Rapture's Slave

By Becky Lee Weyrich

An emperor’s concubine and a courageous gladiator succumb to forbidden passion in a historical romance from the author of Captive of Desire.
 
When the virile young Nero first spots the exquisite Acte, illegitimate daughter of Emperor Claudius and a royal household slave, he knows he must have her. But even as Acte finds her deepest desires awakened by the magnificent Nero, she fears his sadistic nature.
 
Though she has been fated to serve as Nero’s carnal playmate when he becomes emperor of Rome, Acte finds the true love she dreams of in Sergio, a handsome gladiator. But in a loveless world where lust and power rule side by side, her secret obsession with Sergio might cost Acte her heart—and both of their lives.
 
“One of the finest and most gifted writers. A master storyteller!” —Romantic Times

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781626813366

Book preview

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 mother, 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.

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 arms 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 the 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?

Acte was not the only one pondering that very question as the emperor arrived. Messalina’s palms grew sweaty at the sound of clattering sword sheaths and the flap-flap of the gold-banded leather strips covering the skirt of his driving tunic as Claudius strode onto the terrace.

Though the children ran to him in welcome, Messalina stood, as was required at the entry of the emperor, but did not go to him. Instead, she twisted her scarf nervously and studied his face, trying to decipher what was written there. Did he know? Of course! Her enemies had seen to that. But had he proof and the name of her present lover? His face glowed with smiles for his children, but his eyes did not meet those of his wife.

Setting Octavia on her feet again after having hugged her affectionately, Claudius stroked her shining hair and asked, And where is my daughter’s dark little shadow today? Why doesn’t Acte come to greet her emperor? I will be needing her healing touch shortly. My prize gladiator, Iron Face, has been clawed by a lion. My men are bringing him here for her to tend.

She is changing, Papa. As Octavia spoke, she cast an accusing glance in Nero’s direction.

The Emperor Claudius turned to Agrippina, taking her into his arms in a fatherly embrace.

My dear Agrippina! It’s said that sorrow serves to heighten the beauty of a woman. Surely, you are the living proof of that theory. And this bronze-haired youth must be your Nero. Why, the last time I laid eyes on him he was but a babe. Now he is a young man, near grown.

Agrippina clung to Claudius, this great hulk of a man whom some called ugly. But to Agrippina, ugliness could easily be turned to beauty, if the proper amounts of wealth and position were present. The Emperor Claudius was, in Agrippina’s estimation, the most attractive man in the world.

Uncle, you are more than kind to take in a widowed relation and her fatherless son. I will do anything to repay this kindness.

As their eyes met, Agrippina raised her wine-flavored lips for a kiss of more than thanks or family sentiment.

Claudius held her close.

Agrippina, you and Nero will always have a place in my household, he said, and then he added, and in my heart.

Messalina observed this tender scene in nervous silence. At last, she could stand it no longer.

"Have you no greeting kiss for your wife, my emperor?"

His cold glance told Messalina what she had feared—that he knew.

"Of course, my wife, if you wish. But I thought your tastes these days ran to younger, sweeter wines. I can offer you only the bitter dregs from my aging cask."

Their kiss was brief and formal.

Agrippina broke the tense silence. Though my knowledge of wines is not extensive, I’ve found that the older the cask, the finer the wine.

Claudius’s searing gaze softened as he beamed at his niece.

Well put, my lady. You are a living example of the sparkling bouquet of a slowly aging wine about to ripen into its fullness of excellence.

Agrippina fluttered her dark-gold lashes.

So, uncle, are you now calling me old?

Never, Agrippina, never!

They laughed together—but alone.

Nero stood nearby watching and listening. He knew the signs. The Emperor Claudius was to be his mother’s next conquest. But how could even his all-powerful and ever-scheming mother surmount the problems in this case? She had relieved herself of the unwanted Crispus, but still, Messalina was the emperor’s wife. And even if her removal could be engineered, another obstacle stood in his mother’s path. Under Roman law, even the Emperor Claudius could not marry his niece.

The emperor turned to go. "If you will excuse me, ladies, I will go and bathe. Have one of the servants send Acte to me.

Agrippina and Messalina rose, as custom dictated, upon the departure of their emperor from the terrace. The three children went back to the garden for a noisy game of ball.

Agrippina noted that Messalina now seemed even more nervous than before her husband’s arrival. Something was afoot, and Agrippina would make it her business to find out what.

She kept silent, waiting for Messalina to speak. She did, at length, trying to conceal her trembling hands in her lap. It—it is good to have the emperor with us. Her tone belied her words.

Agrippina put on her motherly mask and spoke soothingly. Have some wine, my dear. Why, you’re quivering like a young fawn.

Perhaps that would calm my nerves a bit.

Agrippina leaned back in her chair to watch the long-awaited spectacle, a smile of warm satisfaction on her lovely face. But as Messalina reached out to take the goblet, she tipped it and in trying to right it, spilled the entire contents—the precious, poisoned contents.

Oh, dear! Another gown ruined. Claudius will be infuriated by my wastefulness!

Agrippina covered her disappointment with a false smile.

Messalina clapped her hands and called, "Nike, come and show the Lady Agrippina to her suite and have Leda come and clean up this mess before the emperor sees it. Then come to my chamber and help me dress for dinner.

Agrippina, if there is anything you need, I have put my personal handmaiden, Sutra, at your disposal. The boy, Doryphorus, will wait on young Nero.

So saying, Messalina fluttered away like a frightened hummingbird.

Agrippina gazed out over the terraced gardens to the gulf, now bathed in lights of gold and vermilion. A calm seemed to settle over the whole villa with the setting