Текст книги "Roma.The novel of ancient Rome"

Автор книги: Steven Saylor

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

“No, Mother. What I’ve done, I did for you. You always taught me-”

“I never taught my son to be a traitor! If I hear you say such a thing, I’ll pull the sword from your scabbard and fall upon it, rather than draw another breath!”

“Mother, Mother-”

Veturia suddenly pulled her arm from her daughter-in-law’s grasp. With all her strength, she slapped Gnaeus across the face. The crack of the blow was startlingly loud. The horses whinnied and wrenched sharply at their reins, burning Titus’s palms.

Veturia began to fall forward, but the women caught her. Gnaeus was stunned. After a long moment, he signaled for Titus to come to him. He whispered in his ear. “Tell the men I’ve ordered a halt. Set up my tent beside the road. Too many eyes are upon us. I must meet with my mother in private.”

What was said in that tent? What promises or threats were made, what memories or dreams rekindled? None would ever know but Coriolanus and his mother.

Veturia was the first to emerge from the tent. Volumnia and Claudia-who still had never met Titus’s eyes-quickly stepped forward to assist her. Without a word, the three returned to where the Vestals waited. Veturia spoke to the virgins in a low voice, and they in turn made gestures to the women behind them to turn around and return to the city. As the vast procession retreated, the multitude of women neither wept nor were jubilant, but maintained an eerie silence.

Gnaeus remained alone in the tent for a very long time. When he finally emerged, he wore upon his face a look of determination such as Titus had never seen before.

Gnaeus mounted his steed, then summoned his Roman vanguard. The mounted warriors assembled before him. Titus was among them, dreading what he was about to hear.

“There will be no attack on Roma,” said Gnaeus.

The men were dumbfounded.

“When we left Roma, we set out to meet our destiny. Destiny has led us very nearly in a circle. We have come this close to Roma-but we will come no closer. Over the mountains, across the seas, there is a vast world beyond the lands of the Romans and the Volsci. Out there, perhaps, is where our destiny now lies.”

The men looked at one another anxiously, but such was their degree of discipline that not one of them spoke a word of protest.

“We shall now ride back through the Volscian ranks. When we reach the rear of the army, we shall simply keep riding.”

“And the Volsci?” said Titus.

“If they wish to attack Roma, let them.”

“They’ll never do it! You’re their talisman. Only Coriolanus can lead them to victory.”

“Then I suppose they’ll turn back, as well.” Gnaeus snapped his reins and rode forward. The Roman vanguard followed. Titus caught up and rode beside Gnaeus. The Volscian foot soldiers stepped back to make way, gazing up at them in wonder and confusion.

“It’s that woman’s doing!” shouted one of them. “She’s turned her son against us!”

“Coriolanus is deserting us!”

“Impossible!”

“Look for yourself!”

“But why did he lead us here?”

“It’s a trap! Coriolanus lured us to this place, and now the Romans must have a terrible trick in store!”

Consternation spread through the ranks. It seemed to Titus that they rode above a sea of angry faces. The roar of that sea grew louder and louder. Its currents surged this way and that with ever greater violence.

“Turn back, Coriolanus!” cried the Volsci. “Turn back! Lead us! Or else-”

A stone struck Titus’s helmet. The noise reverberated though his skull. Again, he was reminded of the day the cudgel had struck him on the Tarpeian Rock, and Gnaeus had saved his life. More and more, the world around him seemed strange and dreamlike, muted and distant.

More stones pelted his armor. Titus hardly felt them. The Volsci began with stones, but soon enough they drew their swords. The Romans on horseback did likewise. To Titus’s ears, the clash of iron was oddly muffled. A blur of motion followed. It was with some surprise that he saw blood upon his own sword, then felt a burning pain in his side. The world spun about and turned upside down. Titus vaguely knew that he must be tumbling from his horse, but never felt himself hit the ground.

In the days that followed, the Senate of Roma decreed that the day of the city’s salvation from Coriolanus should be a day of thanksgiving, and that special honors should be given to the courageous women of Roma, who had achieved what neither force of arms nor diplomacy could have achieved.

Those decisions were easy. Harder decisions followed.

Considerable acrimony attended the debate regarding the Ara Maxima. Since the dawn of time, the Altar of Hercules had been kept by the families of the Pinarii and the Potitii, the hereditary priests who jointly celebrated the Feast of Hercules. In light of the dishonor brought upon his family by Titus Potitius, should that family be allowed to continue as keepers of the altar, or should they be stripped of their role, and should it be given to another family, or to priests appointed by the state?

Appius Claudius was among those who argued that the state had no right to interfere in a religious arrangement that predated the state itself. Hercules himself had chosen the two families to keep his shrine. No act of the state could undo what a god had willed in a time before memory. This was his public stance. Privately, Claudius told his colleagues that the shame brought upon him by his son-in-law was a torment hardly to be borne; he disowned his daughter and grandchild, and declared that so long as he or any descendent bearing his name held any influence in the state, no man with the name Potitius would ever be elected to high office.

Claudius’s argument carried the Senate. The keeping of the Ara Maxima would remain in family hands, unchanged. But the newly elected consul, Publius Pinarius, protested that his family would no longer carry out its traditional duties alongside the disgraced Potitii. “After too many generations to count, we relinquish our place in the keeping of the altar. Let the Potitii do it all by themselves!”

There was much talk among the elite of Roma regarding these two ancient patrician families, and the curious twists of fate which had brought Publius Pinarius to the consulship, the pinnacle of his family’s fortunes, even as the Potitii reached their nadir with the disgrace of Titus Potitius.

Years later, a ragged drifter happened to find himself a few miles south of Roma. He was a man with no city or tribe, doomed to perpetually wander, surviving by his wits, which were often befuddled, and dependent on the mercy of strangers; a broken man, without hopes or dreams. He had not passed this way in many years.

He only vaguely realized where he was, but he knew that the small temple beside the road had not been there before. It was of simple design, but handsomely executed and beautifully decorated. A young shepherd was resting on the steps.

“Tell me, boy,” said the vagrant, “what is this temple? To what god is it dedicated?”

The boy looked at the drifter warily at first, then saw that the grizzled stranger was harmless. “Not a god, but a goddess-Fortuna, the first daughter of Jupiter. She decides the ups and downs of life.”

“I seem to recall that there are many temples to Fortuna in Roma,” remarked the drifter, his voice dreamy.

“Yes, but this one is different. They call it the Temple of Fortuna Muliebris, Fortuna of the Women.”

“Why is that?”

“Because the women of Roma paid to build it, if you can believe that. This is the very spot, you see, where the villain Coriolanus was turned back.”

“Is it?” said the drifter, with a quaver in his voice.

“Indeed it is. And afterward, the women thought there should be a temple here, to mark the spot. The Senate and the priests approved, and the women themselves raised the money to build it. It’s a beautiful building, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” The drifter gazed admiringly at the structure. “I used to be a builder myself.”

“You?” The shepherd looked at him dubiously, then slapped his thigh and laughed. “And I used to be a senator! But look at me now, herding these dirty sheep!”

So this was the very spot. Titus’s mind was flooded by memories long suppressed. Dimly he remembered witnessing Gnaeus’s gory end; even the greatest warrior in Italy could not take on the whole of an army he himself had trained for combat. At least Gnaeus had died fighting. Dimly-thank the gods, only dimly! – Titus recalled the tortures to which the Volsci had subjected him before they let him go.

It all seemed very distant, like a dream almost forgotten. All the days of his life seemed like that, even yesterday, even today.

“If you like looking at temples,” said the shepherd, “walk on a little ways to the crest of the hill. From there you can see the city. The highest thing you see is the Temple of Jupiter. Now that’s a temple! It sits on the Capitoline like a crown on the head of a king. Even from here, you can see how grand it is. Go on, have a look.”

Titus’s heart pounded in his chest. As he was still wont to do in moments of great emotion, even after all these years, Titus reached up to finger the talisman of Fascinus at this throat. Of course, it was not there. He had given it to his sleeping son on the night he left Roma. How was the boy? Did he still live? Did he prosper? Did he keep the ancient rites of Hercules, as had his ancestors before him?

“Go ahead,” said the shepherd. “Walk to the rise and have a look at the city.”

The ragged wanderer, saying nothing, turned around and walked in the opposite direction.

THE TWELVE TABLES

450 B.C.

“Another toast!” declared Lucius Icilius.

“What? Surely not another!” Lucius Verginius laughed heartily. He was a broad-shouldered bear of a man who greatly enjoyed wine, and his protest was purely for show.

“As your host, I must insist,” said Icilius. With a wave of his long, bony arm, he beckoned to the serving girl to refill the cups.

The occasion was a joyful one-a dinner party to celebrate the upcoming wedding of the son of Icilius, young Lucius, to Verginia, the daughter of Verginius. The marriage would unite two of the most distinguished plebeian families in Roma. The Verginii had been prominent in the city nearly as long as some patrician families. The branch of Lucius Verginius, while not wealthy, was famed for prowess in battle; in recent campaigns against the Sabines and the Aequi, Lucius Verginius had upheld the standards of bravery set by his ancestors. The Icilii were well-to-do, politically active, and full of vitality and ambition. Men from both families had served as tribunes of the plebs.

The marriage bond between the Icilii and the Verginii would strengthen both clans. It was a love match, as well; Lucius and Verginia had fallen for each other at first sight. Tonight, with the wedding only a few days away, the two families dined together under the roof of Icilius to celebrate their impending union.

Icilius raised his cup. “A toast to the mothers! We must never underestimate the power of a Roman matron. More than forty years ago, when the traitor Coriolanus marched on Roma, what was the only thing that could turn him back? Not swords, not walls, not even the abject groveling of the senators. Only a mother’s plea was powerful enough to save Roma. To the mothers of the bride and groom!”

“To the mothers!” agreed Verginius, raising his cup.

“Yes, to our mothers!” said young Lucius, his eyes sparkling from having drunk more wine than he was used to.

The subjects of the toast demurely lowered their eyes, and did not join in the drinking. Nor did the bridegroom’s younger sister, the darkly beautiful Icilia. Nor did young Verginia, who had never tasted wine. She needed no intoxicant to make her blue eyes sparkle or to add color to her cheeks, which were as smooth as rose petals. Verginia was as fair as Lucius was dark; she was short and voluptuous rather than tall and lean like her betrothed. Their physical differences only served to complement each other’s beauty; everyone agreed that they made a lovely couple.

Icilius drained his cup and wiped his mouth. “Now, you may wonder why, in such congenial company, I should mention the foul name of Coriolanus, which inspires loathing in the breast of any patriot.”

“Because it brings up the subject of your toast-a mother’s influence!” said Verginius, slurring his words slightly.

“Ah, yes, but more than that, I mention that accursed name to remind us of the great boon to Roma which was done by one of my relatives, the great tribune Spurius Icilius. It was Spurius who ran Coriolanus out of Roma. A mother may have kept the villain out, but an Icilius drove him away in the first place. I mention this, Verginius, to show you that the family into which your daughter is marrying, while it may not have a history as long as yours, has nonetheless madehistory. With an upstanding young scion like my boy Lucius, this family will continue to do so!”

“And why not, with the fine sons that my Verginia will give him!” cried Verginius.

Verginia blushed. So did Lucius, though he attempted a manly laugh to cover his self-consciousness. Icilia, whose skin was even darker than her brother’s, did not easily show a blush, but such talk clearly disturbed her; the others, if they noticed, ascribed the pained look on her face to maidenly modesty.

“But, more seriously-” Icilius paused; all his concentration was momentarily required to suppress a belch. The critical moment passed. “As I was saying, on a more serious note: Forty years have passed since the wicked Coriolanus dared to threaten the tribunes, and for that crime he was duly punished; and yet, in many ways, the strife between the classes is now fiercer than ever. Only rarely, these days, is a plebeian elected to the consulship, and this is no accident. The patricians grow more jealous of their privileges, not less. They lay down every possible impediment in order to prevent even the most qualified plebeian from attaining the higher magistracies. You know this is true, good Verginius.”

The other man nodded. “Regrettably, good Icilius, it is the truth.”

Lucius groaned. “No, Papa. No politics tonight!”

Icilius shushed him. “This is not politics, my boy. This is serious family talk. The Verginii and the Icilii represent the very best of the plebeians. The union of our families is much more than the betrothal of a beautiful girl and a fine young man; this marriage represents the hope of the future.

“Will there ever be lasting peace between the patricians and ourselves? We must start by admitting that there have been abuses on both sides. Since the days of Coriolanus, we plebs have staged no more secessions, but sometimes, perhaps, we have been too eager to use the power of the tribunes to punish arrogant patricians. Some tribunes have stirred up the populace unnecessarily, and have wielded their power recklessly. To be sure, more than a few patricians, through devious means, have eluded punishment and cheated justice. Failures and abuses on both sides have led to further recriminations, which in turn have led to more strife and discord.

“In these dark days, despite the best efforts of honest men, the two classes seem to be drawing further and further apart. We can only hope that the children of Lucius and Verginia will inherit a better Roma than the one in which their parents were born!”

“Hear, hear!” agreed Verginius. “Well said, Icilius! The Decemvirs themselves should be here tonight, to hear you speak.”

Young Lucius, feeling tipsy, raised his cup. “To the Decemvirs!”

His elders abruptly shot him a look that made Lucius feel quite small. But the mood was too jovial for the tense moment to prevail. Verginius smiled first, then Icilius.

“A toast to the Decemvirs, my son?” Icilius clucked his tongue. “A toast implies congratulations, and in the case of the Decemvirs, that would be premature. No one has yet seen the fruit of their labors, though our ten little Tarquinii have already put a bitter taste in the mouths of many good citizens.”

“The ten Tarquinii? That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” said Verginius.

“Is it?” Icilius raised an eyebrow.

Two years earlier the discord in Roma had grown so extreme that patricians and plebeians alike had agreed to an extraordinary measure. Elections were cancelled, the Senate was disbanded, and the magistrates, including the tribunes, were relieved of their offices. A board of ten men-the Decemvirs-was given temporary power to rule the state and charged with the task of writing a comprehensive code of laws. It had sounded like a good idea at the time: Roma’s ten wisest men would determine why the state had come to a standstill, wield whatever power was necessary to resolve the problems, devise fair laws, and chisel those laws into stone for all to see. The plebs had long agitated for a written law code, believing that a clear list of offenses and an enumeration of citizens’ rights would do more than anything else to put an end to the arbitrary abuses of the patricians. But the process had dragged on for two years, without visible results, and the Decemvirs had grown careless and abusive with their power.

Icilius clucked his tongue. “We all hoped-optimistically, perhaps foolishly-that the Decemvirs would follow the example of Cincinnatus-”

“Good old Cincinnatus! A toast to Cincinnatus!” cried Verginius, who had served under the famous commander. Eight years before, when a Roman army had been trapped by the Aequi and faced certain destruction, the general-turned-farmer Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus had been called from retirement; he was named dictator and given total power over the state for the duration of the crisis. Begrudgingly, Cincinnatus left his plow, led a force to rescue the army, soundly defeated the Aequi, resigned his office, and returned to his farm-all in the span of fifteen days. It was said that his plow was exactly where he had left it, and he set about finishing the furrow he had begun, as if there had been no interruption. Expeditious and self-effacing, Cincinnatus had become a living legend.

But the Decemvirs had not followed the example of Cincinnatus. By devious means they had extended their original terms of office and continued to rule as absolute dictators while the people still awaited publication of the new law code. In recent months, their abuses had grown more flagrant as they ruthlessly suppressed anyone who questioned their authority. Men had died for opposing them; but the Decemvirs, so long as they held office, were immune from charges of murder.

“The good news,” said Icilius, “is that the new law code should be made public any day now. The Decemvirs call it the Twelve Tables. Let’s hope they’ve done such an outstanding job that the virtues of the Twelve Tables will make us forget the vices of the ten Tarquinii.”

Young Lucius furrowed his brow. “I heard a rumor the other day, about these new laws.”

“A rumor?” said his father.

“My tutor, Xenon, says they plan to outlaw marriage between patricians and plebeians.”

“A terrible idea!” said Verginius.

Icilius’s face grew long. “What would your Greek tutor know about such things?”

Lucius shrugged. “Xenon tutors other boys, including some of the Decemvirs’ grandsons. He hears all sorts of things.”

Icilius peered into his empty cup. “To be sure, there are those, patrician and plebeian alike, who believe that moreseparation of the classes, not less, is the answer to Roma’s social ills. A ban on intermarriage might not be a bad thing.”

“I suppose I should consider myself lucky, then,” said Lucius, “that the most beautiful girl in all of Roma happens to be a plebeian, and she happens to be betrothed to me.” He beamed at Verginia, who grinned and lowered her eyes.

No one was looking at Lucius’s sister, Icilia, whose dark beauty was abruptly marred by a deep frown.

Verginius grunted. “‘Ten Tarquinii,’ you called the Decemvirs. Appius Claudius must be the worst of the lot! A few generations back, the Claudii weren’t even Romans. They weren’t even the Claudii! What was that uncouth Sabine name his grandfather was born with?”

“Attus Clausus,” said Icilius.

“Ah, yes! And now the grandson is chief among the Decemvirs. A thoroughly unpleasant fellow, always swaggering about, surrounded by lictors, wearing a purple toga and expecting everyone he meets to do his bidding. That man enjoys being a Decemvir entirely too much! And now he proposes to ban intermarriage. The patrician hypocrite! Only a few months ago, he asked me for Verginia’s hand.”

“Papa!” Verginia spoke up. “I don’t think you should mention-”

“Why not? It’s not as if either you or I led the old goat on in any way. Let Jupiter strike me down if I tell a lie! A few months ago, Appius Claudius asked if he might marry Verginia.”

“And what did you say?” asked Icilia.

“I told him no, of course! Not that the match would have been unsuitable; Appius Claudius, a widower with grown children, may be a bit old for Verginia, but the Claudii have made quite a name for themselves in three short generations, and they arepatricians, however newly minted.” Verginius said this in an offhand way, but clearly, he didn’t mind letting Icilius know that his daughter could have married a patrician, if Verginius had so chosen. “I rejected Appius Claudius as a suitor because I don’t like the fellow-it’s as simple as that! Couldn’t stand the idea of having him be my son-in-law, or the father of my grandchildren. I much prefer you, Lucius. And more importantly, so does Verginia!”

Verginius laughed heartily and rose from his dining couch to give his daughter a kiss. She turned her face to offer her cheek. By doing so, she also hid her expression from everyone in the room.

“Another toast, then!” said Icilius.

“Another?” Verginius fell back on his couch and pretended to groan.

“Yes! A toast to love.”

“To love, indeed!” said Verginius. “To Venus, the goddess of love, who has clearly blessed this union with the spark of mutual desire. What could be better than a genuine love match of which both fathers approve?”

The men drank more wine, then burst out laughing. The mothers laughed as well, caught up in the men’s exuberance. Even dark Icilia ceased frowning, threw back her head, and laughed.

Only Verginia failed to laugh. From the moment her father had mentioned Appius Claudius the Decemvir, and the man’s thwarted desire to marry her, an uneasy look had settled on her face.

The next day, Icilia and Verginia went shopping together in the market, chaperoned by their mothers.

The two girls had been raised in different circles, and had few acquaintances in common; yet, since they were soon to be sisters-in-law, everyone expected them to begin acting as if they were already old friends. Their recent outings together, since the announcement of Verginia’s betrothal to Lucius, felt forced and artificial to both of them; their mothers, endlessly preoccupied with wedding details, had more to talk about than they did. To complicate matters, each of the girls had a problem that weighed upon her, but as yet felt unready to share her secret with the other. They moved though the market side by side, sporadically making conversation, each wrapped up in her own private thoughts.

“What do you think of this, Verginia?” Icilia ran her fingers over a bolt of finely woven yellow linen.

The merchant grinned. “From Syracuse, on the island of Sicily. All the best things come from Syracuse, and I offer them at the best prices!”

Syracuse had originally been founded by colonists from Corinth, and was nearly as old as Roma. It was one of many Greek colonies, not only on Sicily but across the southern part of Italy, a region so heavily settled by Greeks that the Romans called it Magna Graecia, “Great Greece.” Romans had traded with these cities for generations, and had so far avoided becoming embroiled in the endless wars they fought against one another. In recent years, Syracuse had emerged as the most brilliant, the most free, and the most prosperous city in all of the western Mediterranean. The Syracusan fleet dominated the Tyrrhenian Sea. Syracusan merchants built warehouses in Ostia, at the mouth of the Tiber, to house the goods they traded with Roma and her neighbors. Syracusan grain more than once had saved Roma from famine. Syracusan scholars taught in the best Roman households; Icilius’s tutor, Xenon, came from Syracuse.

“It’s alright, I suppose,” said Verginia, hardly looking at the fabric. Her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

“Perhaps the young ladies would be more interested in pottery and earthenware,” suggested the merchant. “The young ladies may as yet have no households of their own, but soon enough two such pretty girls will find themselves married, and will be requiring cups and pitchers for entertaining.” The merchant could see by their simple, long-sleeved tunicae that the girls were still unmarried; they had not yet graduated to the more complicated stolas worn by their mothers. He held up a black pitcher. “This pattern is particularly beautiful. The red border is an unusual variation on a traditional Greek key design-”

Icilia, who had frowned and turned aside as soon as the man mentioned marriage, suddenly saw a familiar face across the crowded market. Her heart leapt into her throat. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that their mothers, deep in conversation, had strolled on ahead. Impulsively, Icilia gripped Verginia’s arm, pulled her away from the nattering merchant, and whispered in her ear.

“Verginia, you must do me a favor!”

“What is it, Icilia?”

“Please, I beg of you-”

“Icilia, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing is the matter. But I must leave you for a moment-only a moment, I promise! If our mothers come back and miss me, say…say that I had to step into the women’s lavatory above the Cloaca Maxima.”

“And if they ask why I didn’t go with you, or if they decide to go looking for you?”

“Then say…oh, I don’t know what!”

Verginia smiled. She was not sure what Icilia was up to, but from various small signs, she had come to suspect that Lucius’s sister must have a secret suitor; perhaps this had something to do with him. If Icilia was still not ready to tell her the details, here was an opportunity for Verginia to earn her trust, and for the two girls to become closer. Was that not exactly what their mothers desired?

“Of course I’ll help you, Icilia. Do what you must-but don’t be too long! I don’t have much experience at telling falsehoods to my mother.”

“Fortuna bless you, Verginia! I shall be very quick, I promise.” Casting a final glance at their mothers, who had ambled further ahead, she vanished into the crowd.

He had glimpsed her at the same instant she glimpsed him. He was waiting for her just around the corner from where she had seen him, with an anxious grin on his face.

“Icilia!”

“Titus! Oh, Titus!” It was all she could do not to kiss him, right there; but although they were away from the heavy traffic of the market, they were still visible. Eagerly, he took her arm and led her around another corner, into a narrow space between two buildings that was shielded from view by the foliage of a cypress tree.

He held her body against his and kissed her for a long time. Icilia was not shy; the very impossibility of their relationship encouraged her to abandon all restraint during the rare, fleeting moments she was with him. She ran her hands over his strong shoulders, inside the neck of his tunic and onto his chest, which was covered by fine blond hair. Her fingers encountered the talisman he wore. “Fascinus,” he called the curious pendant, saying it was a god that had protected his family for centuries.

Icilia could not help thinking that Fascinus had fallen down on the job in recent generations. It was hard to believe that the Potitii had once been wealthy; even Titus’s best tunics were threadbare. The first time Icilia had seen him, he was wearing the one garment he owned that was not covered with patches, the priestly robe he wore at the Ara Maxima. Watching him officiate at the altar with his father, she had been swept away by his good looks. Afterward, it had taken considerable ingenuity on her part to make his acquaintance. The passion that had stirred between them was so immediate and so overwhelming it must have been the hand of Venus that guided them to one another. Yet, when Icilia mentioned Titus Potitius in a very roundabout way to her father, he had reacted with a vehemence that startled her.

Icilia at first assumed it was Titus’s poverty, or simply his patrician status, that offended her father, and hoped these barriers might be overcome. It was her brother Lucius who had explained to her the reason for the declining fortunes of the Potitii-the fact that Titus’s grandfather had fought alongside Coriolanus. No wonder her father had reacted so violently! The name of Coriolanus was accursed in their house, and so would be the name of any traitor who had been his ally. Never would her father agree to let her marry a Potitius; nor would Titus’s father approve such a match, for it had been an Icilius who engineered the exile of Coriolanus and, by extension, the ruin of Titus’s grandfather.

The situation was impossible. These brief, stolen moments were all she would ever have with Titus, yet her craving for these encounters was almost more than she could bear, and in the days between them she thought of little else. When Titus began to lift the hem of his tunic as well as her own, and to press his hardness between her legs, she offered no resistance. Instead, she clutched him as hard as she could, praying that the gods would stop time and make this moment last forever.

Titus entered her. He moved inside her. His breath was hot in her ear. A fire was ignited at the very core of her being and radiated outward, building toward an ecstatic release. The rapture reached its pinnacle; the pleasure was so intense, so perfect, how she could doubt the rightness of their union? That she should love Titus must be the will of the gods, which superseded the objections of all petty mortals, including her father.