Daughters of Rome (16 page)

“Even the goddesses of heaven need a way to look busy while they scheme,” Marcella agreed.

“That wasn’t what I meant!”

It wasn’t what Marcella’s suitor meant either, as he sat gazing at her with unabashed admiration. “You don’t see many Roman matrons sitting at their looms anymore.” Governor Vespasian’s younger son, Domitian, fiddled with his wine cup, edging closer to her. “I approve.”

“I live for your approval.”

“Do you really?” he said hungrily.

Irony. So wasted on the young.
Marcella felt very worldly under the burden of her twenty-one years, passing her shuttle back and forth. She didn’t sit at her loom much, not unless she had some problem to untangle—a good stretch of weaving always seemed to get the knots in her head smoothed out. She had a great many knots to think about today.

“Are you listening to me?” Domitian’s voice came insistently, and Marcella gave her shuttle a yank. Its use as a mental aid aside, weaving was usually a very good way to look busy and thus be shed of annoying visitors, but Domitian didn’t seem to be taking the hint. He’d already stayed an hour that morning.

“You’ll be happy to know I have a suitor,” Marcella had told Lollia. “Your former brother-in-law. Ever since that dreadful reading, Titus Flavius Domitianus has decided he wants to carry me away from Lucius on a white horse and marry me.”

“Domitian?”
Lollia was startled out of her apathy. “I don’t think I’ve seen him since Titus and I divorced. Beastly boy. Always lurking around corners like a spider, eavesdropping on people.”

“Yes, well, now he’s in love with me. We first met the night of Piso’s short-lived accession to Imperial heir. Not a memorable meeting, but clearly Domitian thinks differently.”

“Why did you talk to the Emperor so long at the reading?” Domitian was demanding now. “He’s not so interesting—he writes down his jokes in advance, you know. And all that curly hair of his is a wig.”

“He wanted to thank me.”

“For what?” Domitian said suspiciously. “What did you do for him?”

Marcella smiled. “You’re very young, aren’t you?”

“Not so young,” he bristled. “Just a year younger than you.”

“Three years younger. And I really am very busy, so—”

“Good,” said Domitian, not taking the hint. “A wife should be busy. Idle wives get up to mischief.”

Marcella laughed. “According to your vast experience of wives?”

“
Give
me some experience,” he shot back. “Marry me.”

“My husband might object,” Marcella said, amused, and got a scowl.

“He won’t be your husband forever. I had Nessus read your stars—”

“Yes, yes, your pet astrologer. Forgive me if I doubt him.” Marcella knew the names of a handful of famous astrologers, but none were named Nessus.
Some charlatan getting his money’s worth out of a boy’s dreams.

“Nessus is never wrong!” Domitian launched into some speech about his plans to stand for election soon, and how Nessus had guaranteed he would be made praetor. Marcella worked her shuttle back and forth without listening. She was still trying to write an account of Galba’s death to finish the scroll of his too-short reign, wondering if she would ever be able to describe the air of peculiar, lascivious hysteria that had overcome the crowd when Galba was killed before their eyes. A strange mood, difficult to convey on the page, and she was meditating on a choice of words while Domitian droned on in the background, when a familiar voice came from the archway.

“My dear, how industrious you look.”

“Lucius.” Marcella offered an unenthusiastic cheek for a kiss as her husband, Lucius Aelius Lamia, tossed his cloak at a slave and came across the chamber. “I had no idea you were returning from Judaea so soon.”

“Neither did I. Governor Vespasian wanted a messenger—”

“How is my father?” Domitian interrupted, scowling.

“Very well,” Lucius said. “Young Domitian, isn’t it? Your father and brother sent letters for you. I’ll call on you later to deliver them.”

He waved a dismissive hand, and Domitian had no choice but to rise. “I’ll see you again soon,” he informed Marcella, ignoring her husband, and stalked out.

“I see you have an admirer,” Lucius observed.

“He’s a pest,” Marcella shrugged. “How are you, Lucius?”

“Well enough.” He settled himself in Domitian’s chair, gesturing for wine and refreshments. Marcella picked up her shuttle again as he began complaining about the roads and the length of his journey. A tall man of thirty-four, a handsome face with a receding chin and dark hair thinning on top, which displeased him. Married four years, and Marcella doubted they’d spent more than four months at once under the same roof. “It would be shocking if you weren’t so casual about it,” Cornelia had always disapproved, though these days she was too sunk in grief to disapprove of anything much.

“So what brings you back to Rome so suddenly, Lucius?” Marcella paused to untangle a strand of knotted wool.

“Vespasian has decided to declare his support for Otho.” Lucius reached for the dish of oysters in herbed sauce that a slave had just brought in.
Always eating heartily from other people’s tables
, Marcella thought. “And I have been sent to convey Vespasian’s oath of loyalty.”

“Otho will be relieved. There’s enough trouble from Germania without adding Judaea into the mix.”

“More trouble than you know.”

“Well? Tell me!”

Lucius paused, savoring the moment. He didn’t normally waste dramatic news on Marcella, but apparently even a wife was better than no audience at all. “Governor Vitellius of Lower Germania was proclaimed Emperor by his legions—and now he’s marching on Rome.”

“No!” Marcella dropped her shuttle, turning with brows raised. Lucius so rarely managed to surprise her with anything. “Otho’s only been Emperor a month—”

“Yes, Vespasian had quite a time deciding which claimant to support.” Lucius popped an oyster into his mouth. “But on the whole, he thought he’d be better off with Otho. Otho’s quite clever, after all. And Vitellius . . .”

“Is a drunk.” Marcella conjured up the mental picture she’d drawn of fat Vitellius, the few times she’d ever seen him. Drunk, yes, that was fair. She’d seen him at a faction party where he’d roared out slogans for the Blues, whom he adored, and then passed out face first in a planter. Had he ever shown ambition for anything more than food, wine, and chariot racing? A detailed study of his previous appointments might reveal something . . . “He must have been
very
drunk when the legions proclaimed him Emperor, or he’d never have had the nerve to go through with it.”

“And now he’s being propped up by a pair of scoundrels.” Lucius attacked the oysters again. “Tullia should use more spices on these. Pass me that dish, will you?”

“Scoundrels?” Marcella prompted impatiently.

“Yes, two of Vitellius’s army commanders. Fabius Valens and Caecina Alienus. They’re riding him along, stealing everything in sight and filling him with wine whenever he starts getting doubts.”

“Fabius Valens and Caecina Alienus.” Marcella stored the names away, refilling her husband’s plate in the hopes he’d keep talking. “I’m surprised Vitellius is coming south with an army. If I planned on becoming an Emperor, I’d just pay someone here in Rome to put a knife in Otho’s back. Much simpler.”

“My dear, he hasn’t a chance in the world of becoming emperor. He’s just another usurper.”

“One of those has already succeeded this year—I’m not surprised someone else decided to give it a try.” Marcella picked up her shuttle again. “I’m sure Vitellius is being very official about it all, dating his reign from the day he first woke up with a laurel circlet on his head and a blistering hangover. And he does have a few legions backing him up . . . really, what’s an emperor besides a man with a laurel circlet and a few legions?” She set the loom going again. “Perhaps I’ll write an account of Vitellius too, as long as he lasts. It used to be so simple when there was only one at a time. But perhaps not as interesting . . .”

“Still scribbling, I see.” Lucius looked amused.

“Why shouldn’t I write?”

“My dear, you’ll never publish.”

“I could publish under a man’s name.”

“The idea!” Lucius guffawed. “Anyone would know a woman’s point of view.”

“I don’t write silly tittle-tattle, and you know it,” Marcella said coolly. “I give faithful, impartial accounting of Rome’s rulers.”

“Well, perhaps I’ll read a bit someday.” Tolerant.

“What a pity you didn’t go into politics, Lucius. You have a great talent for making promises you have no intention of keeping.”

“One needs supporters to enter the Senate, my dear.” The amusement was starting to strip off his voice. “Clients . . . funds . . . a wife who advances her husband’s career through
useful
means . . .”

“Perhaps you should start with funds,” Marcella said sweetly. “I’m sure Lollia’s grandfather could give you a loan. Or should I say
another
loan? Did you ever pay off the first one, Lucius?”

An irate glance. Perhaps this wasn’t the best way to get what she wanted . . . One of Cornelia’s little marital platitudes flashed through her head, something about honey being more effective on husbands than vinegar. “You’ll have heard about my sister’s bereavement, of course.” Marcella leaned forward to refill her husband’s goblet, now conciliatory. “I know she would appreciate your condolences.”

“Of course, poor Piso. Such a bore. Your sister should marry again. Otho has plenty of followers who will be wanting a wife.”

“Cornelia can’t even hear Otho’s name without spitting.” Marcella put away the decanter. “She’d open her throat with her fingernails before she married any of his cronies.”

“How dramatic.” Lucius rotated his goblet between manicured fingertips—as much as he was on the road, he always managed to keep himself immaculate. He was forever tut-tutting Marcella for her ink spots.

“So you serve Vespasian now.” Marcella called for the slaves to take away the empty dishes and bring fruit. “Is he anything like his tiresome son?”

“I don’t know Domitian, but his father is
very
shrewd. The legions wanted to proclaim him Emperor too, you know.”

“Fortuna’s sake, not four,” Marcella sighed. “There’s trouble enough with three. Why did he refuse?”

“Better to be a live Governor of Judaea than a dead Emperor of Rome.”

“He
is
shrewd. But he still has a tiresome son.”

“I can hardly blame the boy for admiring you, my dear. He has excellent taste.”

Marcella smiled rather thinly at the compliment. She knew perfectly well that her husband’s tastes ran to boyish women, the younger and skinnier the better.
Most husbands would be glad to have access to breasts like these, but oh no, not Lucius.
Not that she really wanted him in her bed, but still . . .

“Gods, I’m tired.” He yawned, stretching. “I’ve been hanging about Otho’s halls waiting for an audience since dawn.”

“Of course you’ll stay here with us tonight.” Marcella hitched a smile onto her face, abandoning her loom and its three-inch band of new cloth. “I’ll have a bedchamber made up.” She ushered him upstairs, disposed of his baggage, and had the slaves turn down the bedclothes.

“Thank you, my dear.” He turned away, and Marcella put her hand on his arm.

“Is that all the greeting you have for me, Lucius?” She gave a little squeeze. “It’s been a long time, after all. And I
have
missed you.”

He turned back, brows raised. Marcella gestured for the slaves to shut the door. He smiled and shrugged, flicking the strap of her dress down her arm.

“By the way,” Marcella murmured after a polite lovemaking during which she’d faked a little more enthusiasm than usual, “I spoke with Emperor Otho not long ago, and he said something about a post for you here in the city. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“I don’t imagine anything will come of it.” Lucius tugged the sheets up. “Otho has plenty of his own favorites to reward first.”

“
I’m
one of his favorites, Lucius. He mentioned it as a favor to me.” Marcella leaned her head against her husband’s bare shoulder—she’d seen Lollia use the exact same gesture whenever she was wheedling something out of a man. “You always said you wanted a post here in Rome someday. We can have our own household at last—I thought I’d look for a suitable house this month.”

“I wouldn’t bother,” Lucius yawned. “Finances are tight.”

“Lucius, we’ve been married four years.” With an effort, Marcella kept her voice sweet. “Isn’t it time we had a house of our own? I really can’t impose on my family forever.”

“I’m sure they’ll put up with you a little longer.” Lucius linked his arms behind his head, displacing Marcella from his shoulder. “Otho won’t give me a post in the city till after this business with Vitellius plays out, so why bother with the expense of a house? I doubt I’ll be here in Rome more than a few weeks.”

“But if we could have a place to call our own, even just a modest apartment—”

“I said no, Marcella.”

“Lucius, I can’t keep living here!” Marcella sat up in bed, abandoning tact. “Do you have any idea how loathsome my sister-in-law is? She snoops in my desk! She waters my wine! She plants flowers in primary colors!”

“Well, you’ll have to make the best of it.” He yawned again. “Wake me in time for dinner, will you?”

“You can wake up now, Lucius Aelius Lamia.” Marcella shook his shoulder till his eyes opened. “Listen to me. I am trying to be a
wife
to you! You want someone to see that your togas are starched, to talk to your colleagues, to help advance your career? Give me a household of my own, and I can do all that. I’m a clever woman—I could be an asset to you, so why won’t you make use of me?”