Oleg Krasin - Solar Wind. Book one

“I think it's time to taste the fruit,” suddenly intervened Domitia on the right of the hostess, recalling that Faustina once shared with her impressions of those people who often visited their house. Homullus's surname was one of the first. Narrow-minded man, as Regin believed, Servianus was smart enough to set a dangerous trap, as Regin believed.

In the voice of Marcus's mother through nervousness, it was felt by all present and satisfied with himself Lucius Servianus, whose meaty face melted into a smile, deciding to amplify the effect.

“As for the princeps,” he called Hadrian one of his many titles, “I don't think there will be any difficulty with his approval. I was at his reception recently, and he deigned to inform me that he had almost settled on the heir nomination. You know, his health leaves much to be desired lately. But now Caesar has gone back to Syria. The war in Judea continues, and he wants to personally check how things are going. Unfortunately, we have lost many warriors from the Spanish and Deiotariana legions. Now one of your relatives Sextus Julius Sever commands there.”

Servianus took a glass of wine, took a sip, looking contentedly at the interlocutors. He was pleased that he amazed everyone with his knowledge; he was pleased that the rest were freezing, waiting for him to continue.

Regin sat with an impenetrable face, staring at his opponent with faded eyes. Faustina, looking eagerly at Servianus, did not notice how from the corner of her mouth flowed red drops of wine, similar to blood. It looked like she bit her lip with annoyance. One of the serving Greek slaves, who accompanied her from the house, hurriedly leaned over and wiped the mistress's chin.

“Don't get in the way, Galeria!” Faustina irritably pushed her hand away. “So, what did our emperor, the honorable Lucius say?”

“Augustus chose my grandson Pedanius Fuсk as his successor and this question was solved,” Servianus said with notes of celebration in his voice, gazing victoriously at Regin's frozen face. “My Fuсus will be the next Caesar!”

“Congratulations!” Domitia was the first to recover. “Congratulations, Senator!”

When Servianus left the villa of Annius, the prefect Regin warmly parted with him. The question of bringing the influential senator Antoninus to his side had now fallen away by itself. What was the point of confronting the future relative of Caesar? Only a madman could afford that.

“Be healthy, my dear Faustina! It was good to see you!” Domitia said goodbye to Marcus’s aunt. “I'll be here for lunch soon, hopefully before festival of the Saturnalia.” 34 34 Saturnalia is a holiday in honor of the god Saturn in December.

“Oh, Saturnalia! Gods, how fast time flies!”

“Oh yes! ‘Time takes everything away,’”—Domitia Lucilla quoted Virgil, showing her education.

This, however, irritated Faustina, who scornfully raised the corners of her mouth, imitating a smile, and thought, “Gods, how unnatural and arrogant, this Domitia.” She, Faustina, of course, would tell her husband everything, laugh at the pomposity of these old people, and discuss that goose Domitia Lucilla. Only depicting a noble matron! Girlfriends told Faustina that Domitia had often visited the disgraced Empress Sabina, and she, everyone knew, secretly amused herself with black Nubian slaves.

However, it was time. And Antoninus's wife stepped to the luxurious palanquin, standing at the gates of the villa surrounded by slave-guards, with mixed feelings.

Meanwhile, Regin, who had lost all interest in Faustina, was thinking about his position on the sidelines. It, of course, was complicated. Although the game was not finished, as it seemed to him. It was not over yet.

Everyone knew that the emperor was an unpredictable man and his decisions were often strange and unexpected. Why was Hadrian for this Pedanius Fusсus? Nothing outstanding, narcissistic, absurd, as reported to him, Regin. What were the emperor's political calculations? What was he hoping for? What did he want?

No one knew that.

One thing was certain: Caesar's health was fading, time was rushing a choice, and haste made mistakes. He, Regin, was sure—the choice of Pedanius Fuscus was a mistake, the wrong step, threatening to turn into trouble! But there was still time to fix this, the game was not finished, and fallen balls would not be counted by Servianus!

“Oh, Marcus! Oh, my Marcus!”

The female voice was so familiar and pleasant, ring out from the dark. Out of the dark? No, the bedroom was illuminated by the scant light of two braziers standing at the edges of the lodge, in the corner on the table oil lamp lit, throwing uneven light on the walls. Through the narrow small windows in the room penetrated the night March air, wet, cold, but Marcus was hot. He was not in a tunic, he was naked. And he was not alone, with his back to him on all fours was a woman, also naked. She clung to the slabs of the floor, and he clearly could see her hair scattered on her shoulders, narrow back and round buttocks, smooth skin, shiny as silk.

She was silent, as if praying to all the gods in the world.

Marcus felt excited, he came down from the high bed, crawled up to the woman from behind. Oh, it was a brain-burning desire! It touched the woman, penetrated her body and began to move faster and faster. It seemed to him that he was about to explode with furious convulsions of pleasure.

It must be Benedicta, he believed. She came to him in the evening and stayed. But how? Was she sent from Tibur by Emperor Hadrian, who was in Syria? That was impossible! It was impossible!

“Marcus, what are you doing?” suddenly a stern, imperious voice sounds.

The woman turned her head. Oh, gods, it was Empress Sabine! He recognized her thin lips, her strict dark eyes. Recognized the diamond necklace around his neck. She was like that in the pool when he saw her naked with her mother—strict and domineering.

“Marcus, what are you doing?” voice again, it was not Sabine, it's his mother Domitia Lucilla. He was with his mother! A cold sweat broke over Marcus—this dream, a terrible dream that made the soul shudder, he must one day stop.

Marcus opened his eyes and found himself in an empty dark bedroom. On the sides of the bed were braziers, spreading even heat around the room. The lamp on the table did not burn—before going to bed it was extinguished by a slave Antiochus, a big, lazy man. He was now sprawled near the door and snoring desperately loudly. Antiochus would not let anyone in to him, neither Benedicta nor his mother.

Thoughts gradually filled his head. There were a few days left until the Ides of March. After them there would be a fun celebration which was called Liberalia, and he would put on the white toga of an adult citizen, finally becoming an adult and making his own decisions, to do responsible actions. Not all solutions, of course, full adulthood would come only in twenty first year. But Baebius Longus and Fuscianus would envy him, not to mention Victorinus. They’d be adults in three years.

And yet what was the meaning of this dream? So wrong, disgusting and nasty. First Sabine, then his mother. Marcus tossed and turned, he was hot, he could not sleep, and he remembered the artist Diognetus. He, like Hadrian, taught himself to subordinate his feelings to himself, to manage them, to be able to look at himself from the outside. Well, he looked: a young man who had mastered the empress, and then his mother!

His face burned with shame, and he thought about how good it was that it was night, dark, and everyone was asleep. No need to explain why he wasn’t asleep, why his cheeks and forehead were red. He suddenly remembered that his mother has a book by Artemidorus from Ephesus, which she often looked into because it was called “Dream interpretation.” Mother discussed her dreams with him, with friends, with Regin, because dreams, as well as signs, the Romans used to unconditionally believe.