mouth.”
She did as she was told.
He pressed the jewel between her lips. “Don’t bite, just suck.”
She rolled the grape over her tongue, and the fruit oozed sweet juice. Catching the grape between her teeth, she bit.
“I said, don’t bite.” Nero jabbed an elbow into Poppaea’s ribs. “Demonstrate.”
Throwing back her head, Poppaea lowered a cluster of grapes toward her mouth. Her tongue flicked at the fruit, circling a purple orb before drawing it between her lips.
“So gifted,” Nero said.
“So bored.” Poppaea cocked her chin at Flavia. “What shall we do with her?”
“Not we. This one is all mine.”
“I see,” Poppaea sounded petulant.
“Gallus Justinus seems to be available,” Nero said.
Flavia looked to where Nero pointed. Justinus sat slumped on a nearby couch, his head bent over his arms.
At the mention of his name, he looked up. “What game are you playing?” he asked.
“Poppaea wants to show you my glass collection,” Nero said. “And I’m sure you’ll humor her.”
“I’m your wife.” Poppaea’s voice rose above the din of conversation. “Don’t try to shove me off while you indulge your latest whore.”
The guests stopped talking.
Flavia’s face flushed hot. Did Poppaea refer to her?
“Flavia,” Justinus said, rising to his feet. “It’s time I got you home.”
“For once, I agree with Justinus.” Egnatius, who had been sulking, grabbed Flavia’s wrist. The pustules on his chin looked ready to explode. “I order you to leave at once.”
“You have no right to order me.”
“As your future husband—”
“I’d rather die than marry you.”
Nero laughed. “The girl has spunk.” He motioned to the musicians. “Play something jubilant.” Taking Flavia’s hands in his, he led her from the couch into the center of the banquet hall. They began to dance.
“Feel the rhythm, Flavia? Let the music rise within you like a snake.”
She rotated her hips slowly, uncertain if she did it right.
Nero drew her close. “You’re a natural.”
The flute and cithara were joined by drums. Dancing girls, dressed only in gilded girdles, shook their hips and swung their hair while they banged on timpani. Bacchus and a host of nymphs played panpipes, while guests stamped their feet and clapped their hands, cheering as the music grew wilder. Nero sent Flavia spinning across the floor, causing guests to scatter to the walls. He whirled her through one archway then another, zigzagging between couches and tables, knocking over food and wine.
She spun past Justinus, he and the banquet hall a blur of color. She felt dizzy.
“Please stop,” she pleaded, trying to free herself from Nero.
“We’re just beginning.”
He crushed her against his chest and lifted her off the ground. They spun and spun and spun, his breath wet against her neck.
“Put me down.”
“As you wish.”
Scooping her into his arms, he carried her out of the banquet hall. The music faded along with Poppaea’s accusations. They entered a vestibule. She tried to scream, but he locked his lips on her mouth. He kicked open a door, and they entered a chamber. The bolt fell into place with a thud.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he said.
She thought it would be different.
A gibbous moon shone through a window, casting his face in eerie light. The whites of his eyes appeared greenish.
“Don’t worry, Flavia. I’ll be your teacher.”
He placed her on the largest bed she’d ever seen, the room’s sole piece of furniture. A wolf pelt overlay the coverlet. It smelled musty. She tried to stand, but Nero pushed her down. Leather straps had been attached to the headboard and before she realized what he what he was doing, he’d slipped the straps over her wrists.
She screamed, piercing shrieks that set the palace dogs barking.
She kicked him, and tried to squirm out of his grasp, but he was strong. He secured her ankle with another strap, anchoring her to the base of the bed. Then he grabbed her other foot, forcing her legs apart. Just like Egnatius. What made her think Nero would be different?
“You’re not a god,” she shouted. “You’re not even human. No animal would kill its mother. You murdered Agrippina!”
Nero released the leather strap he’d been tightening. “Don’t speak my mother’s name.”
“Why not?”
He stared at her, his gray eyes dull as slate.
“Agrippina! Agrippina! Agrippina!”
“Shut up!” Covering his ears, he sank onto the bed, his body trembling.
“So the rumors are true,” she said.
“She made me do it.”
“You’re a coward.”
“I’m not.” He hugged himself, but he still shook. Perspiration glistened on his brow, and he gasped as if he were drowning.
“You sent your guards to do your dirty work,” Flavia said.
“Shut up! Shut up!”
“Coward,” she said softly. “I see the truth.”
Nero staggered to his feet, undid his robe and shook it off his shoulders. The fabric slipped onto the floor. He didn’t wear a loincloth.
Flavia could not help staring. She had never seen a naked man, except for statues, Egnatius had kept himself covered. Nero moved toward her, and her courage fled. Heart racing so fast it hurt, she struggled to free herself, arching her body, tugging at the bindings. But that only made them tighter. The leather cut into her wrists and ankles. She tried to scream, but her voice came out in panting breaths.
Nero yanked the wolf pelt out from under her and set the snarling head on top of his. Bending over her, he bared his teeth and growled. Then he curled his fingers into claws, jabbed one hand between her thighs, and pressed his other hand against her belly. A trickle of hot liquid leaked down her leg.
“Piss on me,” he said.
“What?”
“Pissss,” he sounded like a serpent.
“I can’t.”
Her body tensed.
“You can.”
His tongue slithered between her thighs, and she thought she would explode.
His tongue flicked relentlessly, inflicting torment—or was it pleasure? He jabbed his fist into Flavia’s belly. Unable to contain herself, she let go. He raised his head, liquid dribbling down his chin. “Nectar of the gods,” he said.
Throwing the full weight of his body onto Flavia, he sank his teeth into her stola, ripping the emerald silk away from her breasts, and latched onto a nipple.
She cried out, but he sucked until she bled.
She became aware of pounding—someone banging on the door, followed by shouting, “Let me in: it’s Poppaea!”
Nero stopped sucking and glanced at the door.
It shuddered on its hinges. “I have witnesses! Gallus Justinus and Egnatius Rubrius.”
He looked back at Flavia. “I’m sorry,” he said in a childlike voice.
She stared at him, saw tears forming in his eyes.
“Undo my bonds,” she said.
“I never meant to hurt you, Mater.”
Mother? To humor, she said, “You’ve been a bad boy,”
He nodded. “Very bad.”
She raised her voice, “And bad boys must be punished.”
“Yes.”
“Undo my bonds.”
The pounding on the door shook the room. The bed trembled, and so did Flavia.
Nero stood, wriggling off the wolf pelt.
Free of his weight, Flavia inhaled a deep breath, but she had not stopped shaking. Nero untied the leather bindings, and a thousand needles pricked her fingers. Placing her numb feet on the floor, she prayed they’d carry her across the room.
Nero stood in her way, blocking the door.
He removed a horsewhip from the wall. Raising it above his head, he cracked the leather thong. Wielding the whip, he walked toward her.
Flavia backed away from him.
“Punish me,” he said. He handed her the whip. “Go on,” he said and knelt.
“I can’t.”
“I order you!”
Tentatively, she raised the whip.
“Do it!”
She brought it down, slashing the thong across his buttocks.
“I’m sorry!” he sobbed. “Sorry, Mater.”
She wielded the lash again. It left an ugly welt. Startled at the damage she had done, she dropped the whip.
“Don’t stop,” Nero pleaded.
“I’m leaving.”
Pulling her torn stola over her breasts, she headed for the door.
“Don’t leave me.” He collapsed onto the floor, weeping, clinging to her ankles.
She shook him off, undid the bolt.
The door flew open. Poppaea, Justinus, and Egnatius stumbled in, flooding the chamber with lantern light.
“Animal,” Poppaea shrieked. “Selfish boar, I’ll castrate you!” Charging past Flavia, she pounced on Nero. He tried to crawl away from her, but she raked her fingernails across his face.
“Are you all right?” Justinus asked Flavia.
“I’ll live.”
“Did he—ah—do anything?” Egnatius stammered.
“Of course he did. You’re a child, Egnatius. A novice.”
Even his pimples blushed.
“I blame myself for what’s happened,” Justinus said. “I should have—”
“Don’t worry, I’m still intact.” Flavia glanced at Nero, still trying to escape his wife. “Let’s go to the banquet hall,” she said. “I want dessert.”
The moon peeked through the latticework, spinning webs across the temple. Elissa huddled on a stone bench by the fire as night crept toward dawn. She had missed the evening meal, and now her stomach growled. But the emptiness felt more insistent than mere hunger.
Her eyes closed and her head drooped. She shook herself awake, focused on the fire, tried not to think of Justinus, and drifted back into a dream.
Waking with a start, uncertain of how much time had passed, she glanced at the cauldron. The fire had burned down.
A dull ache settled in her back. She stretched, went to the coal bin. Using a wooden shovel, she scooped black lumps into a leather bucket, carried the bucket to the fire, and poured coal onto the embers. A haze of smoke and ash flew into her face. Coughing, she rubbed her eyes with sooty fists, stopped when she heard someone call her name.
“Who’s there?”
She turned, searching the shadows. Of course, she was alone. She opened one of the double doors, peered out at the forum, and then closed it.
She stirred the coals with an iron poker. A gust rushed through the room, reviving the fire. Moving closer to the cauldron, closer to the heat and light, she ran her fingers through the flames. She loved the fire’s constant change, its power to transform and purify. She gazed into the cauldron, losing track of time, and within the shifting, flickering light, a shape began to form. A torso. Limbs. And then a face.
Elissa,
a voice whispered.
Or was it the fire’s hiss?
Her brother’s face, eyes receding into sunken sockets, appeared within the flames. She closed her eyes, then opened them, and still she saw his face. His body, bruised and battered, rose slowly from the cauldron. He stared blankly at her.
“Are you a lemur?” she asked.
Rome burns.
She rubbed her forehead and wondered if she were still dreaming.
Rome burns and from union unholy the sister will bring forth a son.
Her brother’s voice sounded hollow.
Save yourself Elissa.
“Save myself from what?”
From fate. Unravel the prophecy.
“Tell me what it means.”
Her brother made a screeching sound. Blood spewed from the cavern of his mouth, sizzling in the flames.
“Marcus!” She reached into the fire wanting to touch him, wanting to draw him back to life, but succeeded only in singeing her fingers. His face melted like a wax death-mask, his eyes becoming wide and empty, before vanishing.
Rome burns
, the fire hissed.
Choking on black smoke, Elissa ran to the doors and flung them open. No orange blaze lit up the city, no flames licked the horizon. She heard no frantic screams, no tortured wails, only the incessant clattering of wooden wheels on cobblestones.
Wind whistled through the temple, sent cinders swirling from the cauldron, a thousand souls escaping the womb of the Great Mother. A thousand souls doomed to live and die.
Rome burns....
Covering her ears, Elissa refused to listen to the prophecy.
She sank onto her knees. “Help,” she cried, though she had no idea to whom she pleaded.
Paul’s words mocked her.
What are we without love?
“Nothing.”
She felt small, insignificant. Unloved and unloving. She told herself she must have faith, if not in ancient deities, in Paul’s Almighty God and in his son, Jesus.
“My Lord,” Elissa whispered, “if you exist, show yourself. If you exist, save Rome from destruction.” She pressed her forehead to the floor, waited for an answer, prayed for some sign she’d been heard.
The fire crackled.
She listened to the sound of her own breathing.
Listened for words of wisdom.
The prophecy ran through her mind.
Rome burns and from union unholy, the sister will bring forth a son.
“Help me, please!”
The floor felt cold against her forehead, hard beneath her knees. Her body ached. What if the gods were not just powerless, what if they did not exist? What if her prayers fell, not on deaf ears, but on no ears at all? What if all that mattered in this world was power and brute strength?
She found no comfort in the temple.
None in her beliefs. None in her family. None in her religion.
No comfort anywhere.