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  Rapture's Slave

  ​Becky Lee Weyrich

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1980 by Becky Lee Weyrich

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition June 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-336-6

  Also by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Swan’s Way

  Savannah Scarlett

  Rainbow Hammock

  Captive of Desire

  Sands of Destiny

  The Scarlet Thread

  Once Upon Forever

  Summer Lightning

  Silver Tears

  Tainted Lilies

  Almost Heaven

  Whispers in Time

  Sweet Forever

  Rapture’s Slave

  Gypsy Moon

  Hot Winds from Bombay

  The Thistle and the Rose

  Forever, For Love

  For Hank

  With Love

  The Julius-Claudian House

  Julius Caesar left no direct heir, since his only daughter, Julia, wife of Pompey, died childless. But his line continued through his niece, Atia, and his great-nephew and adopted son, who ruled the Roman Empire after Julius Caesar’s death and came to be called “the Divine Augustus.”

  Prologue

  The wails of the first child still echoed through the villa as a second cry rang out announcing the arrival of another babe.

  Leaving his flame-haired wife sleeping with his pale daughter at her breast, the Emperor Claudius rushed to the next chamber to the new sound of life.

  As he entered the darkened room his eyes met those of Sophia—those great, black eyes that seemed to hold the mysteries of the ages within their depths.

  Reaching out a trembling hand to him, Sophia spoke in a whisper. “I give you my daughter, Caesar.”

  And then her eyes closed—forever.

  Claudius knelt beside the bed and covered her still hand with kisses and tears. Why? Why? She was only a child herself. Had his need for her cost her life?

  As the infant with hair as black as night was taken from its mother, Claudius stayed alone to grieve—to remember.

  Sophia, young as she was, could not have gone without notice. Though always obedient to her mistress, the Empress Messalina, Sophia exuded an aura of passion. More than once Claudius had felt heat rise in his body for no apparent reason, only to turn and find Sophia’s almond eyes on him, shifting the instant he caught her staring.

  He had fought his need for her. After all, she was so young, so innocent—and a slave. He had told himself with much conviction that such an alliance would be beneath the emperor. But there came a night when he found that even the emperor was no more than a man.

  Restless and craving a glass of wine, Claudius had crept from the great bed where his new wife lay sleeping, her hair fanned about her beautiful face upon the satin pillow. He longed to wake her. He wanted more than wine. But he stayed his passions.

  When he reached the triclinium of the villa, he poured a goblet of Falernian, then turned as he heard splashing from the pool. Going quietly to the terrace, Claudius looked out and could not draw his eyes away.

  Gowned only in moonlight, Sophia’s curved and sculpted body glowed with what seemed an inner light. She swam gracefully to one end of the pool and then floated almost motionless as the moon reflected in her wide eyes.

  Diving deep, she disappeared. His heart stopped for an instant until she broke the surface with a shower of gleaming droplets flying heavenward. Slowly, she moved through the water like some enchanted creature of the sea. When she climbed the golden steps to end her night frolic, Claudius was there to press a warm robe about her shoulders.

  She showed no surprise as she turned to him and spoke in her low and sultry Eastern voice, “Thank you, Caesar. The night air is chilly.”

  He remembered the feel of her damp, cool cheek as he brushed it with his lips and asked, “Then why, Sophia, do you choose to swim at night?”

  Her eyes met his as she answered, “I am Greek. Long before my family was forced into servitude my ancestors lived on the isle of Crete. There everyone swims by day or night—from the newborn babies to the aged and infirm who must be carried to the shore. The salts of the water cure the body and cleanse the mind.”

  Slipping the robe from her shoulders, Claudius observed, “Such a body needs no cure.”

  “But I must cleanse my mind of thoughts I shouldn’t have—needs which go unfulfilled.”

  As his arms closed about her, he could feel her shivering, and her flesh felt cool against his bare chest. Claudius lifted her light form in his arms and carried her without a word to her chamber. Though she was a slave, her room was in the main part of the villa, since she served the empress.

  Laying her gently on her bed, the emperor turned up the lamp to gaze on his prize. Sophia did not move to cover herself, but lay before him breathing deeply so that her breasts rose and fell in a seductive rhythm. Her eyes remained calm and fastened on his face. She did not fear him.

  After minutes of devouring her with his eyes, Claudius tasted her lips. She clung to him with an expertise seldom known in one so young. Her body aroused and invited him. But dared he, the emperor?

  Then they met—flesh to flesh—and they melted together in love. He was no longer the emperor, but the man, Claudius. She was no longer the slave girl, but the woman, Sophia. He knew that their love could not be denied.

  As he entered her, Sophia let out a slight cry. Claudius halted as he realized he was the first man she had known. But she urged him on—deeper and deeper. He felt himself diving as she had dived beneath the cool waters of the salt pool.

  At last a white light burst in his brain—the light of Apollo blinding him in his ecstasy, carrying him toward the heavens.

  Afterward, as they lay in each other’s arms, Claudius caressed her soft skin as he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me, Sophia?”

  Her lips touched his ear. “Tell you what, my Caesar?”

  “That you had never before known love?”

  She regarded him solemnly. “I have waited for you. I always knew there would be a man I would love and he would love me back. When I first saw you, I knew.”

  The world dissolved once more as Claudius reached the heights, carrying with him his love. Sophia. Never before had he known such emotions. Surely, the gods meant it to be so.

  He stayed with her until the dawn’s first light crept into the chamber to gild her olive skin. After that night, Sophia had never had to swim alone again. He had called her his “exotic flower of the dark hours,” his “night-blooming Ceres.”

  As her flesh cooled in his hand, Claudius bent forward to taste her lips one last time. His tears fell on her face, where he had never seen tears. She had been happy for the months they had together. In this, if nothing else, he took consolation.

  Her words came back to him as an echo in the quiet room. “I give you my daughter, Caesar.”

  He spoke to Sophia even as the bloom of her soft cheeks began to fade. “I accept your gift, my dearest. She shall be called Claudia Acte, and, like her m
other, she shall know no man until she knows love. May the gods grant her half as sweet a love as I have known.”

  One

  A comet lashed its fiery tail across Jupiter’s heavens that soft spring night, showering the Empire with omens of good or evil, depending on the state of mind of its witnesses. Some saw it as a promise of love—others felt it foretold certain death and destruction.

  Acte’s great, dark eyes followed the progress of the longhaired star, her heart brimming with love. With her bare arms held out in supplication to the illumined sky, she whispered, “Send him to me. I await his coming, whoever he may be. For, surely, you announce the arrival of the man who will win my heart.”

  Still gazing at this heavenly splendor, doubled by its reflection in the Bay of Baiae, Acte thought back to the events of the afternoon.

  The henna-haired woman and the two girls—one as colorless as the snow on the slopes of the Apennines, the other as dark and mysterious as the cave of the Sibyl where they now gathered—had reached their destination.

  Arriving at the cave opening after negotiating the lightless, airless stairway carved in ancient days through the tufa rock hill of Cumae, they stopped, not daring to cross the forbidden portal into the abode of the sacred Sibyl. After long minutes, glowing eyes appeared in the darkness before them.

  She spoke in a voice cracked with age. “So, the emperor’s wife, Messalina, has come to Sibyl! I have been expecting you. What are my words of wisdom worth to such a lofty personage?”

  Messalina cast a handful of gold coins into the cave, and the hollow voice came again from within.

  “The husband of Messalina will die within the year, leaving her alone to fend for herself and against herself. She is her own worst enemy.”

  The empress and the two girls gasped at the dire prediction.

  The voice continued. ‘Tears! I see tears. Far into the future my eyes behold the Temple of Vesta shining in bright light, but tears glow like pearls upon the altar stones. And again, tears on the face of Octavia beneath the orange veil. A weeping bride—an evil omen! But wait! I see hope for one among you. Soon there will come to the emperor’s villa a young nobleman whom many will love and fear. He comes to cover the dark face of Acte with a veil of love and trust. Her heart will know freedom at last, even as it becomes a prisoner of love. Give yourself to this great one, Acte, and know your destiny fulfilled.”

  Octavia, the pale daughter of the emperor, glared accusingly at her slave, Acte. Acte lowered her head, afraid to meet the gaze of her young mistress.

  Messalina broke the silence with her harsh tongue. “I did not bring gold to hear of the good fortunes of a slave! What news have you of the one I love?”

  A taunting laugh. “Which one of your loves? But never mind. Their lives will all be tainted by your love as the worm which dares invade the sacred pomegranate.” The voice grew thin and trailed away as the trance came to an end. “One year, Messalina, one year—one year.”

  The Empress Messalina grasped the two girls and held them to her shivering body. Then pushing them toward the dark stairway, she cried, “We should not have come to this place! It is better not to know of the future. Besides, the old woman makes no sense. I cannot divine any meaning in her ramblings.”

  As the three were driven back to the villa of the Emperor Claudius in Baiae, Messalina twisted a scarf in her nervous hands.

  Octavia, paler than usual, cast her eyes down as tears streaked her cheeks. At last she whispered, “Mother, I’m afraid!”

  Messalina put her arm about her daughter’s shoulders.

  “So am I, my little one. But we must forget the old woman’s silly chatter.”

  Acte remembered that only she had been promised true love by the Sibyl. She, a mere slave girl, would love a man of noble birth. Her pity went out silently to the tearful mother and daughter with her.

  Her Greek eyes had seen all and understood. The Sibyl had said she would wear a veil of love and trust. Soon—soon she would meet him, the one who would free her with his love.

  As she gazed out into the spring night over the greening gardens, she saw the rebirth from winter as a renewal of herself as well. The comet, now fading to the north, gave further proof to the words of the Sibyl. Love would come soon. She had to believe; she did believe!

  A scream interrupted Acte’s reverie. She hurried on bare feet across the cool marble corridor separating her chamber from that of the Lady Octavia. The emperor’s daughter, too, had seen the comet. Now Acte must quiet her mistress’s fears.

  The sweet scent of wild lupine softened the lingering evening as Acte’s comet hissed north to flare its glory and its warning on the seven hills of Rome.

  A gross figure settled on his couch, clasping bejeweled fingers over his gold-clad paunch, satisfied with his meal, his riches, his life.

  His small eyes seemed no more than pockmarks in his bloated face as he surveyed his dining chamber, taking special pride in the mosaic murals depicting the idyllic beauties of the countryside—a garden where a water sprite played in a bubbling fountain; a group of naked bathers, their beautiful bodies glistening; a pair of fashionably dressed lovers in a park.

  Behind him a woman gowned in flowing blue and gold moved and spoke.

  “Some wine to settle your meal, my husband?”

  He belched his approval of the roast duckling, stuffed mushrooms, and unborn squid sauteed in garlic butter as he accepted the offered glass.

  With an effort he propped himself on one elbow and raised his goblet in salute.

  “A toast, my dear. To the daughter of Germanicus, the great-granddaughter of the Divine Augustus—to the beautiful Agrippina.”

  He gulped the wine, letting some dribble down his chin.

  “Come here and sit beside me, my love. Suddenly I feel the need of your touch. Odd! Spring must be stirring my blood. Tonight I believe I will be able to make love.”

  Amber eyes flecked with green lit her perfect face as Agrippina swayed seductively toward him. She settled on his couch and, letting one hand creep into the folds of his robe, she found the damp, limp, wormlike flesh she sought, manipulating it until his face became flushed, his body writhed, and he moaned on his couch.

  He placed the empty goblet aside and reached for her. As his hot breath touched her cheek, she unclasped her gown to reveal a body that seemed to be fashioned of alabaster, with softly sculpted shoulders and full, proud breasts peaked by rosettes the color of ripe plums. His mouth watered at the sight.

  Removing the jeweled combs from her hair, she freed it to tumble in red-gold disarray about her. Accustomed to her husband’s hesitation, Agrippina caressed her breast and squeezed gently, further expanding the nipple. As she offered herself to him, he took no notice of the white powder released from the hollow band of the pearl ring on her finger to frost the plum.

  Still he hesitated, distracted by a rustling behind the rich drapes covering the entrance to the balcony.

  Agrippina’s whisper held the huskiness of passion. “Only the murmur of a loving spring breeze, my husband. Come. I await your lips. The season has fired my blood as well.”

  The “loving spring breeze,” Nero, felt a pleasing, but disturbing, shiver run through his young body as he watched the ripe and frosted nipple disappear between the moist lips of his stepfather. Looking into his mother’s face, he saw the expression in her eyes turn from loving, giving warmth to ice.

  Within moments his stepfather’s face discolored and contorted in pain. A spasm jerked his body. And then it was over.

  Agrippina pried the frozen, blue lips from her breast. Then she readjusted her gown, carefully concealing her instrument of execution.

  Nero nodded in satisfaction. Never before had he seen the poison of the Death Pearl served up on such a tempting morsel. He marveled at his mother’s imaginative use of her body.

  As he was about to creep from the balcony back to his apartments, Nero heard Agrippina address the
corpse on the gilded couch in a cordial tone. “Thank you, Passenius Crispus, for departing so quietly and leaving your fortune behind for myself and my son. Never again will we have to suffer the lot of impoverished nobility.”

  Then, working herself into a suitable state of hysteria, she called for her slaves and sent a runner for a doctor.

  As the last light of that spring evening faded, Nero’s pulses quickened at the sight of the comet streaking through the heavens. What could it mean? Lying back on his couch, he strummed his lyre to calm his nerves and spoke to himself for reassurance.

  “I am once again fatherless, but much the better for it. My best of mothers will see that I am well taken care of.”

  The strains of Nero’s lyre filled the quiet night, as he puzzled over the meaning of the comet’s appearance at almost the instant of his stepfather’s death.

  A few weeks after the comet’s appearance, Acte, with her fan of peacock feathers gently stirring the air in practiced rhythm, stationed herself quietly behind the two women on the terrace of Claudius’s villa at Baiae. The shimmering lights on the blue-green waters of the bay made it a blinding impossibility for them to look out toward the isle of Ischia, which lay like some great-domed jewel on the water’s calm surface.

  The silent slave girl savored the soft salt breeze, which carried the pungent scent of bay laurel from the hillside to mingle with the sweetness of the lime blossoms in the garden. Though the scene was all beauty and calm, Acte sensed an undercurrent of strain and agitation between the Empress Messalina and her recently arrived guest, the Lady Agrippina.

  Acte’s face remained the expressionless mask of the slave as she watched and listened, only occasionally allowing her eyes to travel longingly to the garden where Octavia and her younger brother, Britannicus, entertained Agrippina’s bronze-haired son. She wished she could play with them, but for the time being she would have to content herself with gleaning tidbits of gossip from the conversation between the two women.