Rapture's Slave Read online

  The Empress Messalina offered her guest a golden goblet.

  “Take some wine, Agrippina. I know how awful Rome can be in the summer heat. Did you see Claudius before you left the city?”

  Acte saw the faint smile that flickered across the face of the older woman, if three and thirty years could in any way be considered old. Agrippina gratefully accepted the goblet of cool spiced wine from her uncle’s wife.

  “Yes. And you are both dears to invite me to the villa, Messalina.”

  Still moving her fan in a slow, steady sweep, Acte contained her surprise as her mistress was unable to do. She knew that the last thing the Lady Messalina would do at this time was invite a guest to stay with her. She had not been the same since the visit to the Sibyl’s cave, and now there was talk among the slaves of a new lover right here at the villa.

  Noting the slightly surprised look on Messalina’s face, Agrippina asked, “Didn’t Uncle Claudius tell you I was coming?”

  Messalina tried to recover some measure of her composure. “No. It must have slipped his mind, but you know I welcome you all the same.” Her smile seemed to tremble at the corners of her mouth as she spoke.

  Agrippina returned a stronger, though, Acte thought, equally insincere, smile. “I have a secret for you. Claudius himself will be here shortly. He wanted to surprise you, but I have never been one for surprises.”

  Messalina allowed a small exclamation to escape her lips, then covered it by ordering, “A glass of water, Acte.”

  Propping her fan against a marble column, Acte went to the nearby serving table and poured the requested drink, then returned quickly so as not to miss a word or a gesture.

  Agrippina stretched out a graceful hand to touch Messalina. “I’m glad I warned you.” She laughed softly. “Had your husband arrived unexpectedly as he planned, he might have startled you into heart failure.”

  At that moment, both Acte and Messalina fixed their gazes on the Lady Agrippina’s hand—or more particularly, on the ring on her middle finger. Wrought with finest craftsmanship, it featured two hands of gold seemingly modeled from Agrippina’s own, clasping a large blue pearl.

  A surge of envy seized Messalina. “Your ring, Agrippina, it’s exquisite! I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a pearl of such size or unusual color.”

  Agrippina relaxed now as she felt herself on safe ground, discussing nothing more important than jewelry.

  “I must admit,” Messalina continued, “I’d like to own such a piece myself, but Claudius won’t allow me such luxuries. I have the imperial jewels, of course. But Claudius says that every piece of gold spent on extravagances for public show takes money from the coffers that should be spent on Rome’s armies.”

  Acte’s keen eyes caught the tension in Agrippina’s face at first mention of the ring. But then the visitor seemed to bask in the envy of another woman. Not even the searching eyes of the slave girl saw the fine mist of white powder which sifted into Messalina’s wine goblet at Agrippina’s slight pressure on the great blue pearl as she moved her hand across the table to touch Messalina’s.

  “Yes. I’ve heard that my Uncle Claudius is an extremely frugal man.” She lied, “I’d sell the ring and donate its price to the legions of Rome, but it has sentimental value. It was a wedding gift from my dear first husband, Domitius, Nero’s father, your own mother’s brother. Surely you’ve heard that it is an heirloom handed down from generation to generation in the Ahenobarbus family. Nero’s bride will wear it someday.”

  Still staring at the blue pearl in fascination, Acte realized that this woman was the widow of the man who had been killed, the doctors said, by the comet—her comet. She glanced again at the young bull romping in the garden. Was he the one the Sibyl had promised her?

  Then her attention went back to the two women. Messalina spoke in a quasi-sympathetic tone. “Claudius and I were terribly sorry to hear of your husband’s death. It was so sudden and mysterious. You must be quite shaken.”

  “It was a blow.” Agrippina dabbed at her eyes to wipe away tears that Acte could not see, for, indeed, they did not exist. “A man in his prime—and I have not even his child to show for the union. But Nero’s my whole world now, my little love.”

  At that moment, the two were interrupted as Octavia came bounding onto the terrace.

  Tugging at her mother’s hand, she begged, “Please, Mother, can Acte come and play with us? We have an uneven number and Nero says he’ll teach us a new game, if Acte can join us.”

  Acte’s heart pounded. Had Nero actually asked for her?

  Brushing her daughter’s pale hair back in place, Messalina smiled and then turned to Agrippina.

  “Do you mind your son playing with slaves? Acte is a favorite of Octavia’s and, I’m afraid, quite spoiled. Even Claudius treats her more like one of the family than a common slave.”

  Agrippina glanced up at the Greek slave for the first time, noting her olive skin, her great eyes and her shining hair. Except for the slave tunic she wore, she might have been some princess from the East. Perhaps Nero had more than a casual interest in the girl. The thought pleased her.

  “By all means, let the girl join the others. If the children of the emperor aren’t forbidden from associating with a slave, then surely my Nero is not above such company.”

  Jumping up and down in childish glee, Octavia took Acte’s hand and hurried her away from the terrace.

  Octavia’s usually serious nature fled as she bubbled over with enthusiastic chatter about this newly found cousin.

  “Oh, Acte, wait till you meet him. He’s so worldly and tells such wicked stories. Britannicus is too young to understand, but I do. He’s made a flute out of a reed, and he says he’ll play it as soon as you’re here to add to his audience.”

  Excitement and wonder welling up, Acte asked hesitantly, “Did he ask for me personally, or just one more to hear him?”

  Octavia giggled as she whispered, “He asked for ‘the one with hair of night, eyes like deep pools and the body of a woman.’”

  Acte felt her face flush as they neared the grassy spot where Nero and Britannicus waited. After the two girls took their seats on the ground, Nero climbed upon a marble bench and bowed to his audience in the fashion of a professsional performer, then filled the air with sweet trills from his reed flute. Acte could feel his blue eyes going over every inch of her body, and this as much as his music stirred her blood.

  Rising, she raised her arms above her head and swayed to the notes Nero played. As his tune carried her, she whirled until her blue-black hair flew about her like a cloud. She leaped and pirouetted like a young gazelle, her every movement graceful, flowing, sensuous.

  Suddenly the music stopped. Acte opened her eyes to find those of Nero blazing angrily.

  “Who told you to dance, slave? I am the performer! The applause is mine, all mine!”

  Acte’s heart fell as she realized she had angered Nero deeply with her actions, though she wasn’t sure how or why.

  He issued an order to the other three: “We will have a new game. I call it Romans against the Gauls.”

  Watching the children from the terrace, Agrippina picked up her wine goblet, hoping that Messalina would do the same. “Wherever did you find that Greek slave girl?” she asked. “She is perfect for Octavia.”

  Messalina picked up her goblet and put it to her lips to drink, causing a stirring inside Agrippina’s breast, but then she set it down to answer.

  “Acte has been with us all her life. Her mother was my whipping girl, and now Acte serves the same purpose for Octavia, though Octavia is always so well behaved that, I’m afraid, Acte has become quite pampered. We don’t know who her father was. Her mother, Sophia, would never divulge that information.”

  Again Messalina raised her goblet, giving Agrippina hope. Just one sip, she thought. Drink, Messalina, drink!

  But the sobbing Octavia came rushing to the terrace to throw herself into Messalina’s ar
ms before she had that one sip.

  “Mother, make them stop! They’re hurting Acte. Please, make them release her!”

  The new game had taken on a sinister tone, indeed. Acte, as the only Gaul in the group, had been captured by the Romans. Britannicus, at the order of the older Nero, had lashed Acte’s wrists to a low-hanging limb, and after ripping her tunic to expose her bare back, Nero was inflicting a true beating on the helpless slave girl. From an especially vicious welt, a trickle of blood ran down Acte’s back to stain her ruined tunic.

  Agrippina went to Nero, catching his wrist from behind before he could inflict more pain.

  Her words held stony command. “Release the girl, Nero! No more rough play.”

  She stood over her son, staring him into submission, then made her way back to the terrace as Nero moved to cut down the silent Acte. Agrippina wondered at the girl’s endurance. She had not uttered a sound during her ordeal.

  Nero cut Acte’s bonds, then, gripping her by the arm, dragged her behind one of the statues in the garden, out of sight of those on the terrace. She stood with her wounded back against the cool marble as her doe eyes stared wonderingly into Nero’s, unnerving him. Her body trembled with emotions as mixed as his own. How could one who tempted the sweetness of the lark’s song from a common reed also show such desire to hurt?

  Nero pulled his eyes away from hers and let them roam her body as he asked, “You have a name, slave?”

  Even in her fright and confusion, her voice held a musical softness. “I am called Acte, lord.”

  Lifting her chin with one finger, Nero forced a harsh tone into his voice. “Well, Acte, you’ve been punished for trying to steal my audience from me. You are never to do that again. I have proved to you that I can give pain. But I know ways to give pleasure as well.”

  Acte sucked in her breath sharply as Nero pulled down the front of her tunic, exposing her ripening young breasts. She moved away from him, but he grasped her arm and yanked her back into place.

  “Never draw away from me, slave! If I can’t give pleasure, then I shall take it!”

  Acte now stared defiantly into his eyes and made no sound as he gently squeezed the nipples of her breasts between his fingers, causing a slight pain, but with it a tingling warmth that spread throughout her body.

  Releasing her, he said, “Look. See how your body responds to my attentions. You want me, and I plan to honor that wish.”

  Acte looked down at her small, dark nipples, hard and peaked now in response to Nero’s touch. Then his bronze head of curls obstructed her view as his tongue titillated her breasts into soft masses of longing. She could feel herself sinking against his hard young body—a heat she had never known before rising between them.

  She must escape before it was too late! But how could she leave this one promised her by the Sibyl? She was sure now he was the one. Her whole being knew it.

  A great clatter of horses’ hooves sounded in the courtyard, and for an instant Nero raised his head. Acte seized the moment to flee. Out of sight and reach of Nero, she paused in a far corner of the garden to look back at this strange young lord who had both stirred and frightened her. Then she fled to the slave quarters, clutching her torn tunic to cover herself.

  Nero wandered up to the terrace, where Britannicus had already joined the women and Octavia. While Agrippina and Messalina remained deep in conversation, Octavia stared at him, horror in her eyes. Since Acte was her whipping girl, she felt that any pain inflicted on Acte was meant for her, and she now feared Nero more than she had ever feared anyone in her short and sheltered life.

  Acte did not go to her own chamber in the main part of the villa, but instead searched out her closest friend, Nike, in the servants’ quarters. She felt in luck to find Nike alone, polishing the gold plate which would be used for company dinner.

  The fair-haired slave woman looked up in surprise as Acte whispered her name.

  “What are you doing away from your post, girl? You know I sent you out to fan the ladies on the terrace. If you’ve angered the empress, I know as well as you do who’ll suffer the flogging! Now go!”

  Nike’s scolding brought tears to Acte’s eyes.

  “Please, Nike, I need your help.”

  As Acte sagged against the wall, her tunic slipped from her shoulder, exposing an angry red welt. Nike dropped the gold plate and rushed to Acte’s side to support her. “Who did this to you, Acte? I’ll have him whipped within an inch of his life!”

  “It doesn’t matter, Nike. Only give me some ointment to soothe the pain,” Acte said weakly.

  Once in Nike’s quarters, the older woman stripped the bloody tunic from Acte. Her back was crisscrossed with lash marks, and a deep gash still oozed blood. Nike noticed, too, the purple bruises forming on Acte’s breasts.

  “I don’t know who did this to you, Acte, but if the emperor finds out, it may mean his head. You know he won’t allow anyone to lay a finger on you.”

  Acte attempted a feeble lie. “It was an accident. I was climbing a tree and I fell. The branches ripped my tunic and scraped my back.”

  Nike snorted in disgust. “And I suppose that tree reached out and grabbed you by your tender bosoms as well! I know the looks of a girl when she’s been rough-handled by a man. Besides, you’re barely past childhood—too young to be fooling around with men.”

  Acte clutched her tunic to cover herself.

  “How old were you, Nike, when you first gave yourself to a man?”

  A frown marred Nike’s pleasantly pretty face as she answered, “I was only seven, and I wasn’t giving. He took what he wanted. That’s the way it is with slave girls.”

  “I’m a slave girl, too.” Acte pronounced the words as if she were proclaiming herself a queen.

  Nike walked to where a fresh tunic hung on a peg on the wall and handed it to Acte.

  “But you’re special, Acte. You know the emperor has said that no man is to touch you as long as the Lady Octavia remains a virgin. As her slave, you have to set an example. Don’t let that Greek blood of yours ruin your place in the royal family. That’s how they think of you, you know. You’re not just another slave. Your bloodlines are different.”

  Acte wasn’t sure at the moment that she wanted to be special and said as much to Nike.

  “Do you mean that I can’t fall in love until Octavia does? Already I’ve felt passion, and I’ve met someone who—”

  “Hush, child!” Nike looked about with horror on her face. “You don’t mean that you’ve had a man?”

  Acte hung her head and whispered, “No, I haven’t had a man. But there is one I want in the worst way.”

  Nike hissed, “You’ll have the worst way and so will he, if the emperor finds out. You stay away from those slave boys, and keep your mind pure as well as your body.” Taking Acte by the shoulders, she shook her gently. “You hear me good, Acte. The emperor won’t have it. How’d you like to be sold off to some freedman who’d be worrying you every night, ripping into your guts for his pleasure and not caring how you felt or what you wanted? Better you save yourself till the time is right than get messed up and have the emperor sell you off. That man loves you as if you were his own child. I’ve heard rumors you might be his, and it’s possible enough. Your mother was a real beauty, and as young as I was when she came here with the Lady Messalina, I can still remember the way the emperor used to look at her—like she was some delicate pastry that he had a sweet tooth for.

  “Now you lie still and rest for a bit until the pain stops. And while you’re lying there, think about something other than this grand passion of yours.”

  Acte did as Nike ordered, all except for her last admonition. She couldn’t stop thinking about Nero and the feelings he had aroused in her. In her mind she again saw the comet and the glowing eyes of the Sibyl, but superimposed over these were the bronze curls and bright-blue eyes of Nero.

  As Acte lay half dreaming on Nike’s cot, excitement clutched th
e villa. The emperor had returned from the heat and stench of midsummer Rome for a few days of rest and refreshment on the cool slopes above the gulf.

  Claudius had been driven by chariot by way of the Via Appia and down the coast road to Baiae, cooled by the wind from the sea. A small army of his elite Praetorian guards escorted him, ever wary of an assassin who might be lurking in roadway, shadow, or even in his own private residences. It was a sadly unprivate life the emperor was forced to lead.

  Acte opened her eyes at the disturbance in the courtyard. She thought of the emperor and of the rumor she had lived with all her life, that she might be his daughter. Could such a thing be possible?

  She thought of the lonely man and the sad tale of his life—a life not of his choosing. Brought to the throne of Rome by mere chance rather than any compulsion on his part to rule, Claudius was not well liked. It seemed to Acte that he tried to be fair to all—the senators, the armies, the patricians, the middle-class freedmen and the poor. She shook her head sadly as she gazed out the window at the rising dust from the many horses in the courtyard.

  Poor man, she thought. I hope my mother did love him for there are few enough who do.

  Trying to be fair to all, Claudius showed no preference to any and so was scorned by every class. He had no scheming in him, yet he had to deal with schemers every hour.

  Acte knew that Claudius was essentially alone in the world, though always surrounded by people. His first wife, Urgulanilla, he divorced for adultery. She and their two children, Drusus and Claudia, had been banished from the land long before Acte was born.

  Acte knew more of his equally unfaithful second wife, Aelia Paetina. She had seen their daughter, Antonia, and her husband, Sulla, in Rome on rare occasions.

  At the age of fifty, Claudius had chosen the high-spirited Messalina as his child bride. She had given him a handsome, but sickly, son, Britannicus, as heir to the throne, and the fair and gentle Octavia to comfort him in his declining years. Acte wondered, did his royal blood flow in her veins as well as those of her mistress? The thought at the same time thrilled and frightened her. She loved the emperor, but mistrusted his wayward wife. And did the gentle emperor know of his wife’s lovers?