The Gladiator's Mistress (Champions of Rome) (4 page)

Chapter 6

Phaedra

Phaedra’s best friend and matron of honor, Fortunada, came into the bedchamber. Dressed in silver, Fortunada looked every bit the embodiment of Pronuba, the goddess of marriage. The back of her gown trailed across the floor and caught rose petals as she passed. Her sleeves were sheer and hung loose at the wrists. Under the fabric, Fortunada had woven silver cords in a crisscross pattern up and down her arms. The same silver cord had been wound in and out of her flaxen hair. Large silver hoops hung from her ears, and she shimmered with each movement.

“Come,” Fortunada said as she held out her hand to Phaedra. Together they knelt before the bed. “Wise and gentle goddess, please take your daughter Phaedra unto you on her wedding night,” said Fortunada. “Keep her always faithful to her husband, and make her fertile to bear many children.”

“Wise and gentle goddess,” Phaedra repeated, hoping the goddess Pronuba was listening. “Take me unto you on this, my wedding night. Keep me always faithful to my husband, Marcus, and make us fertile to bear many children.”

When they were girls, countless times in this very room, at this very bed, she and Fortunada each had pretended to be the bride and the other her matron of honor, with all the accompanying sacred rituals. Now that she was actually saying those prayers for the reason they were intended, the supplications felt hollow. Was it because the groom did not love Phaedra the way she had always hoped? Or perhaps it was because Valens’s scent still clung to her skin.

They moved to the small wooden altar. Phaedra first fastened her gaze upon the clay likeness of her mother. Then, as an offering to the goddess, she poured olive oil and dropped bits of dates onto a candle flame.

“Time to put you in bed,” said Fortunada. She peeled back the blankets and Phaedra scooted across the mattress. “You are well prepared for your wedding night?”

Phaedra rested her back against the carved wooden headboard. Again, Valens came to mind. “Yes,” said Phaedra, “I remember in great detail what you told me of your wedding night.”

Embarrassed and giddy, they both laughed.

“Marcus is older. He may need more attention to become aroused.”

“I have been warned to be very aware of the phallus.”

“Phallus?” Fortunada sat at the foot of the bed. “Sometimes I think it is unhealthy for you to have been so sheltered. Cock. Call it a cock.”

“Cock,” Phaedra said, laughing nervously.

“You may have to kiss him,” said Fortunada, “and not just on the lips.”

“You mean his neck,” said Phaedra, although she knew what her friend meant.

“Lower.”

“I thought you would say that.”

“Take him in your mouth. Lick and suck as if you are getting juices from your fingers. Do not use your teeth.”

Phaedra considered these new instructions, and warmth spread down to the juncture of her thighs. She wanted to become a woman in every way. Without her even willing it, the face and body of Valens came to mind. She replaced him with Marcus and the image of having a lover lost its power.

“I will do as you suggest,” said Phaedra.

“I would have you know something else. When he enters you, there will be some pain and blood. Do not fear either. The pain will subside and the blood will show him you are untouched.”

Phaedra knew all of this already, having heard of wedding nights from other friends. Certain that Fortunada wanted to take her role as matron of honor seriously, she listened without interruption. “Thank you for the warning and the words of wisdom.”

“Hard-won wisdom, I assure you.” Fortunada stood. “Shall I send in Marcus?”

Again Phaedra’s cheeks grew hot, and she fought the urge to smile. She had dreamed of this moment. Now, finally, the time had arrived.

As was customary, Marcus would come to her and ask to get into the bed. She would refuse, also the custom. He would then speak words of undying love and call her
wife
. After that, she would call him
husband
and invite him to join her under the covers. “Yes,” she said to Fortunada, “invite him in.”

Fortunada walked to the door and looked into the hallway. She stepped out farther, looking both left and right. “He is not there,” she said. “I am sure he just stepped away for a moment.”

Phaedra tried to ignore the unmistakable look of confusion from Fortunada, who went off to find the wayward groom. Maybe Phaedra had somehow angered the goddess. Had Pronuba seen into her heart and found Valens residing there? Had she chased away Marcus with a full bladder, or the need for another glass of wine as punishment?

Another, much worse, possibility occurred to her. What if Pronuba was giving no thought to Phaedra’s marriage at all? Marcus was not waiting in the hallway because he had never come to her room. The bride had left the banquet, as had the matron of honor. But all the while, the groom remained in the dining room, more interested in discussing politics than doing his duty as husband.

Phaedra tried to calm down. Fortunada would find him. Soon Marcus would come to Phaedra’s bed. As husband and wife, they would join and become one flesh. In fervent silence she prayed to Pronuba and promised to be a good wife, an honest wife. To show her sincerity, she pledged to remain awake until Marcus came to her.

Phaedra stretched out under the covers. The seconds slid through the hourglass, becoming minutes, and the minutes began to pile higher and higher. Her eyes grew heavy and she closed them for a moment. A soft noise, a shuffling, drew her from the haze of sleep, and she sat up.

“Marcus?”

Her husband sat on a stool, unlacing his sandals. “I am sorry, my dear. I did not mean to wake you.”

She rose from the bed, knelt before him, and reached for his foot. “Can I help?”

“No. I am fine. You return to bed.”

To bed to sleep, or to bed to be made a wife? She ran her fingers over the belt at her waist. “Do you want some wine?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I had plenty.”

Phaedra stood behind Marcus and placed her palms on his shoulders. She moved her hands under the heavy fabric of the toga and tunic beneath. His skin was both warm and dry under her fingers. Her pulse raced and fluttered at the base of her throat. Should she touch her husband without his invitation? Phaedra wanted to show Marcus that, although a virgin, she still welcomed his attention. Her hands slid lower. He gripped her wrist, stilling her explorations.

“My dear, the plentiful wine has unmanned me.”

Fortunada had warned her of this exact possibility. Phaedra swallowed her hesitation and kissed Marcus on the cheek. She placed small kisses down to his throat and flicked her tongue over his earlobe. She moved in front of him and knelt again. She ran her hands up his calves, past his knees and to his thighs.

Suck and lick as if getting juices from my fingers.

Marcus sighed and clasped her hands between his. He pulled her to standing and eased Phaedra onto his lap. “You are truly lovely,” he said, “and I wish that I were a young man. But I am not. Tonight we must be satisfied with each other’s company. You understand?”

In all the disappointments of her life—waiting years to marry, being bartered as a bride for senatorial support—having her husband refuse to love her on her wedding night seemed the cruelest of them all. “Yes,” she lied. “I understand.”

“There is a good girl. Tomorrow, then?”

He pressed his lips to her palm. She smiled, despite the sour taste of disappointment coating her tongue.

Marcus stripped out of his toga, careful to keep his back to her, and slid between the sheets. Within seconds he snored. She blew out the lamps and undressed in the dark, fumbling with the intricate knot at her waist, undoing the symbol of their union.

Chapter 7

Phaedra

Phaedra awakened alone. A sliver of light shone on the tiled floor. She refused to call for Terenita, loathing the notion that anyone would know she had failed at the singular task set before her—to please her new husband. Pulling the sheets from the mattress, she wadded them into a bundle and threw them into the corridor.

While most of her belongings were already at Marcus’s villa, a single gown of pink silk remained with her in her father’s home. She held it up and it shone with different colors in the light, reminding her of the inside of a seashell. She dressed and draped the silver-shimmering stolla over her shoulder, all the while wondering if she really should bother at all.

Without the help of servant or slave, Phaedra could fashion only a single hairstyle. She pulled up twin locks from each temple and fastened them in the back with combs before using her fingers to loosen several tendrils to frame her face.

After examining her reflection in a polished bronze disk, Phaedra found that she looked as awful as she felt. Using fine white powder, she covered the dark circles under her eyes before lining her eyes with kohl. Then she applied berry juices to her lips and cheeks.

Phaedra found her father in the small dining room. He sat at a table, like a woman, not reclined on a sofa as the men of Rome usually did when they ate. He stared, bleary-eyed, at a bowl of porridge. His usual ruddy and full cheeks were slackened with a yellowish undertone.

“Good morning, Father.”

He pressed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “I have too much of a headache for anything to be good.”

“You saw me wed—that should lift your spirits.”

“That it does.”

Phaedra sat next to her father, and a slave brought her a similar bowl of porridge and a container of honeyed dates. She scooped the dates into the porridge and stirred, wondering where Marcus had gone. Maybe in the middle of the night he had changed his mind about being married to her. She imagined him sneaking from the villa before Rome awoke, with sandals in hand.

“Has my husband eaten already?”

“Marcus left for the Senate House before dawn,” said her father. “We received word of some problems in Sicily. Slaves working the fields have revolted. Any unrest there will disrupt our grain supply, and it needed immediate attention. My head aches too much or I would be there with him.”

“Those are important matters of the republic, both the grain supply and your headache,” she said. Her father seemed not to notice her jest. For a moment, Phaedra wished that she was better at making jokes.

“I told Marcus you would understand. Who better to wed a senator than the daughter of a senator?”

“No one, I imagine.”

“This is a great union,” her father said. He tried to smooth down his disheveled hair. Instead, thin wisps spread to where none should be. “I need a million sesterces to retain my Senate seat. Marcus needs an unwavering ally against those who want the plebs raised up beyond their birth. I care little for his politics, you know. But you needed a husband, and all of this was accomplished in one fortuitous event.”

Of course the reasons for her marriage were political and not personal. Still, she hoped that Marcus somehow wanted her, not just her father’s support.

“By the way, Marcus will send a litter to take you to his villa by midmorning,” her father said. “Then the housekeeper will present you with the keys, and you will become mistress of your own home. That must excite you.”

Phaedra stared at her bowl. Fat black dates hung suspended in the lumpy white porridge. She wondered at ever having had an appetite for this unappealing mess. “If it pleases you both,” she said.

“I am going back to bed. We all celebrated your happiness far into the night. And now I suffer.” He limped from the room.

Alone again, Phaedra tried to take a few bites of porridge. The time from breakfast until midmorning stretched into an interminable length.

A slave entered the dining room. “Pardon, my lady,” he said. “General Acestes is here.”

General? She had not known of Acestes’s rank last night. “Marcus left already this morning, and my father is unavailable for visitors.”

“That is why I came to you, my lady. The general would have a word with you in their stead.”

“Show him in,” she said.

Two reclining sofas, both upholstered in green silk, sat next to each other at the side of the room, flanking a small round table in between. Phaedra moved to one of the sofas and arranged the soft folds of her gown over her ankles.

“Greetings,” Acestes said as he approached. He was dressed in military garb, and as did all officers of the legion, wore a leather breastplate with bronze details and a pleated leather skirt over a red tunic. Under his arm he carried a bronze helmet with a bright red plume. Had Marcus served in the legions as well? Phaedra did not know, but she wondered if he looked as dashing as his nephew in the regalia.

“Greetings,” Phaedra said. She gestured to the other sofa. “You, like all legionnaires, look splendid.”

“I know it is illegal to wear my uniform inside the walls of the sacred city, but I am off to put down a slave uprising within the hour. Since it is the Senate who gives my orders, I doubt they think I will declare war. Still, I must apologize for my attire. I pray it does not offend.”

She found it hard not to notice Acestes’s long, strong legs as he reclined. After last night’s encounter, she knew it was imperative that she behave with the utmost decorum. “Have you eaten yet? I can offer you porridge and dried fruit.”

“Gratitude, but I came to say good-bye.”

“Father already told me about the events in Sicily. It sounds terribly dangerous.”

“Do not tell me you worry for my safety,” he said. “You walked away from me twice last night.”

As he spoke a slight smile lifted the corner of his mouth, and Phaedra found his looks pleasing. She should not flirt with her new husband’s—and now her own—nephew. But since he had teased her first, she felt it impolite not to respond in kind. With a smile of her own, she asked, “Are you always so candid?”

He laughed. “I see no reason not to be. Subterfuge has caused more heartache than it is worth.”

She smiled and thought that perhaps she could come to like Acestes.

“It pleases me that we speak alone,” he said after they had sat in companionable silence for a moment. “I would be blunt again, if you give me your word not to walk away.”

“I promise.”

Acestes looked over his shoulder before leaning toward Phaedra. “Marcus and my mother were twins,” he whispered.

Twins were unusual and sometimes even considered bad luck, but not so damming that it needed to be kept a secret. “I did not know.”

“That is why I look so much like my uncle.”

“You do look very much alike.”

“All my life I have heard my uncle’s previous wives complain to my mother about his lack of interest in the bedroom. Both women also complained that due to his scant attention, they failed to conceive a child. When neither provided an heir, he divorced them.”

“I see,” said Phaedra. If Marcus had not been a virile man in his youth, he certainly would be lacking in ardor since he had aged. If she understood correctly, it was because the phallus of older men tired more easily. In a way it came as a relief that their failure to consummate the marriage had been Marcus’s and not hers.

“I could get you with child,” said Acestes.

“You cannot think that I would want you as a lover,” she said. “You are my husband’s nephew.”

“I do not come to you looking for an affair, or even a tryst. By rights, Marcus should name me his heir. He has not. It is because I am the son of his sister, not his brother. Also, he wants a child of his own. He will not get one with you unless his passions have grown stronger over the years, which is not likely when you consider his advancing age.”

So he did not actually want her, either. The realization that no one really desired her was humiliating. Her face burned and tears stung her eyes.

“If you were to give him a baby, that child would inherit,” said Acestes. “If you bore my son, then he would inherit.”

Phaedra turned to look at Acestes. The bronze of his breastplate and the gold of his hair glowed in the morning light. “I cannot,” she said, her voice small. “I am his wife.”

“He does not love you. You know he married you for a political alliance. You do not owe him anything. Besides, if you do not give him a child, he will divorce you, as well.”

Without question she knew Marcus would set her aside if she stopped being useful. But if she bore his child, or a child he believed to be his, she would always be bound to him. By engaging in the act of love, something she had longed to do last night, she could secure her future. With a child she would have security and would control his entire fortune should Marcus pass away.

Phaedra wondered if she was capable of passing off one man’s child as another’s. Even if no one ever questioned the child’s parentage, she would never be able to tell that lie.

And what of Acestes? He needed Marcus’s wife, and it mattered little who that person might be. Phaedra would serve as a vessel for Acestes’s son to come into the world and claim an inheritance he believed belonged to him.

Draping his arm over the back of the sofa, he said, “Think about my offer. After a few months of marriage, you will change your mind.”

Phaedra stood quickly. Her head buzzed and her vision grew dim around the edges. “You should go.”

Acestes stood and shrugged. “I shall come to you when I return from Sicily.”

“Do not seek me out,” Phaedra said, her voice dripping with disgust. “I never want to see you again.”