Empire

AD 84

Lucius made ready to set out from his house on the Palatine, dressed not in his toga but in a worn, brown tunic borrowed from one of his household slaves. No Roman wife, married to a man of property, would have allowed her husband to leave the house looking so drab and nondescript; but at thirty-seven, Lucius still had no wife, nor had he any intention of acquiring one. He came and went as he pleased, unconstrained by concerns of family or by most of the societal obligation that applied to men of his age and wealth.

As he stepped out the front door, his heart began to race. How absurd, he thought, that a man his age should feel such adolescent excitement at the prospect of a sexual tryst, and with a woman who had been his lover for more than three years. Yet the thrill he felt at seeing her never diminished; it grew stronger. Was it the danger that excited him? Or was it because they were able to meet so seldom, which made each occasion special?

He looked up at the cloudless sky. He would have preferred the anonymity of a hooded cloak, but on a hot summer day such a garment might attract more attention than it deflected. He took a few steps down the narrow street, then looked back at his house. How absurdly big the place was, for a single man to dwell in. A huge staff of slaves was required just to keep the place running. Sometimes he felt that the slaves were the true inhabitants and he was simply an occupant.

How he preferred the tiny house on the Esquiline that was his destination, the place he had purchased for the sole purpose of meeting his lover.

He made his way down the slope of the Palatine and across the heart of the city, passing the Arch of Titus and the Flavian Amphitheatre, glancing up at the towering Colossus of Sol. He passed through the crowded Subura, hardly conscious of the noise and the odors. He ascended the steep, winding path up a spur of the Esquiline Hill and paused for breath at the little reservoir called the Lake of Orpheus, so named because the splashing fountain was decorated by a charming statue of Orpheus with his lyre surrounded by listening beasts. The house of Epaphroditus was nearby, but Lucius turned in a different direction.

At last he arrived at his destination. The house was small and unassuming, with nothing to distinguish it. The door was made of unpainted wood without even a knocker for ornament. He pulled a key from his tunic and let himself in. There was no doorkeeper to admit him; there were no slaves at all in the house. That in itself made the house a special place. Where did a man ever go in Roma where he could be truly alone, without even slaves present?

She was waiting for him in the tiny garden at the centre of the house, reclining on a couch. She must have only just arrived, for she was still dressed in the hooded cloak she had worn to cross the city. Unlike Lucius, she could not possibly go out in public without hiding her face, even on a day as hot as this.

He sat beside her without saying a word. He pulled back the hood. The sight of her short blonde hair excited him. It gave her a curiously boyish look and made her different from other women. Only the other Vestals and their female servants ever saw her like this, without her headdress; the sight of her cropped hair, like the sight of her naked body, was his alone, a privilege both sacred and profane that was enjoyed by no other man on earth. He ran his fingers through her hair, intoxicated by a sense of possession.

He put his mouth on hers and tasted her sweet breath. He slid his hands inside the cloak and touched warm, sleek flesh. He gasped. Beneath the cloak, she was wearing nothing at all, not even a sleeping gown or a simple tunic. She had crossed the city like this, naked except for slippers and a hooded cloak.

“Madness!” he whispered. He pushed back the cloak and buried his face against her neck. She laughed softly, touching her lips to the inner folds of his ear, nipping gently at the earlobe with her teeth. She opened the cloak and let it fall, so that she was suddenly naked in his arms

He threw off his tunic and made love to her, as quickly and desperately as a boy. It was selfish of him, because he knew she preferred a much slower rhythm. But she indulged him, and seemed to draw pleasure from his trembling, uncontrollable excitement. All his emotions crested at once and poured from him in a flood. He wept, which aroused her; as if to draw more tears from him she dug her fingernails into his back and drew him closer to her, exerting a strength that never failed to surprise him, wrapping her limbs around him as the tendrils of a vine embrace a stone.

He did not have to work to reach the climax: it came upon him unbidden, like a fire that consumes all before it. It consumed her as well, for he felt her shudder against his sweating flesh and clench the part of him inside her. She cried out so long and so loudly that people in the neighbouring houses must have heard. Let them hear, he thought; they would know they heard a woman in ecstasy, but they could not know she was a Vestal.

When it was over, they lay close together, their naked bodies touching, saying nothing and savouring the afterglow.

When he had first met her, he was struck at once by the beauty of her face, but he could not have imagined how beautiful her body was. It took his breath away the first time he saw her naked; it still took his breath away. Over the years he had paid to take his pleasure with some of the most accomplished and alluring courtesans in Roma, but he had never known any woman with more beautiful breasts or more sensual hips than Cornelia; the voluptuous curves and the pale, marmoreal perfection of her flesh induced him to explore every part of her with his hands, eager to discover the most secret and sensitive parts of her body. Her breasts and hips were like those of Venus, ripe and womanly; her slender calves, her small hands, and the hollows of her neck and throat were as smooth and delicate as those of a child.

She was beautiful. She was also passionate. Not even the most skilled courtesan had ever responded to his touches with so much vitality, or touched him so lewdly and shamelessly in return. At times he felt he was the more vulnerable partner, a quivering slave of pleasure at the mercy of a completely uninhibited lover able to give or withhold ecstasy with the merest brush of her fingers or the soft caress of her breath.

She was beautiful, passionate – and dangerous. What he did with Cornelia was not only illicit and irreverent, it was illegal. Their lovemaking was a crime as serious as murder. He took no perverse pleasure in that fact, or so he told himself. Yet why had he chosen Cornelia, of all women? Deep down, he sensed that the forbidden nature of their relationship played some role in his excitement, but like a leaf caught on the flood he did not question how he had come to be in such a situation, or make any attempt to resist the force that carried him along. He simply accepted that he was at the mercy of a power greater than himself and submitted to it.

Cornelia gave him the greatest physical pleasure he had ever experienced, but she also fascinated him in ways that had nothing to do with her body. He had never known a woman who could converse so knowledgeably about the world; she was as educated as Epictetus, as witty as Martial, as worldly as Dio. As a Vestal, she knew everyone of importance and was in a position to follow everything of significance that happened in the city. She was far more connected than was Lucius to the spheres of politics and society; she opened a window to those worlds through which he could gaze from a comfortable distance, maintaining his customary detachment. She was not only the best possible bed-mate but the most interesting conversationalist he knew. He could talk to Cornelia about anything, and what she had to say was always of interest.

As the glow of their frenzied lovemaking subsided and the sweat of their bodies cooled, they gradually drew apart. They lay side by side, touching at the hips and shoulders, staring at the ceiling above.

“What excuse did you give this time?” he said.

“For my absence from the House of the Vestals? I’ve assumed responsibility for looking after the lotus tree in the sacred grove attached to the Temple of Lucina here on the Esquiline.”

“How much care does a lotus tree need?”

“This one is over five hundred years old. We tend it very lovingly.”

“And what makes it special to the Vestals?”

“All lotus trees are sacred. There’s a lotus tree in the grove next to the House of the Vestals. When a girl is inducted, her hair is cut for the first time and the locks are hung on the tree as an offering to the goddess. It’s a beautiful ceremony.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Something’s troubling you. What is it, Lucius?”

He sighed. “A messenger came to my house yesterday. He delivered a letter from Dio of Prusa.”

“Ah, your dear friend who was exiled by the emperor. Where is the famous sophist now?”

“In Dacia, if you can believe it’s possible for a letter to travel all the way to Roma from beyond the Danube.”

“They say that Dacia is one of the few civilized lands that the Romans have yet to conquer.”

“One of the few wealthy lands we’ve not yet looted, you mean.”

“How cynical you are, Lucius. Do you not accept the notion that Roma has a special role given to her by the gods, to bring Roman religion and Roman law to the rest of the world, one province at a time?”

He was never quite sure how seriously to take Cornelia when she spoke in a patriotic vein. When all was said and done, despite her disregard for her vow of chastity, she considered herself a devoted priestess of the state religion.

“They say the Dacians have been crossing the Danube and making incursions into Roman territory,” she said, “enslaving farmers on the frontier, looting villages, raping women and boys. It’s almost as if King Decebalus is deliberately provoking Domitian to attack him.”

“Or at least that’s what the emperor wants us to think. It’s an old Roman ploy, pretending that an enemy is responsible for the start of a war we greatly desire to wage. Titus spent the last of the treasure their father looted from the Jews, so Domitian needs money. If he wants to get his hands on King Decabalus’s gold, a war to revenge outrages against Roman citizens will serve his purposes nicely.”

She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Enough of that! I won’t waste our time together debating the Dacian question. You were talking about your friend Dio. Is he terribly despondent?”

“Not at all. His letter was actually quite cheerful. Still, his exile weighs heavily on me.”

She sighed. “Men cross Domitian at their peril – even a harmless sophist like Dio.”

“But philosophers aren’t harmless, or so Dio says. He believes the power of words and ideas is as great as the power of armies. Apparently, Domitian believes that, too. What a contrast to his brother, who proclaimed that he had no fear of words and let people say whatever they wished. The reign of Titus is beginning to look like a golden age.”

“Curious, how golden ages are always so brief,” said Cornelia. “I wonder if Titus’s reign in retrospect seems so golden precisely because it lasted for only a few years. ‘He put not a single senator to death,’ they say. Perhaps he simply didn’t live long enough. When he died of that sudden illness – no one ever suggested there was foul play – Domitian took over without bloodshed. Right away he banished some of Titus’s most fervent supporters, men he felt he couldn’t rely on. But when brother succeeded brother, what really changed? Very little. Still, people were at once nostalgic for Titus, because he died young and handsome and beloved, so Domitian started at a disadvantage. He was never as personable or even-tempered as his brother-”

“That’s an understatement! You’ve seen Domitian’s behaviour at the amphitheatre – his apoplectic fits during gladiator matches, the way he shouts encouragement to one fighter and yells threats at anybody who favours the other. He lowers the tone of the whole place. Spectators emulate him. Fights break out. Some days there’s more blood in the stands than on the sand.”

“You exaggerate, Lucius. Like you, I would prefer to see more decorum in the amphitheatre – the place is dedicated to Mars, and the spectacles are religious rituals – but the sight of so much bloodshed releases powerful emotions in people, even in the emperor, it seems. More disturbing to me are the manoeuvrings in the imperial court. I suppose trouble must develop in every reign, sooner or later – factions form, rivalries emerge, intrigues simmer. It was all made worse when Domitian’s son died.”

“How he loved that little boy! The child was the mirror image of his father, always with him at the games, emulating his every movement.”

“The boy wasn’t just a beloved child. For an emperor, an heir is insurance, because the very existence of a son discourages rivals. When the boy died, Domitian was not only grief stricken, he became acutely suspicious of everyone around him. His courtiers in turn became suspicious of him. Once such an atmosphere develops, even the smallest action by the emperor sets people’s nerves on edge.”

“Exile is hardly a ‘small action’ if you’re the one who’s banished.”

“True,” she said.

“Nor is losing your head.”

“You’re talking about Flavius Sabinus, the husband of Domitian’s niece. That was most unfortunate, and almost certainly uncalled for. My friends in the imperial court tell me Domitian had no real cause to believe Flavius was conspiring against him; the man was arrested and beheaded nonetheless. Unfortunately for your friend, Dio was often seen in the company of Flavius Sabinus.”

“Was that a crime?”

“Perhaps not, but if Domitian had accused Dio of conspiring against him, your friend would have lost his head along with Flavius. Instead, Domitian banished him. Dio is lucky to be alive.”

“Alive, but exiled from Italy, and forbidden to return to his native Bythinia. That’s a steep price to pay for having been a welcome visitor to the home of Titus’s daughter and son-in-law. Do you know the first thing Dio did after he fled Roma? He went to Greece to consult the oracle at Delphi. The oracle is famous for giving ambiguous guidance, but not this time. ‘Put on beggar’s rags,’ Dio was told, ‘and head for the farthest reaches of the empire and beyond.’ So off he went, beyond the Danube.”

“For a man with Dio’s curiosity,” said Cornelia, “travel to far-off lands must offer a splendid chance to learn more about the world. Think of all the obscure metaphors and allusions he’ll be able to work into those learned discourses of his.”

Lucius smiled. “He used just such a metaphor in his letter, referring to the funeral practices of the Scythians. ‘Just as these barbarians bury cup-bearers, cooks, and concubines along with a dead king, so it is a Roman custom to punish friends, family, and advisers for no good reason when a good man is executed.’”

Cornelia drew a sharp breath. “Did you burn the letter?”

“Of course, after I read it aloud to Epaphroditus and Epictetus.”

“Did you read it to anyone else?”

“To Martial, you mean? How he would have loved it! But no, I didn’t share it with him. Dear Martial – Titus’s fawning poet one day, Domitian’s lapdog the next. He was still working on those poems about the inaugural games when Titus died. What to do with all that hard work? Rewrite the verses to suit the new emperor, of course. The book’s just been published. Domitian is apparently quite pleased, and that pleases Martial, because he says Domitian is a more discerning critic than his brother ever was. But Martial would say that. A poet has to eat.”

“While philosophers starve?” Cornelia stretched her arms above her head and extended her toes. Her body rubbed against his, and Lucius felt a stirring of renewed excitement.

“Dio isn’t starving,” he said. “He says the Dacians are actually quite civilized, despite the fact that they worship only one god. The temples and libraries of Sarmizegetusa can’t have much to offer compared to those of Roma, but King Decebalus is reputed to have one of the largest hoards of gold in the world. Where there’s that much wealth, a celebrated philosopher from Roma needn’t go hungry. There’ll always be some Dacian nobleman willing to feed a man who can bring a bit of wit and erudition to his table.”

Lucius rolled onto his side, facing her. He ran his hand over the sinuous curve of her hip, then trailed his fingers across the delta formed by her thighs. “His letter was actually rather inspiring. Nothing seems to dampen his sprits; he always looks for the good in the bad. Dio says his exile may actually be a blessing, despite the trouble it’s caused him. That’s what the Stoics teach. Every misfortune that befalls a man – poverty, illness, a broken heart, old age, exile – is simply another opportunity for a lesson to be learned.”

“Is that what you believe, Lucius?”

“I don’t know. I listen to my philosopher friends and I try to make sense of what they tell me. Epictetus says it isn’t a given event that disturbs us, but the view we take of it. Nothing is intrinsically good or bad, only thinking makes it so. Therefore, think good thoughts, and find contentment in the moment.”

“Even if you’re ill or hungry or in pain, or far from home?”

“Epictetus would say that even an affront to one’s body, like illness or torture, is an external event, outside our true selves. The self of a man is not his body, but the intelligence that inhabits his body. That self is the one thing no one else can touch, the only thing we truly possess. The operation of our own will is the one thing in all the universe over which we have control. The man who learns to accept this is content, no matter what his physical circumstances, while the man who imagines he can control the world around him is invariably confused and embittered. So you see men who are oppressed by the worst sort of misfortunes, yet who are happy nonetheless, and you see men who are surrounded by luxury and have slaves to carry out their every wish, yet who are miserable.”

“But what if a man is oppressed by others? What if his exercise of free will is constrained by the brute strength of another?”

“Epictetus would say that such a thing is impossible. Other men can have power over one’s body and possessions, but never over the will. The self is always free, if we are but conscious of it.”

“And what about the act of love, or the other pleasures of the body?”

“Epictetus disparages what he calls ‘appetite,’ the drive to satisfy the cravings of the body. Too often appetite controls a man, rather than being controlled by him.”

“But since we have a body, and its bare requirements must be met if we are to exist at all in this world, clearly appetite serves a purpose. A man must eat, so why not take pleasure in food? And what you and I do together, Lucius – does it not give you pleasure?”

“Perhaps too much. There are moments when I’m with you that I forget where I am, even who I am. I lose myself in the moment.”

She smiled. “And isn’t that delicious?”

“Dangerous, Epictetus would say. To lose one’s self in ecstasy is a trap, an exaltation of the body over the will, a capitulation to appetite, an invitation to heartbreak and disappointment, because we have no control whatsoever over the passions and appetites of another. A person may love us one day and forget us the next. Pleasure can turn to pain. But I believe a man needs to touch and be touched, to find union with another, to feel sometimes that he is an animal with a body and cravings and nothing more. I experience that with you, Cornelia. I wouldn’t give up what I share with you for anything.”

“So, do you embrace the Stoic view or not, Lucius?”

“Much of it makes sense to me. But I have my doubts. Is that all there is to wisdom – an acceptance of fate, an acknowledgement that we’re essentially powerless? If the pains and pleasures of the body are separate from the self, and if nothing precedes or follows life, why bother to live at all? But look at me – talking philosophy with a Vestal virgin! Do the gods look down and laugh at us, Cornelia? Do they despise us?”

“If Vesta were displeased with me, she would let me know.”

He shook his head. “Sometimes I can’t believe the risk you take by meeting me.” He ran the tip of his forefinger over her breast and watched the nipple grow erect. “Sometimes I can’t believe the risk I’m taking.”

They both knew the law. A Vestal convicted of breaking her vow of chastity was to be buried alive. Her lover was to be hung on a cross and beaten to death.

Cornelia shrugged. “At least since the days of Nero – all through my tenure as a Vestal – our vow of chastity has never been enforced. Some Vestals remain virgins, some do not. We don’t flaunt what we do, and the priests of the state religion don’t look too closely into our lives. They take their cue from the Pontifex Maximus, who is also the emperor. Vespasian never cared what we got up to. Titus also looked the other way. They knew what truly mattered. As long as we keep Vesta’s hearthfire burning without interruption and perform the rituals correctly, Roma will continue to receive the goddess’s blessing.”

“Do you truly believe in Vesta and her protection?”

“Of course I do. Don’t tell me you’re an atheist, Lucius. You haven’t converted to Judaism?”

“You know my foreskin is intact.”

“Or worse, become a follower of Christ, a hater of the gods and mankind?”

“No. I am neither a Jew nor a Christian. But…”

“Yes?”

He hesitated. What he was about to say he had never said aloud to anyone. “My uncle Kaeso was a Christian.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He was burned alive by Nero, along with the other Christians who were punished for starting the Great Fire.”

She pursed her lips. “How terrible for you.”

“How terrible for him. I never knew the man. My father kept me away from him.”

“Terrible for him, yes…” Cornelia left something unspoken, but he could read her thoughts: if the man was a Christian and an arsonist, perhaps he deserved his punishment. “Your uncle didn’t give you that, did he?” She gestured to the amulet that hung from the chain around his neck.

“Why do you ask?” Lucius had never worn the fascinum when he went to see her. Today was the first time he had forgotten to leave it at home.

“I saw you touch it when you mentioned him. It looks a bit like a cross. The Christians boast that their god died by crucifixion – as if that were something to be proud of!”

“As a matter of fact, my uncle Kaeso did wear this amulet during his lifetime; he was wearing it when he died. So my father once told me. But the resemblance to a cross is only a coincidence. It’s a family talisman, a fascinum.”

“It doesn’t look like a fascinum.”

“That’s because it’s so very old and worn. If you look at it from a certain angle, you can make out the original shape. Do you see? Here is the phallus, and here are the wings.”

“Yes, I see.”

“You’re one of the few people who’s ever seen it. When I wear it, I keep it beneath my clothes, out of sight.”

“And when you go to the baths?”

“I leave it at home, for fear of losing it.”

“Then I am indeed privileged to see Lucius Pinarius naked, wearing only his family heirloom.”

He lowered his eyes. “I’ve also never talked about my uncle before. Not to anyone, ever.”

“Is it a secret, then?”

“Some people know about him, I imagine – Epaphroditus must know, since he knew my father quite well – but it’s never spoken of.”

“I understand. In every family there are certain events that are never talked about, relatives who are never mentioned.”

He realized that he was touching the fascinum, turning it this way and that between his forefinger and thumb. He stared at it for a moment, then released it with a grunt. “How in Hades did we end up talking about my uncle Kaeso?”

“We were talking about Vesta and the sacred hearthfire, and atheists like the Christians who don’t believe in the gods.”

“I’m not sure what I think about the gods. Lately I’ve been reading Euhemerus. Do you know him?”

“No.”

“Euhemerus served at the court of Cassander, who was king of Macedonia after Alexander. Euhemerus believed that our tales of gods are simply stories about mortal men and women who lived long ago, made larger than life by the storytellers and given supernatural powers.”

“Then I think this Euhemerus was most certainly an atheist.”

“I’ve also been studying Epicurus. He thought the gods existed, but believed they must have withdrawn from our world, growing so distant from mankind that their effect on mortals is only very faint, hardly perceptible, like a shadow cast by a feeble lamp.”

“The light cast by the hearthfire of Vesta is not feeble, I can assure you,” said Cornelia. “The goddess is with me every day. I attend her with joy and thanksgiving. But the common belief that she demands virginity of her priestesses, and punishes impurity by visiting catastrophes on the city, is a fallacy, a mistaken notion that has been proved false many times. I know for a fact that many Vestals have been unchaste with no bad consequence whatsoever. Otherwise, Roma would have suffered multiple disasters virtually every year that I’ve been a Vestal.”

“We lost Pompeii-”

“That was far from Roma.”

“There was a terrible fire-”

“The Temple of Vesta and the House of the Vestals were untouched.”

“And a plague-”

“Not a single Vestal died, or even became ill. Does talking about disasters always make you so hard?”

“Only with you.”

They made love again. They had never met without making love more than once, perhaps to make up for the infrequency of their meetings. To Lucius, the second time was always better than the first – less hurried and more relaxed, with a greater sense of union between them and a more satisfying climax for both. For the duration of their lovemaking, all his questions about existence were suspended. Each moment was sufficient in itself.

He held her tightly as she reached the crisis. He had never felt closer to her. But afterwards, she slipped out of his embrace and turned her back to him.

“This is the last time we’ll meet for a while,” she said. “For several months, at least.”

“Why?”

“I’m going away. I won’t come back until the spring.”

“It’ll be a long winter without you. Where are you going?”

“To the House of the Vestals at Alba Longa.” The town was a day’s journey down the Appian Way, in a hilly region of quaint villages, luxurious villas and hunting estates.

“That’s only a few hours from Roma. I could come to see you – ”

“No. I’ll be in seclusion. The rules are stricter in Alba. The Vestals there belong to the oldest of all the orders, established even before Roma was founded.”

“I thought the worship of Vesta originated here in Roma.”

She smiled ruefully and shook her head. “And you, a patrician with a name going back to the days of Hercules!”

“The history of religion is not my strong point.”

“I thought you read Titus Livius.”

“Only the parts about my family.”

“Even so, every Roman child should know that Rhea Silvia, the mother of Romulus and Remus, was a Vestal.”

“Imagine that – another Vestal who was not a virgin!”

“Rhea’s father was King Numitor of Alba. He was murdered by his brother, Amulius. Her wicked uncle feared that Rhea might someday produce a rival for the throne, so he forced her to become a Vestal and go into seclusion. But Rhea became pregnant nevertheless. Some say Mars ravished her. Others say her uncle Amulius raped her. However it happened, Rhea kept her condition secret until the twins were born…” Cornelia’s voice trailed off.

“Even I know this part,” said Lucius. “Their mother put the newborn twins in a basket, then a slave took the babies out to a rocky hillside and left them there to die. That was a terrible thing to do, don’t you think?”

“But what choice did Rhea Silvia have? A lot of women do the same thing nowadays. It’s common practice.”

“But what sort of mother could abandon her child to die?”

“Slave women, poor women, girls who’ve been raped. Rhea Silvia faced death if the evidence of her crime was discovered.”

Lucius shook his head. He had never approved of the common practice of abandoning babies, but he did not care to argue with her. “Ah, well, I know the rest of the story. Jupiter raised a tremendous storm, and there was a great flood, and the twins were carried all the way to Roma, where their basket foundered on a hillside. A she-wolf found them, took them to her cave, called the Lupercale, and suckled them. Eventually, Romulus and Remus were adopted by a pig farmer and his wife, grew up to become fearsome warriors, killed the wicked Amulius, rescued their mother, Rhea Silvia, and founded Roma. And the rest is history. But why must you go to Alba, Cornelia? And why for so long?”

“The decision isn’t mine. The Virgo Maxima has ordered me to go. It’s my duty to obey her.” There was something evasive in Cornelia’s tone, but he sensed that there would be no point in pressing her.

“I’ll miss you. I’ll miss this.” He pulled her close. “But even more, I’ll miss this – the thing we do after making love. The banter. The teasing. The serious talk. Will you take another lover, while you’re in Alba?”

“No.” She answered without hesitation.

“Then neither will I,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a man.”

“And you are a woman – the only one I want. To whom else might I turn? The bored wife of some acquaintance looking for an hour’s distraction? A slave, counting the cracks in the ceiling until I’m finished? A whore, with one eye on the coins in my purse? Or perhaps I should look for some doe-eyed young girl fresh on the marriage market whose father is willing to settle for a suitor with a worn-out patrician name, a reputation for keeping company with exiled philosophers, and a family fortune only a little tainted by association with Nero. Not one of those women would be able to discuss philosophy and religion with me afterwards.”

“You might be surprised.”

“I suppose I’ll do what Martial does when one of his boys fails to show up – learn to love my left hand. Or I suppose I could turn to another of the Vestals-”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Varronilla isn’t bad-looking, and she’s even younger than you; maybe too young for my taste. What about the Oculata sisters? I once enjoyed the attentions of a pair of sisters, years ago – and how many men have had sisters who were also Vestals? The sheer novelty of it-”

“Don’t even think about it!” Cornelia gave him a pinch, playful but painful enough to make him yelp. “You and I take precautions, Lucius. We’re discreet. When our paths cross in public – at the Flavian Amphitheatre, in the Forum – we greet each other briefly, as is perfectly natural and acceptable, then we move on. We give no one cause for suspicion. But if you gain a reputation for deliberately seeking the company of Vestals, if you seem to be too familiar with our comings and goings-”

“Cornelia, I was only joking. I was teasing you – the way a man teases the woman he loves when she’s just told him that for months and months he won’t be able to talk to her, or touch her, or do this to her…”

His passion reignited hers. Their lovemaking was fiercer than ever, fired by the knowledge of their coming separation.