Laelia glanced up at her husband lying on his side on the couch centering a triclinium.
A breeze wafted through the tall Corinthian pillars buttressing many arches adjacent to a grand loggia. Marcus levered himself up on an elbow as he quaffed wine from a silver flask dangling down from the other hand. He roared in a terrible guffaw.
"What amuses you, Your Grace?" asked Laelia in cold civility.
The fat man regarded her, his drab eyes narrowing. The flask spun, unfurling what was left as he hurled it at her. A thin stream of wine spiraled like the shell of a snail.
She ducked.
The silverware caromed off the pillar next to her, then bounced on the floor before stopping by a pedestal table. An elegant piece of a white marble slab on three gold legs, the table was a gift Domitian sent from the north for Marcus' fiftieth two years ago. The three legs symbolized the Triumvirate, and the majestic white marble, an emblem of his reign.
Regaining her composure, Laelia straightened and met her husband in the eye.
Between them, a long dining table displayed various viands, delicacies such as flamingo tongues grilled to succulent, bear claws braised for three days until translucent, and other parts of exotic beasts the cook found in Marcus' menagerie. Glistening behind gossamer steam, they were said to tempt even the fussiest palate – Laelia couldn't care less.
Her husband needed not to be tempted – she thought – as the man gorged to fill the insatiable pit on the other end of his throat.
A quiet snort tilted her mouth.
"Leave us," she dismissed the servants attending the table, her eyes fastened still on the man who held her wrath and contempt, and yet it was through such a man that she had her vengeance. Fifteen years ago, when she was Consul Glaber's favorite mistress, she was so close to having him ditch his wife for her had it not been for Gnaeus Januarius Claudius' meddling.
She prided herself on how she had snubbed out both Consuls. And for a while, she had even been joyful. But her joy was as short-lived as everything that meant to bring joy. No matter how many enemies she had removed, threats kept rising from all sides, and there was no turning back.
After she had banished Domitian and with Ariadne married to Julius Gaius, her son became Marcus' only heir. But Dracus was not his by blood after all, and over the years, Marcus has sought to beget more sons. Though she refused him in bed, using her grief over Aelius as her excuse, he forced himself on her time and again. And when she found herself pregnant again, she recreated the potion she learned from Glaber's apothecary for miscarriage. Not only had she drugged herself, but all the mistresses Marcus had knocked up. Whores she couldn't deal with in time, she had their bastards poisoned in small doses over the years with the help of Augustus Gaius. When they all checked out before ever reaching adulthood, it seemed they had all died of obscure maladies.
Distraught by all the premature deaths of his children, Marcus grew more paranoid each day, and his paranoia ravaged, reducing him to tantrums and stupors unlikely of the gallant commander he once was. When he scoured the Zigurrat of Ra for Gods' guidance from incense smoke, any reverence Laelia had reserved for him went out in a puff. She remembered retreating to her bedchamber, and as she shut the door behind, secured in the knowledge that no one was in earshot, she laughed so hard she dropped to her knees.
When she and Marcus took over Pethens, she pronounced a future of prosperity under Marcus' rein, and if anyone, including Marcus, dared to impugn the validity of her future pronouncements, they would be challenging the legitimacy of his Praetorship. She laughed hysterically at the walloping inanity that convinced Marcus otherwise of what he knew was fake. When fear inflicted folly, it turned bewildering fiction into blind faith. Her laughing ceased.
In the following days, she gathered the prophet of every prominent house in Pethens for a seance that sought words from the Gods, which she had written beforehand. After all the pomp and circumstance, she had the words couriered to Marcus in a secret scroll.
Everything comes with a price, said in the scroll. Since you didn't earn the present with a lawful past, it must cost you a future. Such is the give and take.
The words had seeped through Marcus, and insidiously, it poisoned his mind like how she had doped his bastards.
Stifling a scoff, Laelia raised her chin and glanced slantwise at Marcus' fat, wizened face with pity, with disdain, and with every feeling that ran perhaps the opposite of love.
As all the servants had fled, Marcus pushed to his feet. "Stop lying to me, woman," he croaked, towering from the triclinium. "Why would Domitian rise against me when I just pardoned him?"
"What's in the mind of Lord Domitian is beyond any of us now," she replied, her tone uninflected. "And while you may choose to overlook it, here are the facts. Your son brought hoplite phalanxes of the Exonians to Julius' camp, and Julius had snubbed out what could have been a coup."
Marcus shot daggers, fists clenching by his flanks. A visible shudder wobbled his jowl. "How dare you bring up the name of that little prick?" he snarled, throwing his arms, his sleeves flapping. "And what about Ariadne? Send my order! I want her back! I want her to leave the bloody north today!"
"With all due respect, dear husband," Laelia sneered, "sweet Ariadne has been married to Julius for five years. You wouldn't want to give the Gaius any reason to rise against you, especially during such a critical time, I take?" She cocked her head, hangings of gemstones swishing from her filigreed crown of gold.
"So what if she's been married for five years?" he retorted. "Five years and still no children! Either something is wrong with him, or she despises him! I should never have let you talk me into agreeing to the marriage!"
Refraining from any expression, Laelia almost felt sorry for the imbecile before her eyes. "I can't, my dear," she pronounced. "The marriage must stay. The stability between the Uranus and the Gaius hinges on it. And by a woman's instinct, I can tell their marriage has been more than just a pact. Her not being pregnant has convinced me of it."
"Blight you and your instinct!" he spat.
She shrugged, untouched by his insult. "Until their recent settlement in the north, they'd encamped in rough terrains and frequently moved over long distances to where construction demands. It must be hard for a woman, harder still if she's pregnant. Julius is protecting her from himself. Then again," she paused, permitting a smirk to her face, "you could be right about the unfortunate chance of his or her defects."
"Are you mocking me?"
"I wouldn't dare, your grace," she replied; her gaze didn't flinch. "But as I've said, there are reasons to believe that sweet Ariadne enjoys her husband's company. Her home is where he is now. And I wouldn't recommend enforcing her return. In case you've forgotten my warning against Domitian's pardon, I'd advise you to take my words this time."
Pushing to his feet, Marcus bounded up to her like a boar ramming through a hedgerow. He gripped her neck, smashing her into a pillar. Their feet trod in the scuffle, knocking over fresh candles arrayed in a pool by the triclinium.
Laelia snickered, her hands clawing his forearm and wrist. "The Scipios keep your secrets, the Legidus channel your gold, and the Gaius command your best legion. Kill me if it pleases you, but who will help you run the men that run this bloody country?"
Gnashing his teeth, Marcus grunted, his breath a whiff of carrion.
"Now isn't the time to sever your bonds!" she added in gasps, her voice a terrible rasp.
He shoved her away, his gray eyes glaring.
She fell to the side. Clamping a palm to her chest while propping on the other hand, she espied out of the corner of her eyes Marcus proceeding to the pedestal table. Swooping up another flask of wine, he gulped and chucked away the almost empty container to the heel of a pillar.
"Throw me a state banquet," he rumbled. "Make sure it happens before the Gaius pick their Favorite. Invite all the dignitaries."
While her words had left somewhat of an impact, it wasn't crystal clear to Laelia what Marcus would do at the banquet. He might slaughter again a few men who held his wrath and feed the rest with their corpses. Laelia remembered gulping back a giggle the first time she saw such atrocity. But now, she could only hold in a yawn. Slowly rising to her feet, she spruced up her gown. "Yes, your grace."
"And not just any banquet." He swiveled toward her. "I want no cook partaking in the preparation. I want all the meat and mead to be carved out of gold."
Even Laelia widened her eyes. "A state banquet consists of five hundred dishes, dear husband," she reminded. "And we have three weeks between now and the final."
"So?"
She studied his derisive face, trying to fathom his intent. "So, as the Prophetess to the Hosue Uranus, may I ask the purpose of it?"
"Aren't you the clever one?" he snarled, thundering with a burst of mirthless laughter. "The Legidus may channel my gold, as may the Gaius command my legions. But only I can summon all the finest goldsmiths and have them fashion raw gold to fine art in such a short time! And fuck the Scipios! My secrets are theirs, too! If I sink, they drown first, and they bloody know this!"
A small silence ensued, interrupted by chirpings and rustlings from a verdurous garden facing the loggia. Such folly to make only a statement, Laelia thought. But she knew better than to offend him more now.
"I'll see to it," she said, then whirled for the exit. As she sashayed down the gallery, she endeavored to recover her grace.
And the pig Marcus wouldn't let her have it!
"How's Dracus, by the way?" His voice bellowed behind her.
"He's very well, my dear," she replied. "Thank you for asking."
"How long haven't I seen him?"
She primmed up her lips, her brows locking.
"Do you even know where he is?"
A smoldering rage sent a shiver, moving her jaw from side to side.
"Turn your face to me."
She did as bid, wearing the aloof smile as her carapace. "He's been busy with his studies if it pleases you."
"If it pleases me," he guffawed, repeating her words as he slumped before his feast. Bones cracked as he broke the leg of a roast pheasant; his jowl jiggled.
"May I be excused now, your grace?" asked Laelia. "Plenty to prepare for the banquet, I'm sure you understand."
He waggled a glistening hand.
She reared her head and left. Her gown swished as her feet fastened into a trot. Once she returned to her tablinum, she gathered the elite troop from her household guards.
"Any news on Lord Dracus' whereabouts?" she asked in a flat voice, sweat prickling the skin on her back.
The men regarded each other, their lips parting without sounding a word.
"Send another squad to search outside the city. When stopped by the city guards, tell them you've been sent for the delivery of my personal goods. No one can know about this. Understood?"
The soldiers thumped their feet as they saluted her.
A staccato of footsteps as the men took their leave, silence encroached.
Laelia watched the smoke rise through the many holes on the lid of an incense charcoal burner chased with gold. Weariness befell. She groped for a chair. Everything she had done, she did for her firstborn, and the boy despised her for it. In stress and disappointment, she sobbed. But she wasn't sad. Sadness was for runts, an attribute she had long dispelled.
***
"Turn your face to me," Marcus groaned.
His wife complied, wheeling around to him. Her veneer of hauteur bore no crack. "He's been busy with his studies if it pleases you."
"If it pleases me," Roaring with laughter, he hunched over his feast and wrung off the leg from a roast pheasant. Basting spurted, running down his fingers. Eighteen spices said the cook to have put into the roast. He chomped yet tasted nothing. The more he gorged, the more obtuse his taste buds grew, and the more he consumed to offset the fear of losing it all, that everything he had gained would not make up for the losses.
Of all his children, the beautiful Ariadne had always been his favorite. He remembered the summer night when all the stars shone as she came to this world. Since that day, she had pumped a new breath into his lungs, and the air never felt quite the same again. The men he had slain, the blood shed, and the fortress besieged, all led to her that she was his purpose. Little did he know that he would fight with his life for the power to keep her safe only to the point where he would give her away for safekeeping that power.
As he dismissed Laelia, he let his eyes fall on the pedestal table Domitian sent for his fiftieth two years ago. Grief choked him. He spat, coughed, and gulped more wine, desperate for something to hold on to. A terrible laugh came into the place of what could have been a wail. He clawed into a pot of flamingo tongues and stuffed his mouth full.
Drowsiness befell him.
Plopping into the couch that centered the triclinium, he let the plate slip off his hand while falling into a stupor.
As his vision darkened, memories of the past brightened behind his closed lids.
It was forteen years ago, the spring in Year 334.
In the back of a tent outside Pethens where he had encamped, he stooped over a trestle table and smashed his fists on a pile of maps.
He couldn't understand how the men of Claudius had held his siege for this long. They should have succumbed to chaos before he would have needed to fling an arrow.
His sense of time seemed to have abandoned him. By his calculation, the ballistae should have arrived two days ago, catapulting stones that would have gouged and collapsed the Claudian Walls of Pethens. People would have fled, as would the soldiers who had sworn to protect them. Desperate and starved, they should have gushed out from every wound in the walls like swarms of ants smoked out their nests. And he would have crushed them!
But the city stood still in perfect order. Just a moment ago, his adjutant reported that the dams had been dismantled by days of storms, resulting in mudslides that blocked his reinforcements and left him short of supplies.
Fury surged, warping his vision. How he had coveted the victory! Its glory! Which he was certain he would and almost did this time.
Banging his fists, he willed himself to think.
His adjutant dipped in his head through the wall flaps again. "Sir, Laelia Euphrates is here to see you."
"What does the whore want now?" Marcus shot daggers. "Tell her to fuck off!"
"She said she knew you'd say that. It's just …"
"Speak!"
"Sh-she," the adjutant stuttered and gulped. "She said it wouldn't hurt trying a new medicine on a dying man—"
"She compared my legion to a dying man?" Marcus strode to the front. "Where's the whore?"
"She's waiting for you by the palisade to the south, Sir." Eyes forward, the guard thumped his feet.
Shoving him aside, Marcus stormed out.
Clouds scudded towards the darkening edge of the sky where the sun was sinking fast. Under the snapping banners of Consul Glaber's sigil – a saber-toothed tiger springing through a ring of fire – a fair-skinned woman awaited him in the gold and cerise hue of the setting sun. Her slim nose tipped skyward with pride, and her crimped bronze hair billowed in the sultry air like a pennon in the wind.
Marcus spun her around, his rough hand grabbing her smooth neck. He glared at the chill smile flitting across her sapphire blue eyes. Pressing his cheek on hers, he spluttered into her ear, "What is it you want, whore?"
"You."
"Do not dare me to kill you."
"Then what?" she teased, musing on him as she raised her head. "You've fought enough wars to know it's never clever to delay attacks in the enemy's territory. How long have you been encamped here? Your supply is drained, and the ardor of your men dampened. Claudius' southern legions will arrive in a day, and if you don't retreat now, he will crush you. You know it."
Marcus let go of her and banged a fist on the banner pole.
"Like it or not," she went forth. "Between the two Consuls, it is Claudius who has the popular support. While Glaber pleads for a trade agreement with Seneca that'd give away Exonia, Claudius pledges to defend every inch of the realm. While Glaber champions relying on Senecan grain to avert wars with them, Claudius vows against any reliance on foreign supply.
"Naturally, people see Glaber as the traitor, even it is their own sons, brothers, fathers, and husbands who will bear the brunt of the wars they are so eager to fight. They see Glaber as the one who has colluded with the Senecans to snuff out Claudius and turn the dual consulship into a dictatorship. The Renanians despise Glaber and all his commanders, yourself included, but venerate Claudius. The whole city of Pethens is staunch in solidarity under Claudius' rule." Laelia paused, waiting for her words to register; her cold gaze narrowed.
"Fight him all you want," she resumed. "But the Gods won't be on your side. Not this time."
Too furious and perhaps humiliated to acknowledge the sense in her words, Marcus couldn't deny them either. He snapped around in his armor, his sword hand reaching for the hilt.
She stood her ground, however. Her long fingers caressed and stayed his hand before gliding up his neck. "The masses are like the sea," she crooned, her voice tickling his ear. "They can raise a man to power, carrying him like a raft, so too can they throw him off, and the sea is senseless. Even the best general cannot defeat the tempestuous sea."
"Only cowards concede defeats!" Marcus barked with a harrumph.
"Fight smarter, not harder. If you still have any wit left in you, hearken to me." Her gaze hardened, riveted on him.
Marcus clenched his fists, his eyes squinting.
She took the chance. "You want to recover from the disgrace of being demoted? By having Glaber name you the Commander General? Well, even if you defeated Claudius this time, to be commander-in-chief of the highest rank, you'd still have all the many other commanders in your way. They're your real rivals. Help Claudius destroy them. Let your enemy crush your rivals for you." Her head tilted, her nose fondling his stubble.
"Glaber's legions are well-fed," she continued, her voice soft as the feel of her skin. "Too well-fed, in fact. And that's too bad for them. Comfort makes many a man idle and his senses obtuse. He who's used to comfort soon forgets what survival means."
Marcus flicked his eyes at her. "So what?" he snorted, despite being in the same mind. "Don't we all fight and die for comfort? All the power and gold to build larger houses and bed more beautiful women, just so we could be comfortable?"
Laelia took a pause longer than usual, then glanced up, her eyes reflecting his.
"That's why everything always comes to an end," she mused at length with an airy smile. "But for you, my lord, to be more comfortable than any man in the realm, you must act to concede defeat now. Others will despise you. Let them. You'll bide your time and hide your strength, feigning reverence to other commanders who laugh at you. Once they let down their guards, you'll supply them with the finest wines doped with potions of opian. In months, they shall be rid of disciplines, a sheep to be slaughtered."
Marcus felt his stomach clench. Dissimulating an ineffable fear he would never admit, not even to himself, he scoffed. "So, you're asking me to become the Commander General by default? A general without an army to command, should I wait for Claudius to come for my head?"
She cocked a quizzical brow. "Why become a general when you can rule the whole realm?"
Marcus gulped, squinting for a moment when everything seemed to hold still.
"Once Claudius takes out all Glaber's other legions," she resumed, "he'll be exhausted, and that'll be your chance. You'll turn his own Commander General against him and frame Claudius as a dictator, the real traitor to the people, whose true purpose with this civil war is to seize the country for himself." She almost smiled, her gaze burning like ice.
"Impossible!" Marcus spat. "Augustus Gaius won't betray Claudius!"
"Delegate me."
"Why would the greatest warrior of our time listen to you?" Raising his chin, he glanced down, his voice ridden with disdain.
She turned her back to the setting sun, her face a diaphanous shadow. "If I can't convince him, I shall confuse him. And if he can't be confused, I shall corrupt him. So long as he is a man, he is corruptible."
"What about Glaber?" he asked.
"By the time you take down Claudius, Glaber wouldn't even have a soldier at his disposal. He'd be your least concern."
Marcus wheeled himself around, his gaze panning to his men, whose spirit had fled, and whose feet scuffed the dirt as they dragged on. He knew in their downcast eyes that every word she had told spoke the truth, and the victory he had so longed for would not be his no matter how hard he fought this time.
"Even if it all works out that I rise to rule," he observed at length. "What do I say to the people about my dictatorship shall I become what I have defeated?"
Drawing a hand to her mouth, Laelia giggled, then stretched the same hand out to Marcus, turning his face to hers, "What do you think Claudius would do when he defeated Glaber, whom he called a dictator? So long as the people are fed, their livelihoods well kept, do you think they really give a shit about who shall rule or how they do it?" she asked – another question he had no answer for. "Once you take out Claudius and Glaber, you will see to the treaty with Seneca, and the Senecans will supply us with their grain. In return, we'll concede the independence of our fertile land in the north. Nothing glorious about it in sound, but we'll have peace. All the wounded sense of justice, the thirst for glory, the pride in duty, you encourage them when you need the men to fight and die for your cause, as Claudius was doing now. But when you come to rule them, you only need to keep roofs over their heads, their stomachs full, and their minds distracted."
The wind rose, taking up dust in a spin. Banners and pennons snapped in the same direction, as did her glossy tresses. He looked over his shoulder at the double ramparts of the impregnable Claudian walls peering from afar.
"One more question," Marcus asked.
She waited, boring into his eyes.
"What do you get out of it?"
Hands about his cheeks, she nibbled at his chin. "Haven't I already told you, my lord? I want you… to name me your consort, and my son a lord—"
"Glaber's bastard?"
"You'll treat him as if he were your own." She ignored his question while a sly grin hoisted the corners of her lips. "You need me as I you. We shall make a great couple."
Fighting the weight of his eyelids, Marcus opened his eyes halfway and groaned.
Laelia had been right, indeed, about one thing, that there is give and take in every camaraderie. And no surprise that the siren was now to claim all the dues from him.