  The capricious flame spattered darts of thin yellow light on walls and floor as the doors swung gently closed. Claudia turned from her tall, deeply tanned, uniformed escort to address the servant who had let them in. “I won’t be needing you tonight, Tullia. You may go now. But wait ... before you leave, we shan’t be wanting all these lamps. Put out all but that one”—she pointed—“and then you may go to bed. Poor thing, I know you’re tired.” She peered beyond the wide archway opening onto the peristylium. “I see you left a lamp burning in my bedroom. Good. Well, then, just put these others out. “I don’t know what I’d do without her,” Claudia said as the servant snuffed out the flame and, bowing to them, disappeared into the now darkened corridor. “She’s a treasure, Longinus, intelligent, faithful, and, most important, she’s utterly loyal. She would die before betraying me. She’s Phoebe’s daughter, and Phoebe, you know, hanged herself rather than be a witness against my mother. Tullia, I’m sure, would do the same thing for me.” She pointed toward the peristylium. “Let’s sit out there in the moonlight. It seems a little warm in here, doesn’t it?” “It does,” he answered. “I was hoping you’d suggest that. It would be a shame to waste that moon, and the fountain and flowers.” He was glancing around the luxuriously furnished room. “By the gods, Claudia, you have a handsome place. It’s been a long time since I was here, but it seems more lavish. Did Aemilius have it redecorated?” “Bona Dea, no. That insipid oaf? What has he ever done for me?” She acted mildly piqued but then smiled. “It has been redecorated, but I had it done. This apartment’s actually an extension “I’ve heard stories, yes.” “Well, when poor Mother sent me to him from Pandateria—you know I was born on that dreadful island soon after Grandfather Augustus banished her there, and I really think she sent me to Tiberius to see that I got away from it. Anyway, he put me in here with the other little girls. This wing connects with his private quarters, or once did. There’s a wing very much like this one on the other side; that’s where he kept his boys.” She shrugged; he sensed that it was more a shudder. “Tiberius, thank the gods, spent more time over on the boys’ side. There’s a small passage-way—few persons probably know about it now—that opened from his quarters into my dressing room. It was all quite convenient. But when the old monster moved out to Capri, I had the door removed and the opening bricked up.” “I’ve heard stories about the Emperor. Was he ... did he really ... I mean, you know, Claudia, did he actually do ... does he, I mean...?” She laughed. “Yes, he did. And I presume he still does; they say old men are worse that way than young men. But he no longer bothers me and hasn’t for years. I’m much too old for him; he likes them very young, or did. He’s an old rake, all right, though he can’t be guilty of all the things they’ve charged him with. Out at Capri now I really think he’s more interested in his astrologers and philosophers than in his little girls and his painted pretty boys. But, well”—she shrugged—“there are things I do know about him, experiences I myself have had with him, and although I’m not close blood kin to him, my mother, poor thing, was his wife though she was that only because her father forced her to marry “I agree; there are pleasanter subjects than Tiberius.” They walked around a tall potted plant and sat down. Claudia leaned back against the plush cushions of the couch; she pushed her jewel-studded golden sandals out from beneath the folds of her white silk stola. The moonlight danced in the jeweled clasps that fastened the straps above her shoulders, while the gold mesh of her girdle glittered brightly. For a moment she silently studied the fountain. Then suddenly she sat forward. “Forgive me, Longinus. Would you like some wine and perhaps a wafer? I have some excellent Campania, both Falernian and Surrentine, in the other room. Or perhaps you’re hungry....” “No, no, Claudia, thank you. I made a pig of myself at Herod’s dinner tonight.” “But it was a lavish banquet, wasn’t it?” Her smile indicated a sudden secret amusement. “I wonder what Sejanus will think of it.” “Sejanus?” Then he smiled with her. “Oh, I see what you mean. He’s going to wonder where Herod got the money. And why Herod gave the dinner for Herodias.” Claudia laughed. “Well, she’s his favorite niece, isn’t she?” “She surely must be. But she’s also his half brother’s wife.” Longinus paused thoughtfully. “I hardly think, however, that Sejanus will be greatly concerned with the domestic affairs of the Herods.” “As long as they keep the money flowing into his treasury, hmm?” “Exactly. And you’re right. Tonight’s lavish feast may cause the Prefect to suspect that the flow is being partially diverted. Our friend Herod Antipas ought to have given a more modest affair. No doubt he was trying, though, to impress Herodias.” “No doubt,” Claudia repeated. “But it was hardly necessary. She wants to marry him and be Tetrarchess.” Longinus looked surprised. “Then you think Antipas will take her away from Philip?” “I’m sure he will. He already has, in fact.” “By the gods, that’s odd. That Arabian woman he left in Tiberias is much more beautiful. And so is that Jewish woman he brought along with him to Rome. What did you say her name was?” “I noticed you had eyes for her all evening.” Claudia’s tone, he thought, was not altogether flippant, and that pleased him. “Her name’s Mary,” she continued, “and she lives at Magdala on the Sea of Galilee just above Tiberias. But of course you know where Tiberias is. And I suspect you might remember Mary.” Her smile was coy and slyly questioning. “Herodias says that this Mary is being pursued by half the wealthy men in Galilee for the artistry with which she performs her bedroom chores.” “I must confess”—Longinus grinned—“that unfortunately I am numbered among the other half. But what does Herodias think of her beloved uncle’s amours? Isn’t she jealous?” “Oh, I’m sure she is ... what woman wouldn’t be? But she knows that in such activities she must share him. Antipas, I understand, is a true Herod.” “Yes, and I have a strong suspicion that in such activities, as you express it, Herodias is a Herod, too.” He sat forward, serious again. “But what puzzles me, Claudia, is how I happened to be one of Antipas’ guests tonight. It must have been entirely through your arranging, but why on earth are you involved in a social way with any of these Jews?” Claudia laughed. “Herodias and I have long been friends. You see, after her grandfather, old Herod the Great they called him, had her father and her uncle, his own sons, killed”—she involuntarily shuddered—“Herodias and her brother Agrippa were virtually brought up at the Emperor’s court. Agrippa’s a spoiled, arrogant, worthless spendthrift. Old Herod sent his other sons to Rome, too, to be educated—Antipas and Philip, Herodias’ husband now, and still another Philip....” She broke off and gestured to indicate futility. “You see, Longinus, old Herod had ten wives and only the gods know how many children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Do you know much about the Herods? They’re older than we, of course.” Longinus shook his head. “No, nor do I care to. I think maybe I have seen some of them a few times, including this Philip, but I happily surrender to you any share I may have in any Jew.” “But, Longinus, the Herods aren’t orthodox Jews. They even say that some of them, including Herodias and her no-good brother, are more Roman than we Romans. They’ve all probably spent more time in Rome than in Palestine. Why, they have about as much regard for the Jewish religion as you and I have for our Roman gods. Actually, Longinus, the Herods are Idumaeans, and they’re quite different from the rest of the Jews. The Jews are strict in their religious observances.” Abruptly she stopped. “But why, Bona Dea, am I telling you about the Jews? You have lived out there in Palestine, and I’ve never set foot near it. Your father has vast properties in that region, while mine....” She lifted a knee to the couch as she twisted her body to face him, her dark eyes deadly serious in the silver brightness of the moon. “Longinus, do you know about my father?” “No, Claudia, nothing.” “Of course you don’t.” She smiled bitterly. “That was a silly question. I don’t even know myself. I’ve often wondered if Mother did. But haven’t you heard stories, Longinus?” “I was rather young, remember, when you were born.” But immediately he was serious. “Gossip, Claudia, yes. I’ve heard people talk. But gossip has never interested me.” A sly grin lightened his expression. “I’m more interested in your father’s handiwork than in who he was.” “Prettily said, Centurion.” She patted the back of his bronzed hand. “But surely you must have heard that my father was the son of Mark Antony and Cleopatra?” “Well, yes, I believe I have. But why...?” “And that my other grandfather, the Emperor Augustus, had him killed when he got Mother pregnant with me and then banished her to that damnably barren Pandateria?” “I may have heard something about it, Claudia, but what of it? What difference does it make?” “Do you mean to tell me that it makes no difference to you that I’m a bastard, Longinus, and the discarded plaything of a “And isn’t your slave maid, too, a member of this distinguished Tullius clan?” His quick parrying of the question amused her. “It’s funny,” she said, “I hadn’t thought of Tullia that way. Her grandfather belonged to one of the Tullii, no doubt. But Tullia is actually not Roman; she’s Jewish. Her grandfather was one of those Jews brought as slaves from Jerusalem by Pompey. Tullia is even faithful to the Jewish religion. But that’s her only fault, and it’s one I’m glad to overlook. Sometimes I allow her to go to one of the synagogues over in the Janiculum Hill section.” Longinus reached for her hand. “Nevertheless, Claudia, you must know that many so-called distinguished Romans are legitimate only because their mothers happened to be married, though not to their fathers, when they were conceived?” “Yes, I suppose so. No doubt you’ve heard the story of what Mother said to a friend who asked her one day how all five of the children she had during the time she was married to General Agrippa happened to look so much like him.” “If I have, I don’t recall it. What was her answer?” “‘I never take on a passenger unless the vessel is already full.’” “I can see how that would be effective,” the centurion observed dryly. “But then how do you explain ... well, yourself?” “After General Agrippa died, Augustus made Tiberius divorce his wife and marry Mother. But they were totally incompatible, and I can see how, under the circumstances, things turned out the way they did. Tiberius left Rome and went out to Rhodes to live. That pleased Mother; she was young and beautiful, and she was still the most sought-after of her set in Rome. So, after Tiberius hadn’t been near her bed for years and a succession of more interesting men had, it was discovered, to the horror of my conventional and publicly pious grandfather and the delight of Rome’s gossips, that I was expected. So the Emperor had the man who was supposed to be my father”—she smiled—“you know, I’ve always rather hoped he was—he had him executed, and he He ignored her question. “You her misfortune? Don’t be silly. You were rather, I’d say, her gift to Rome.” “You do put things prettily, Longinus. Nevertheless, my mother was banished because of me.” “But, by the gods, how could you help it, Claudia?” He caught her chin and turned her face around so that the moon shone full upon it. “Aren’t you still the granddaughter of the first Emperor of Rome on one side and a queen and triumvir on the other? Aren’t you still the stepdaughter of the Emperor Tiberius? Those are distinguished bloodlines, by Jove! What nobler heritage could anyone have? And aren’t you the most beautiful woman in Rome? What, by mighty Jupiter, Claudia, do you lack?” “At the moment,” she answered, her serious air suddenly vanished, “a husband.” “A situation you could quickly remedy.” “A situation that Tiberius or Sejanus could quickly remedy, you mean, and may attempt to do soon, and not to my liking, I suspect. They may even pick another Aemilius for me, the gods forbid. Seriously, Longinus, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn right now that Sejanus has already arranged it. He and the Emperor are desperately afraid, I suspect, that I may scandalize Rome, as Mother did, if they don’t get me married quickly before I have a baby and no husband to blame it on.” “But, Claudia....” “By the Bountiful Mother, Longinus,” she laughed, “I’m not expecting, if that’s what you think. And what’s more, I don’t expect to be expecting ... any time soon. But I know Sejanus, and I know Tiberius. It’s all politics, Centurion. And politics must be served, just as it was served in my grandfather’s day and at every other time since man first knew the taste of power. The same hypocritical public behavior, the same affected virtues propped right alongside the same winked-at corruption.” She swung her legs around and stood up. “But enough of this speech-making. I’m going to bring us some of the Campania.” She returned with the wine on a silver tray and handed him one of the two slender goblets. He held the glass up to the light and slowly revolved its gracefully thin stem between his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t you like Campania?” “Very much,” he answered. “But it’s the glass that interests me. This goblet comes from my father’s plant near Tyre.” “Oh, really?” She smiled. “I’m glad. I knew they were made in Phoenicia, but I didn’t know they came from Senator Piso’s glassworks. Herodias gave me several pieces from a set Antipas brought her. They are lovely.” She lifted her own goblet and admired it in the moonlight. “Such beautiful craftsmanship. You know, I’ve never understood how they can be blown so perfectly. And I love the delicate coloring. Now that I know they come from your father’s factory, they’re all the more interesting to me, and valued.” She set the goblet down and sat quietly for a moment studying the resplendent full moon. “Longinus, I’m so glad you’re back in Rome,” she said at last. “It seems you’ve been away in Germania, and before that in Palestine, for such a long time. Did you ever think of me while you were away?” “Yes. And did you ... of me?” “Oh, yes, often, and very much. In spite of Aemilius.” She picked up the goblet, then set it down again on the tripod and leaned against his shoulder. “By the Bountiful Mother Ceres”—she bent forward, slipping her feet out of the sandals—“I can’t get comfortable, Longinus. I’m too warm. This stola’s heavy, and I’m so ... so laced.” She stood up. “Wait here; I’ll only be a minute.” Diagonally across from them a thin sliver of lamplight shone through a crack in the doorway to Claudia’s bedroom. She stepped into her sandals, walked around the spraying fountain, and entered the room. “I won’t close the door entirely,” she called back, as she swung it three-fourths shut. “That way we can talk while I’m getting into something more comfortable.” “I really should be going,” Longinus said. “I have early duty tomorrow.” “Oh, not yet, please. Do wait. I’ll be out in a moment. Pour yourself some wine.” He poured another glass, sipped from it, then set the goblet on the tray and settled back against the cushions. His gaze returned to the widened rectangle of light in her doorway. In the center of it there was a sudden movement. Surely, he thought, she isn’t going to change directly in front of the open door. Then he realized that he was looking into a long mirror on the wall at right angles to the doorway; he was seeing her image in the polished bronze. In stepping back from the door she had taken a position in the corner of the room just at the spot where the angle was right for the mirror to reflect her image to anyone seated on the couch outside. “By all the gods!” Longinus sat forward. But now she had disappeared. The mirror showed only a corner of her dressing table with its profusion of containers—vials of perfumes, oils, ointments, jars of creams—and scissors, tweezers, strigils, razors, he presumed them to be, though because of the distance from them and the table’s disarray he could not see them clearly. Now they were suddenly hidden behind the brightness of the stola as the young woman again came into view. She dropped a garment across a chair, then turned to face the dressing table and the mirror above it. The light shone full upon her back. Both stola and girdle behind were cut low, and the cold shimmering whiteness of the gown accentuated the smooth warmth of her flesh tones. Now her fingers were busy at the jeweled fastenings of the girdle; the light flashed in the stones of her rings. Quickly the girdle came off, and her hands went to one shoulder as her bracelets, their stones glimmering, slipped along her arms. The clasp gave; the strap fell to reveal warm flesh to her waist. She unfastened the other strap, and the stola slipped to the floor. Bending quickly, she picked up the voluminous garment and, turning, laid it with the girdle across the chair. “Jove!” he exclaimed. “By all the great gods!” In the strong but flickering light of the wall lamp, Claudia stood divested now of all her clothing except for the sheer black silk of her scant undergarments. “Are you still there, Longinus?” she called out. “And did I hear you say something?” “I’m here,” he answered. “But really, Claudia, I should be going.” He hoped his voice did not betray his suddenly mounting tension. “No, not yet. Just a minute. I’m coming now.” She reached for a dressing robe and hurriedly swept it around her. Fastening the belt loosely about her waist, she turned toward the doorway and stepped quickly back into the peristylium. He stood up to meet her. Gently she pushed him to the couch and sat beside him. “Please don’t go yet, Longinus. You’ve been away in Germania so long, and I couldn’t have you to myself at the banquet. There’s so much to talk about, to ask you about.” She leaned back and snuggled against him. Then she looked down at her knees, round and pink under the sheerness of the pale rose robe. “Bona Dea!” She clamped her knees together and doubled the robe over them. “I didn’t realize this robe was so transparent, Longinus. But it is comfortable, and there is only the moonlight out here.” She reached out, caught his hand, squeezed it, and released it. “And you can lean back and look only at the moon.” “But in Germania we had the moon.” “Yes, and women. I’ve heard much about the women of Germania, and seen them, too. Women with yellow hair and complexions like the bloom of the apricot or the skin of the pomegranate. And women free for the asking, eh, Centurion?” “Not often for the asking. Sometimes for the taking.” He pulled her close and felt through his tunic the quick surge of her warmth against him. “But tonight is not Germania and women whose hair is the color of ripening grain, Claudia. Tonight is Rome and a woman with hair as black as a raven’s wing and skin fair and smooth and warm and greatly tempting.” “A woman maybe for the asking, or the taking?” Quickly she twisted out from the arm about her waist, and her gay, impish laughter broke upon the fountain’s sleepy murmuring. “I didn’t know you were also a poet, Longinus.” She reached for the pitcher. “Wine to toast the weaver of beautiful words,” she said, filling “How did he say it...? “And all the mumbling of harsh old men “We shall reckon as a pennyworth. “And then, well.... “Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, “Then another thousand, then a second hundred, “And still another thousand, then a hundred. “It goes on,” she added, “but that’s all I can repeat. Now drink with me to your own pretty words.” Longinus laughed and sipped the wine. “Were his words quoted by you for me ... from you? Remember that Catullus later wrote of his Lesbia: “A woman’s words to hungry lover said “Should be upon the flowing winds inscribed, “Upon swift streams engraved.” She leaned out from the shadow into which the retreating moon had pushed them. “Maybe they were quoted to spur your asking, Longinus, or”—she paused and smiled demurely—“your taking.” Then quickly she sank back against him. “You think I’m a blatantly bold hussy, don’t you?” “No, Claudia,” he smiled, “just experienced. And beautiful, and ... and very tempting.” “Experienced, yes, but believe me, not promiscuous, Longinus. By the Bountiful Mother, I’m not that way, in spite of my experience.” The teasing was gone from her eyes. “In spite of everything, not that.” She snuggled against his arm outstretched along the back of the couch, and gently he half turned her to let her head down upon his lap. Her eyes were wide, and in each he saw a luminous and trembling small, round moon; her mouth was open, and against his thigh he felt the quickened pounding of her heart. As he bent He raised his face from hers and lifted her slightly to relieve the pressure of her body on his arm. She drew up her feet and, with knees bent, braced them against the end of the short couch. Her robe slipped open, and she lay still, her eyes closed, her lips apart. His throat tightened, and he felt a prickling sensation moving up and down his spine, coursing outward to his arms and past tingling palms to his fingertips. Deftly he eased his legs from beneath her; lowering her head to the couch, he stood up. “Oh, Longinus, please, not now,” she pleaded, her voice tense, her tone entreating. “Please don’t leave me now.” For a moment he stood above her, silent, and then, bending down quickly, he lifted her from the couch and started toward the still open bedroom door. He was past the fountain when a sudden, loud knocking at the entrance doors shattered the silence. “Oh, Longinus, put me down!” She swung her legs to the floor. “Bona Dea, who could be coming here at this hour! Of all the damnable luck!” She stared in dismay at her disarrayed and transparent robe. “By all the gods, I can’t go into the atrium dressed like this! Longinus, will you go? Tullia’s probably sound asleep.” With that, Claudia darted into the bedroom, while the pounding grew ever louder and more insistent. Longinus started toward the door, but before he could reach it, Tullia had appeared from the corridor. She quickly opened the door, then backed away as the robust soldier stepped inside. “I am seeking the Centurion Longinus. I was told ... ah, there you are!” he cried. “Cornelius! What are you doing here?” “Longinus! By Jove! I’ve been searching all Rome for you.” “But I thought you were still in Palestine.” “And I thought you were still in Germania!”—Cornelius laughed—“until today.” “Come, sit down,” Longinus said. “When did you get back?” “Only a week ago, and most of that time I’ve been out at Baiae “Jove! Is he going to name you Procurator of Judaea, Cornelius? I hear that Valerius Gratus is being recalled.” “Me Procurator? Don’t be silly, man. No, but I have an idea it’s something concerned with Palestine that has him calling for you. I’ve got orders to find you and bring you to his palace immediately. So we’d best be going, Longinus.” “To see Sejanus? At this hour?” “Yes, he said it was urgent. He’s leaving early tomorrow morning for Capri, and he says he’s got to see you before he goes.” “By the gods!” Longinus’ countenance was suddenly solemn. “What have I done?” “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing to be alarmed about. Probably some special assignment or other. I don’t know. But come, man, you know Sejanus doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Get your toga. I have a sedan chair outside.” “In a minute, Cornelius. I must tell Claudia.” “Couldn’t her maid explain...?” But Longinus already was striding toward the peristylium. “Claudia,” he called through the crack in the doorway, “the Prefect has sent for me. I don’t know what he wants, but I’ve got to be going.” “Bona Dea!” She was just inside the door. “Sejanus?” “Yes. Cornelius says he wants to see me tonight, right now. I don’t have any idea what he could want, but tomorrow night, if I may see you then, I’ll explain everything.” “What could that old devil be wanting with you, Longinus?” The question seemed addressed more to herself than to him. “Yes, of course, you must come. I’ll be anxious to know.” The sound of his retreating steps echoed along the peristylium and across the mosaic floor of the atrium. Claudia listened until she heard Tullia shut the double doors, and then there was silence. She closed her own door and crossed to her still undisturbed bed; she flung herself upon it. “Sejanus, the devil! The old devil!” With furious fists she pounded on the bed. “May Pluto’s mallet splatter his evil brains!” |
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