One With the Darkness (11 page)

He stood outside her chamber as her maid dressed her. When she emerged, she was clothed in a tunic of nearly transparent rust-colored fabric—they called it a
stola.
Her wrap, equally transparent, was embroidered richly with gold. The only reason she did not look naked was that there were so many turns of the stuff about her. She was a tantalizing prospect. She wore gold chains
looped and braided in her hair. Gold drops hung from her ears.

As he handed her into her litter, she glanced at him as though she felt the shock of flesh to flesh as strongly as he did.

This time he was not chained to her litter as they wended their way through the streets. He had a tunic, a weapon, and a task. That felt better. He scanned the crowd for anyone who might try to accost the small procession. Already she needed him. That felt good, too.

But they made it to the huge villa that was their first destination without event. He handed her out. She sailed into the noise and the laughter like a ship pushed by a high wind. At the door, a slave motioned him to give up his sword. He gripped the pommel, loath to let it go.

“You’ll get it back when we leave,” she whispered to him. “It’s rude to wear a weapon in another man’s house.”

He handed it over with a frown, already feeling naked again.

Inside the villa, the sights that met his eyes were almost overwhelming. Men and women lounged on chaises, eating and drinking from vessels of silver or gold. Slaves picked their way among the guests, pouring wine, bringing platters with new delicacies. In the corner, musicians played on lute and flute and drum, while in the center of the room, dancers clothed only in wisps of fabric that concealed nothing writhed in artistic ecstasy.

They were hardly more erotic than the guests themselves. Some talked. He heard snatches of gossip. But others fondled each other openly, kissing, squeezing. Not only men and women, but three in both combinations lounged on chaises as big as beds and touched one another in the most private places. No one seemed to notice or to care, except when a couple beckoned a third to join, or a
woman broke off with one man to embrace another. Barbaric!

And yet the flesh exposed, the flushed, inward expression of the revelers, was … intoxicating. He glanced to his owner. She seemed to take no notice of the outrageous behavior. Did she behave this way? He felt a surge of … something he couldn’t name. She bent to kiss one man, and it was a lingering embrace. The brute was attractive in a feminine sort of way, Jergan supposed, with his shaved face and short hair. Jergan itched to send the fellow packing until she moved on with a smile and a few gracious words.

“Have you eaten, Livia Quintus Lucellus?” A large, florid-faced man, whose toga looked more like a tent, descended upon them. “Here, take this chaise.” He handed her to lounge across an upholstered bench provided with many pillows. She curled like a cat, her curves obvious beneath her translucent robes. How had Jergan not noticed that her toenails, revealed by her dainty sandals, were painted with gilt? The ruddy man clapped his hands and slaves appeared with plates of food. Jergan went to stand behind her as she selected tidbits from the offered plates. His stomach rumbled. He had not eaten yet tonight.

“Is this a new slave?” the host asked, eyeing Jergan frankly.

“Yes. One of the spoils from the northern front.”

The man chuckled. “I’ll wager you’re having a jolly time breaking this one in.”

“Yes,” she said shortly. She glanced up at Jergan. Did he imagine her blush?

The man took Jergan’s chin to turn his face to the light. He had to reach to do it. It was all Jergan could do to allow it.
Don’t cause trouble
, he recited to himself.
Don’t attract attention. She doesn’t want a scene. A scene would endanger her.

“Exotic, but on the whole, attractive. I take it he is as well built everywhere?”

“Oh yes.” Her lashes brushed her cheeks. It was almost demure—an act, of course.

The florid man smirked. “You always had a taste for the outrageous, Livia Quintus.” A slave came up and murmured to him. He bowed to Jergan’s owner. “I must attend to the wine.” And he departed.

Several couples approached to invite her to join them. She politely declined, saying she had not yet eaten. Both men and women eyed not only his owner, but Jergan, too. He noticed that some male or female slaves were entirely naked except perhaps for gold rings piercing their flesh, or gilded nipples and elaborate braided girdles at their hips that shook with bells or metal disks. Several were openly copulating with guests in dim, secluded niches. His eyes widened.

“Shocked, Jergan?” his owner asked. “The Celts, I understand, are not so open about satisfying their sexual needs.” She beckoned to him. He crouched beside her on his haunches. She handed him a drumstick from her plate. He hated to admit it, but that was thoughtful of her.

“I expect no more of Romans,” he growled under his breath so only she could hear him over the chatter.

She laughed. “I suppose I deserved that.” She eyed him, curious as he devoured the duck. “Some would say your attitude indicates that you are ashamed of the sexual act.”

He looked at her, speculating. She was dressed far more modestly, if just as richly as the creatures around her. And she had not indulged in what she chided him for denigrating. It occurred to him that the other slaves in the room, whether serving food and drink, or copulating, did
not look their masters in the eye. She had not demanded this most intimate subservience from him. Indeed, she handed him a breast of duck. “I reserve my enjoyment of the sexual act for the privacy of the bedchamber, my lady, where I can show my partner sufficient respect and attention.” He had no intention of granting Livia respect when at last he bedded her. Still, that would put her Roman debauchery in perspective for her.

It was a victory that she looked away. “Do you?” she said, trying to make her tone careless. But that was speculation underneath her attempt. “Well, perhaps there is something to be said for that. Still, I find Romans’ joy in sex, their playfulness, refreshing.”

He tossed the denuded bones onto a tray carried by a passing slave. So she had an outsider’s perspective on Rome. “My lady is not Roman by birth?”

She tore off a hunk of bread and handed it to him. “I was born in Dacia. You would not know it.”

“My father had a map of the world. He used to tell me we were bound to rule it. Your land has a great river, and mountains almost impenetrable.”

She stared at him. “Latin and geography? What next, barbarian? Poetry, sculpture? You are practically Roman.”

He set his lips. She thought being Roman was a good thing? “And what is that, ‘practically Roman’?”

“Rome is the light of civilization,” she replied, suddenly serious. “It is all that stands between the world and darkness. And yes, it is sculpture and poetry, religion, laws and roads and aqueducts. And peace in which to enjoy those things.”

“Pax Romana?” he asked, snorting. “Achieved only when Rome has laid waste to the land and conquered its people.”

“Granted,” she said after a pause. He admired her for that. “But once that is done, the petty squabbling that eats away at the world is done, too, and finer things can flourish.”

“Roman
things? Hardly. You borrow your religion and your sculpture from Greece, and your geometry and mathematics. Rome has contributed nothing original in all its years.”

She looked away. He had won. But then she turned back to him. Her eyes were wise beyond their years. “What Rome contributes is more practical, but nonetheless necessary. Call it efficiency. People need water and commerce to make their lives better. Commerce needs roads. When people have leisure they can appreciate all those Greek things that enlarge their souls.”

“Leisure? Rome’s leisure is achieved on the backs of slave labor.”

“See here, I am not proud of slavery. But one can’t build the Rome that Rome
can
be in a day.” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “One thing at a time. Besides, you said yourself that your people hold slaves. Slavery is universal.”

Sounds of passion issuing from a dim niche claimed their attention. A woman was on her hands and knees being penetrated by two men, one below in her vagina and one above in her anus. She was obviously enjoying the experience.

The moment lengthened. Jergan felt his owner’s discomfort. Was she imagining, as he was, what it would be like to couple? His cock, which seemed to have been aching ever since she bought him, tightened. Her attention jerked abruptly to the entry.

“Julia Lavilla, Julia Agrippina, what a wonderful surprise,” their host called, hurrying over to the newcomers.

“Vulcan’s hammer,” Jergan’s owner swore. “Not those two.”

Jergan looked up to see the emperor’s sisters bearing down on them.

“L
IVIA
Q
UINTUS
,” J
ULIA
simpered. “How lovely to see you here. And your new slave.”

This was bad, Livia thought. Had they been sent by their brother to spy on her? Or were they only interested in Jergan? Either way, she did not care for their attentions. Jergan, who had been crouching beside her, rose to his full height.

“My, my, but you were percipient in your purchase, Livia Quintus.” Agrippina could not take her eyes off Jergan. “He cleans up nicely. And I rather like that you left all that barbarian hair.” Livia was glad he was fully clothed. Let them not notice what she had: that he had been aroused by the love play so much in evidence around them.

But that was too much to ask.

“Oh, ho,” Agrippina chortled. “He is ready. What a randy beast he is.” She moved in and ran her hands over the coarse cloth of his slave’s tunic, paying special attention to his nipples and the bulge at his groin. “Do you not think he wears too much clothing? A slave like this ought to be naked, as you had him last night when he was chained to your litter.”

Jergan was scowling, his fists clenched at his sides. Livia shot him a warning look.
Keep your composure
, she willed him. “It is January, Agrippina,” she said. “A tunic is only merciful.”

“Nonsense,” Julia Lavilla snorted. She moved up to join her sister in moving her hands over Jergan’s body. Julia’s hands smoothed his tunic over his buttocks, gripping
the muscle. “What does a slave’s comfort matter? His purpose is to please.”

Livia gritted her teeth. She wasn’t sure she could speak.

Agrippina ran her hand up under his tunic. Jergan stiffened. He was barely holding himself in check. “You allow him a loincloth as well? Livia Quintus,” she chided. “That is merely an obstacle. He should be ready to give pleasure at a moment’s notice.”

“He … his performance has been most satisfactory,” she managed. These women were the most powerful in the empire. She must give their brother no excuse to notice her, to arrest her. She was vampire. He couldn’t hold her, but she would have to translocate, and everyone would see her disappear in mid-air. She’d have to leave Rome. That would probably stop the plot. Her fellow conspirators would lose their courage.

“We shall judge his performance,” Julia purred. “Oh, what fun we could have.”

“If he fails to please us we’ll have him whipped and then his member rubbed with that crushed beetle from Hispania so he might try again to satisfy us.” Agrippina was practically drooling as she breathed up at Jergan.

Livia felt a rising tide of revulsion and … fear. They could have their brother confiscate Jergan.

Julia pulled Jergan toward one of the shadowed niches, not even asking Livia’s permission. He shot Livia a look, half threat, half command. If she did not rescue him, he was prepared to make a scene. Panic rose in Livia’s breast. She couldn’t let these two spiders abuse Jergan, or let him incur the consequence of refusing them.

She felt full, full to overflowing. Something inside her was scratching to get out. She must get Jergan away from Caesar’s sisters. Julia was drawing him toward a niche.
Agrippina trailed in their wake. They were approaching the statue of Venus. Water tinkled from a fountain.

Livia’s eyes darted to the nymphs and randy cupids spilling water.

Time slowed. It was her dream! The same fountain, the same feeling of panic. She had dreamed this exactly as it was happening. And now something was trying to come to the top of her mind and she didn’t know what it was.

She jerked herself forcibly back to the present. How to get Jergan away from them?

“How … how is your brother?” Livia called, hurrying after them. Best they were reminded that they were powerful, but not in comparison to their unstable brother. Would he suffer his sisters, to whom he was only too close, to cavort in public with another, even a slave? He was notoriously jealous.

A trumpet was heard in the courtyard. The sisters looked at each other, frozen like the statues of them that stood near the Temple of Jupiter. Julia dropped Jergan’s arm.

“Ask him yourself,” Agrippina said. Something like fear slid through her eyes.

Livia sucked in a breath. She heard the gasp of reaction from around the room and murmurs of “Caligula.” No one would dare call the emperor by his nickname, which meant “little sandal,” in his hearing. What brought him to Melanus Devenus’s humble banquet when there were state-sanctioned celebrations of the returning armies to attend? At least the emperor’s presence had stopped his sisters’ pursuit of Jergan. Still the solution seemed like killing two scorpions by letting a cobra loose.

The man who entered the room was not handsome. He had not inherited a jot of his grandfather Augustus’s
rough good looks. Caligula’s face was pinched, with narrow eyes. He was tall, but rumor had it that his legs were spindly. His servants said his hirsute body more than made up for the thin hair and balding head, though he shaved to conceal it. Caligula had decreed that no reference to goats could be made in his presence, upon pain of death. First of the Claudian line to inherit the title of Emperor, he had come to the throne at only twenty-five. Four years had not matured him. His predecessors had had the grace to mask their authoritarian power. He made no pretense. He could do anything. And he did.