To Be Wolves, page 23
“Does he?” Scorpus said indulgently.
“He does. He has been consulting an old physician named Varro, and together they have speculated that certain diseases are carried by tiny creatures too small to be seen.”
“Tiny creatures too small to be seen? And what do they do, carry the disease with them in little sacks that are also too small to be seen? That is crazy. They do not exist.”
Pomponius shrugged his shoulders. “You cannot see the gods, and yet you believe they exist.”
“So, now you don’t believe in the gods? You are insane.”
“I don’t know if I believe or not,” said Pomponius.
“It is a sacrilege to say so.”
“Hardly. A man can believe what he likes. I even discussed the matter with Caesar.”
“And what did Caesar say?”
“He said that as long as I believed in paying taxes, he didn’t care either way.”
“You put too much faith in physicians, Pomponius.” Scorpus reached for a piece of bread on the table and spoke as he chewed. “Do you know what the last tombstone I worked on said? It said, ‘Here lies my beloved wife, who was strong enough to survive the contagion but not her doctor’s cure.’ That should tell you something.”
Pomponius ignored him. “I spoke with someone else of interest at the reception. Someone you may know. A singer from Capua named Anchises.”
Scorpus stopped chewing. “Anchises is in Rome? What about Thracius?”
“Yes, both of them are here. Soren has purchased them. Thracius is at the ludus, but Anchises lives in Soren’s home.”
Scorpus began to chew again, this time slower. “Then, my prayers are with them both.”
“Anchises hates Soren. I sat with him, and I can tell.”
“All of Soren’s slaves hate him. What is it to me?”
“Maybe they can help us. Anchises seems quite clever.”
“Anchises is a coward.”
“Perhaps,” said Pomponius. “But at some point, hatred becomes more powerful than fear.”
“Finally, you speak sense,” said Scorpus.
“Thracius is strong, and no more cowardly than you. He will be worried about Anchises. Maybe I can find a way to speak with him?”
“No,” said Scorpus. “If you tell him about me, he will tell his master. He will hope that Soren will reward him by letting him see Anchises.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because if Cassandra were still alive, that’s what I would do.”
“Not everyone thinks as you do.”
“Thracius doesn’t like me,” said Scorpus.
“I can’t fault him for that. But who do you think Thracius likes less, you or Soren? There is a saying: Inimicus inimici amicus meus est.” The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
Scorpus swallowed another mouthful of bread. “Let me think on it.”
“Perhaps my sister could help you.”
“Your sister? The Vestalis Maxima of Rome?” Scorpus laughed out loud.
“She does not like Soren.”
“Not liking him and conspiring to kill him are two different things,” said Scorpus. “If your sister finds out I’m alive, she will immediately order my death to cover your patrician ass.”
Pomponius thought about it. “You’re probably right.”
“Just promise me that you won’t do anything without talking to me first.”
“You should be making me that promise.”
“Tell me more about Soren,” said Scorpus. “Was he at the reception?”
“Yes, he was there. You would smile to see the scar around his throat. He tries to cover it with a high tunica under his toga, but it is always visible.” Pomponius scraped his feet on the floor. “I saw him speaking with the younger sister of one of the Vestals. Her name is Tacita. I ran into her in the market yesterday. She seemed kind of interested in me.”
Scorpus shook his head. “Pomponius, you confound me. You can be wise and foolish to equal depths. If she is a friend of Soren’s, she is no friend of ours.”
“I did not say she was our friend. She may be my friend, though.”
“She is not your friend.”
“How would you know? You have not met her. My friend Virgil agreed she was beautiful.”
“So what? You have coin. Go rent yourself a beautiful girl for the night and get it out of your system. Rent three beautiful girls if you like. Or buy a new bed slave. I doubt this girl is truly interested in you.”
“Why not? Because I have not raced a chariot around the track? Because I cannot play the big man?”
“Don’t be stupid, Pomponius. You are not the type of man that women chase after. How well does she know Soren? Birds of the same feather always flock together.”
“I am tired of talking about Soren,” said Pomponius. He stood and crossed the floor of the small apartment. “Make the food last. I don’t know when I can make it back,” he said as he exited the apartment and slammed the door behind him.
Scorpus scrambled to his feet and opened the door, but Pomponius was already halfway down the stairs. “Fine,” the charioteer shouted after him. “Don’t forget the wine next time!”
* * *
“Domine, there is a Lady Tacita here to see you.”
“Really?” Pomponius set the scroll he was reading on his desk and stood up. “Fix my toga,” he said.
His slave adjusted the folds.
Pomponius made a conscious effort to stand up straight—his sister was always after him for slouching—as he met Tacita in the atrium of his house on the Caelian Hill.
She was wearing a lavender dress with a deep pink palla. Small glass beads were woven into her dark hair, and they sparkled as the sunlight that streamed in from the open roof reflected off them. The last drops of the afternoon’s light rain shower were falling into the impluvium below, and Tacita was playfully reaching for the raindrops.
“Salve, Lady Tacita,” greeted Pomponius. “How nice to see you again.”
She turned, and a warm smile spread across her lips. She put a wet fingertip into her mouth to taste the raindrop. “I hope you don’t mind my stopping by without an appointment.”
“Not at all. It is a pleasant surprise.”
Tacita spun around, admiring the frescoes in the atrium. “This is my favorite,” she said. It was a vivid blue peacock painted against a deep orange wall, with long, full tail feathers that filled most of the wall and fanned out into a splendid aura of green, purple, and gold.
“It is my favorite also,” Pomponius replied. “It was painted by the same artist who painted the emperor’s walls. This was my father’s home, but I have made many improvements since I have taken possession of it. I have hired only the most skilled artists.”
“I see.” Tacita took a few sauntering steps to lean against a fluted column, also painted in a glistening sheen of green and gold. “I brought you a present,” she said.
“Oh?”
She held out a yellow silk wrapping cloth that she had been hiding under her palla. Pomponius took it from her gently, although a little more awkwardly than he would have liked, and unwrapped the gift. A small bronze statuette of the goddess Vesta.
“I was looking at this yesterday in the market,” he said happily.
“Yes, I know. I saw you,” she replied. “I was pleased when you did not buy it, because I wanted to buy it for you.”
Pomponius held up the statuette. “I am familiar with this particular metallurgist,” he said. “He is as skilled as Vulcan himself.” He turned the statuette over in his hands. “The casting is superb. Just look at the quality of the goddess’s fingers . . . And here—the laurel wreath on her head—it is so detailed.”
Tacita brought her face so close that Pomponius could smell her perfume and feel her hair brush against his hands.
“I see,” she said. “Very beautiful.”
“He claims that he is descended from the Etruscan who made the she-wolf bronze on the Capitoline, but I think that may be overreaching, even for him. Although his bronze alloys do contain a higher copper content than any other metal sculptor I’ve seen work. He doesn’t cheap out. His bronzes will outlast the empire.”
“Do not let Caesar hear you say that,” Tacita said with a giggle.
“I shall put this on my lararium immediately,” said Pomponius. He walked to the shrine that stood against a scarlet wall of the atrium and placed the statuette of Vesta beside a burning candle. “It is a thoughtful gift,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Not at all,” replied Tacita. “We both have sisters who are Vestal priestesses, so I thought it was suitable.”
“Yes, we are blessed,” said Pomponius. “Although, if I may be so bold, Tacita, it seems that you have strained relations with Priestess Quintina. Am I mistaken?”
“No, you are correct,” Tacita said forlornly. “I blame myself.”
“Oh no,” said Pomponius. “I cannot imagine you are to blame. What is the matter between you?”
“There is a man named Septimus. My sister has always been fond of him, although of course, her sacred vows prohibit her from being with him.”
“You are not suggesting that she . . .”
“Oh no,” said Tacita. “My sister would never break her vows to the goddess. That much is certain. She is very fond of Septimus, though. The problem is, he has always preferred me to her, and she is envious of that.”
“I see . . .”
Tacita clasped Pomponius’s hands in hers and held them close to her breast. “I swear, Pomponius, I have rejected all his advances. I love and respect my sister. I would never be with a man that she has any affection for.”
“Does she not believe you?”
“I am not sure. To be honest, I just think it is too painful for her, knowing that Septimus desires me more than her.”
“I cannot blame him,” said Pomponius. “You are . . .”
“Yes?”
“. . . quite beautiful.”
She lowered her eyes coyly and folded her hands in front of her. “You flatter, Pomponius. I am sure you have had far more beautiful women show up at your door.”
Pomponius shifted uncomfortably. “You know, I saw you at the wedding reception of Caesar’s daughter.”
“My, that was a bad business, wasn’t it? That poor young slave . . . and then Pollio thrown to his own monsters! I found the whole thing quite upsetting.”
“I noticed that you were speaking with a man named Soren. Is he a good friend of yours?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I have reason to believe that he is a cruel man, Tacita. You should take care around him.”
“You are sweet to caution me,” said Tacita. She toyed with the long gold chain around her neck.
“I saw him looking at you.”
“A lot of men look at me, Pomponius.” She reached out to touch his chest with her fingertip. “I saw you look at me.” She saw his cheeks redden. “To be honest, I found that Soren fellow rather unlikable. I shall take your advice and avoid him.”
“That is good to hear.” Pomponius nervously cleared his throat. “I have been uncourteous. Would you like to come in and sit with me? We could take some wine or food.”
“I would like that very much,” she said. “Why don’t you show me around your home? It is very fine. I live at my uncle’s home on the Esquiline. It is also very fine, but you have far superior tastes.”
“Do you not live at your father’s estate?” Pomponius asked as he led her out of the atrium.
Tacita lightly trailed her hands along the painted walls as she followed her host deeper into the house. “No, my sister has ownership of that,” she said. “Her Vestal privileges allowed her to have custody of me when I was a child, but she gave patria potestas to my uncle, so now I am under his command. I don’t mind. He is a good man.” She sighed. “I think a much better man than my father was.”
“Oh? Why do you say that?”
“My father was quite cruel to my mother, at least from what I can remember. I was young when they died. I did not know my father that well. He was sent to Egypt by Caesar during the war with Antony and was killed there.” She shook her head sadly as they walked together. “I’ve always suspected that he drove my mother mad by his poor behavior toward her.”
“That is tragic,” Pomponius said sincerely. “I did not know my father that well either. I have always held a private belief that he blamed me for my mother’s death. She died in childbirth with me.”
“How sad,” said Tacita, hiding her delight. Pomponius was the type to find deeper meaning in their similarly strained relationships with their fathers. “People like us must find our own path, I suppose, even without a father’s guidance.”
Pomponius held out his arm, inviting Tacita to enter his study. Shelves full of scrolls and parchments lined the yellow and red walls. His desk was covered in wax tablets and documents written in Latin and Greek. Tacita touched them gently, admiringly.
“I am surprised to hear that your father was unkind,” said Pomponius. “I know that my sister was a friend of his. She does not speak of him often, but when she does, it is with respect. I believe she even freed him from the Carcer during the proscriptions. But there is always another side, isn’t there? Audi alteram partem fabulae.”
“Yes,” she said, “always.” She picked up a wax tablet and pretended to read it. “I have always wondered about the friendship between my father and your sister . . .” Tacita proceeded carefully. “Do you think—”
“No,” Pomponius said abruptly. He took the wax tablet out of her hands and placed it back on his desk.
That was too far, Tacita scolded herself. “Oh no, Pomponius, I was not going to suggest anything improper. I cannot speak for my father’s morals, but I know that High Priestess Pomponia is the very essence of virtue.”
He hesitated. “Would you like to see the triclinium? There is a very detailed landscape painting of Diana hunting deer in the woods.”
“Show me your bedchamber first.”
Pomponius stiffened. Tacita was blinking up at him, bold and appealing. She was so pretty, so petite, with big brown eyes and long eyelashes. He felt a cold, nervous sweat form under his toga.
“It is this way,” he forced himself to say.
As Tacita followed Pomponius into his large bedchamber, she spun around in exaggerated awe of its artwork. She put her hands to her face. “What a magnificent painting of Venus,” she said, gazing at a fresco of the goddess of love reclining on a sandy shore and looking out at the sea that had borne her.
“Thank you,” said Pomponius. “It was done by an artist from Pompeii.”
Tacita flitted past the large bed to a statue of Venus that stood next to it. This depiction of the goddess was more sensual. She was nude, holding her arms up as she fastened her hair. Behind her, the muscled form of Mars reached around to caresses the goddess’s bare breasts.
Tacita turned to look at Pomponius, and then reached out to touch Venus’s bare breasts with her fingers. As Pomponius watched, mesmerized, she let her fingers trace a circle around the nipple.
Pomponius felt like his feet were nailed to the ground. He could not move, but only stood and stared at her as she walked toward him, feeling his breaths become more rapid by the moment. His thoughts tumbled over each other. What is she going to do? What should I do?
Tacita didn’t leave him wondering for very long. She put her hands on his chest and then slid them up over his shoulders, pulling him forward to kiss him on the lips.
“Have you ever had a woman before?” she asked him. “You seem unsure of yourself.”
“I have only had my slaves,” he said. “Have you been with a man before? You are an unmarried noblewoman, so I assume you are a—”
Tacita cast her eyes to the floor. “I have been taken by only one man,” she said, “one I could not refuse.” She raised her eyes to again meet his. “The emperor of Rome.”
It had precisely the effect Tacita thought it would. Pomponius took her face in his hands and kissed her hard on the lips. She took a small step back, toward the bed, and began to remove her dress. She let it fall to the floor. She was not wearing any underclothes—she had come prepared for this unveiling—and again, the effect was masterful.
Pomponius hastily undressed. The heavy fabric of his toga fell on the floor, and he was about to reach for her again, when she pushed him onto the bed. He sat on the edge and stared up at her.
Still standing before him, she took his hand in hers and used one of his fingers to trace her nipple, making him touch her the way she had touched the statue. He gasped, and Tacita smiled to herself. Such a silly thing, she thought. And yet all men love it.
Finally, she grazed his hardness with her fingertips. Pomponius exhaled and lay back on the bed. Tacita climbed on top and straddled his body: she lowered herself onto him, quickly moving up and down, stroking him.
She felt him release inside her.
She couldn’t wait to tell Soren all about it.
Chapter XXI
Roma Uno Die Non Est Condita
Rome wasn’t built in a day.
It was twilight in the Forum of Augustus. The Temple of Mars Ultor—Mars the Avenger—was finally complete. Octavian had vowed to build it years before in honor of the war god, the vengeful god, the god who had fought on his side and helped him hunt down and tear out the throats of Julius Caesar’s assassins Brutus and Cassius at Philippi. It had taken years for the temple to be erected, such was its magnificence and monumental size.
