Chapter 220 - Tempio di Venere

Like his true father, Crispis Paullus, the magician was not very good at following his own advice. Apollonius's master had decreed that they should put some distance between themselves and their charming new neighbors. "The temptation to harm them, or bring them into our world, would be too great," he said, and Apollonius agreed. But it was not a week later that Apollonius rose to find the retired senator at supper with the magician, eating a light meal of shellfish and soup, their faces flush with wine.

Well, in truth, only Cornelius's face was flush. The magician was drinking with him, but intoxicating liquids have very little effect on striga. Sometimes, when Apollonius fed upon drunken criminals, he felt a momentary dizziness, but it passed quickly, no matter how stinking drunk his victim was.

His master's embarrassment was quite naked to the boy when he stumbled upon the scene. Apollonius could not help but laugh, and the magician made a subtle shrugging gesture, smiling faintly over his cup.

So much for discretion, Apollonius thought.

The magician's lack of self-control gave the boy license to seek out Julia.

Julia had moved into her father's new villa days before. He had managed to stay away from her so far—barely-- but after finding Cornelius and his adopted father supping happily together, he felt vindicated indulging his own selfish desires.

Her nearness had tormented him all week. With his enhanced senses, it was like she was always standing just a few paces behind him, just out of sight. Her lilting contralto pursued him through the villa. The scent of her, too, that mysterious perfume he couldn't quite identify. He eavesdropped on her constantly—in truth, he couldn't really help himself-- listening in as she spoke to her servants (always gentle and gracious), directed the artisans decorating her chambers (she wanted a garden painted on her walls), or conversed with her father or quietly to herself.

She had an amusing habit of talking to herself when no one else was around. "Now where did you put your brush?" she would murmur. "My goodness, Julia! You'd misplace your head if it wasn't attached to your shoulders!" Her self-deprecating humor always made him smile, until he realized she was speaking to herself in another woman's voice—probably her mother's-- and the terrible tragedy of it made him feel depressed.

It also made him love her all the fiercer.

She is all alone, like me, Apollonius thought.

She wasn't, of course, just as he was never truly alone. She had her father, and she was surrounded all day by servants, just as Apollonius was, and yet, he always felt alone, and he could hear in her voice that she felt the same way. Perhaps it was the loved ones they had lost. Her mother and two brothers. His family, destroyed by Domitianus. Death had caused them both to erect a barrier around their souls, to wall off their hearts. They never truly let anyone inside, let them get too close, for fear of loss and pain. They even kept their fathers at arm's distance. Julia regarded her father as if he were an amusing distant relative, one she was mildly fond of, and Apollonius still could not think of Gon as anything but "dominus" or "the magician", even though he loved him, even though he called the man "father" when he addressed his maker in public.

He sat on a bench beside the wall that divided their courtyards, listening to the young woman labor in her garden. She had been making a valiant effort to revive the garden since she took up residence in the villa. He listened to her toil in the earth, back against the rough stucco wall that divided them, still warm from the day's heat, head turned slightly to the left and angled back. She had been working at night, as it was much too hot during the day for physical labor. The light of the oil lamps she had set about the peristyle illuminated the green spires of the cypress trees rising from her yard, throwing long shadows across the roofs of the two villas. Even though it was twenty degrees cooler than it had been that afternoon, it was still a sultry night. He could smell her sweat and the tantalizing perfume that she wore, the rich scent of freshly turned dirt and the smoke twining up from a crackling burn pile.

"Here, Cirio, put this one on the fire, too," Julia said. The young Greek slave he had spied sweeping the steps, the one who had looked up suddenly and caught Apollonius peeking over the cant of the roof, was assisting her in the courtyard, as he had the previous few nights. Apollonius heard the fire snap and pop as the flames chewed on the crisp dead leaves. "Bring another rose bush over here," Julie said, then: "No, the other one. The one with the small white blossoms. Yes, that one."

"Would you like me to fetch some more water, domina?"

"Yes, please. Just scoop it out of the fountain."

Apollonius wished it were he assisting his beautiful neighbor and not the Greek. He would like to see Julia perspiring, her hands smeared with dirt, her skin flush from her exertions. He wondered what she was wearing to labor in the garden, wondered that she was even doing such a menial chore herself. Her father must have thrown a fit! That is what a topiarius is for, he could hear the man say, not the daughter of a Roman senator! It was such a fine example of her unconventional nature that he could not help but grin.

He heard the patter of water.

"You must make sure that you water the plants very thoroughly after you place them in the earth," Julia said to the Greek boy. "It will take time for their roots to grow. Until then, they must be watered every night, lest they wither and die in the heat."

"Yes, domina."

He heard the squelching of moist earth. "You have to press the earth in tight around the root ball, too. If there are any air pockets, the roots will fail to grow there."

"Yes, domina."

"There! That one is finished. Only twelve more!"

He thought of what the magician had said, that they must keep a distance between themselves and their new neighbors, for the sake of the Varuses, and for their own anonymity. Yet, his master had been the first to give in to their charms. In truth, he hadn't even tried to resist them. Could he really expect any better of Apollonius?

The boy shifted restlessly, scanning Villa Eyya for movement. Most of the servants had gone to bed, and those who were still up were doing quiet things in their quarters. Gon was in the small atrium at the far end of the house, reading, as he usually did after they returned from their nightly hunt. He kept a large collection of scrolls and even a few rare codices in his private sitting room, some quite ancient and fragile, and could be found poring over them thoughtfully late at night, his brow furrowed, one finger pressed to his temple.

Writing, he said once to the boy, was mankind's greatest invention. It enabled the preservation and dissemination of man's collective knowledge. It allowed the minds of men to experience the thoughts and emotions of their fellows. "The world," he said, "was a much smaller and lonelier place before it."

How quickly would he realize that Apollonius had broken their pact? Would he even hear the boy slip stealthily over the wall, absorbed as he was in his books? Would he object, come and haul the boy back home, or would he overlook Apollonius's indiscretions, knowing that he had been the first to buckle?

The magician was an impulsive creature. Despite his better judgment, Apollonius's maker rarely refused himself the things he desired. How could he hold his adopted son to a higher standard than he held himself?

Apollonius rose. He checked the colonnaded terrace one more time, looked over his shoulder to the room where the porter slept, then placed his hands on the pebbled surface of the wall.

He lifted his sandals from the ground, hanging there from the wall.

It still amazed him how readily his palms clung to vertical surfaces when he wished to climb them. It reminded him of the iridescent little lizards that populated the garden, the way they could scurry up the garden walls when they were disturbed. He paused one last time, his desires warring with his conscience—warring, and losing-- and then he continued up.

He climbed to the slanted roof of the building next door and crept to its peak. Rising up a little, he peered down into the neighbor's garden. He saw Julia kneeling on a mat in the sun withered grass, a moist lock of hair dangling in her face. She was dressed in a simple tunica, the kind of garment one of her servants might wear, no jewelry, no ribbons or fancy face powder. She was filthy and sweaty and absolutely radiant.

As he lay there on the warm tiles watching her, she finished digging a little pit and gestured for Cirio to hand her another rose bush. The slave obeyed, and she placed the roots of the plant in the hole and began to fill it in with dirt. The plants that could not be saved were burning in a small pile near the refurbished pool. In the past few days, she had planted roses and laurel bushes, hyacinth, lilies and tulips. She had placed terra cotta pots with bright blooming flowers and decorative shrubs on the stone walkways that crisscrossed the courtyard, grouping them near the fountains and the shallow central pool.

As Apollonius watched the young woman, the Greek twitched and spun around. The boy must have eyes in the back of his head! Julia glanced up, following the slave boy's gaze, and Apollonius smiled and waved. Julia's frown shifted slowly to a smile. She put aside her dirty spade and rose.

"What are you doing up there?" she called, walking in his direction.

"Watching you," Apollonius said.

"Spying on me, you mean."

"Yes, I suppose."

"Well, come down from there. Unless you derive some perverse gratification from spying on oblivious women. If so, I'll pretend I didn't see you."

If he were still a mortal man, he might have blushed. Apollonius crawled over the peak of the roof and hopped to the garden below. It was a great drop, far enough to make Julia jump back with a gasp. He landed in a crouch and stood up beside her, smiling.

Gon would be outraged if he knew that I did that, he thought.

"What do you think you're doing? Don't ever do that again! You'll break an ankle!" Julia exclaimed.

"No, I won't," he boasted. He glanced up. "It isn't that far…"

But it was. It was for a mortal man.

She sighed theatrically. "What am I going to do with you, Paulo? Cirio, would you be so kind as to fetch me a shawl from my chambers? And some wine, sweetened with honey… Cirio?"

The slave boy was staring at Apollonius with superstitious awe.

He knows, Apollonius thought.

The magician had warned him it might happen from time to time. Some mortals could see through their glamours, sometimes almost immediately, no matter how conscientiously they disguised their strange skin, or endeavored to move in a natural mortal manner. The boy was one of those people. He was frightened half to death, looked ready to bolt at any moment. Perhaps Apollonius had overplayed his hand, jumping from the roof as he had. Had Julia also realized there was something unnatural about him? He scanned her face, read the language of her body, inhaled her scent.

No. She had not.

Her heart was beating rapidly, and a strong smell wafted from her pores, but he did not detect fear. He knew the sounds and smells of fear. He experienced those often enough. Every time he took a man for his supper. The signs coming from Julia were different. He was not certain what they indicated exactly. His senses were as sharp as his maker's, but woefully untrained. He hoped they were expressions of romantic interest, but judging from her countenance her feelings were more akin to amusement than anything else.

She sees me as a boy, not as a man, he thought, and regretted jumping off the roof. He had been showing off… as a boy would do.

"Cirio!" Julia hissed, and stamped her foot a little.

The slave blinked at Apollonius, staring a moment longer, and then raced to the terrace. He vanished into the villa.

"So…" Apollonius said. "Uh, how do you like Pompeii so far?"

"So it's to be small talk?" Julia asked, raising her eyebrows. "After sneaking into my home in the middle of the night? Risking my father's wrath? Putting my reputation in jeopardy?"

"Um, I… I can…" Apollonius stammered, gesturing toward the roof.

"No, stay," Julia relented. She looped her arm in his and led him to one of the benches. She sat and pulled him down beside her. "In truth, I hate Pompeii. I detest it, even more than I had expected to. It is dirty and hot and corrupt. The people are crude and always on the make. I have no friends, and my father will not allow me out of the house without a full escort. The entire city stinks of fish sauce, and the earth trembles constantly-- perhaps with the weight of its vices! The walls seem stitched together with campaign slogans and vile graffiti. It's all so ugly and provincial. So, no, I do not like Pompeii. I wish we had stayed in Rome. The only thing that has made it bearable is meeting you."

"Really?" he grinned.

"Well, you and your father."

His shoulders fell. "Oh."

Cirio raced outside, a diaphanous blue scarf trailing behind him. He gave her the shawl, which she draped around her shoulders, then dashed back into the villa. He returned a moment later with a tray. On it, a silver pitcher and two goblets. He set the tray on the ground beside them and filled their cups. The cups, Apollonius saw, bore a scene of King Lycurgus entangled in grape vines. On the pitcher, Dionysus gestured angrily.

"According to legend," Apollonius said, "King Lycurgus, insensible with wine, tried to rape his own mother. When he discovered what he had done, he attempted to cut down all the grapevines in his kingdom, believing the wine to be bad. Dionysus drove him mad as punishment, causing him to kill his wife and his son, and then threw him to the panthers on Mount Rhodope."

"Such a bloodthirsty tale," Julia said. "Men are violent creatures, of course, but you'd expect the gods to be a little more refined."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

Julia sipped and gestured for him to drink as well. Apollonius brought the goblet to his lips and mimed drinking.

"Good wine," he sighed, smacking his lips together.

"A little too sweet, but it will suffice. Thank you, Cirio. You may go to your chambers. We're done working in the garden tonight."

The slave frowned, looking from his mistress to her nocturnal caller with slitted eyes.

"Go on," Julia said. "And don't you dare rouse my father! Or any of the other servants!"

The boy visibly gulped, and then very reluctantly withdrew from the peristyle. He glanced back once, pleadingly, as he passed between the columns of the terrace, and then faded into the darkness.

"So… back to our conversation," Julia said, turning to Apollonius. "More small talk?"

"What would you have me speak of instead?" Apollonius asked.

"I was hoping you had come to declare your undying love for me," Julia smiled. "That is normally what women expect when a handsome young man comes crawling over the walls to see her in the middle of the night."

"And if I did, how would you respond?"

Julia laughed. "I don't know! Hike up this dirty tunica and run to my bedroom, perhaps!" She realized how saucy that sounded, which was not her intention, and laughed even louder, her cheeks turning red. "Wait! That didn't come out right!"

"Too late!" Apollonius cried, laughing with her. "The cat is out of the bag!"

"I meant so that I could change out of these filthy clothes!"

"I think you said exactly what you meant."

"Perhaps. And if my father caught us, he'd have you crucified at Herculaneum Gate."

"I suspect he would not be too wrathful. He and my father joke-- very unconvincingly, I might add-- of marrying us off together."

Wiping her cheeks, Julia said, "Yes. I've heard them. My father is very lonely. I think he believes grandchildren would fill the void in his life left by my mother and brothers. He devoted his life to the Senate, never had time for his family, much less hobbies-- or even a mistress -- and now he finds himself quite at a loss at what to do with himself. He's even talked of running for public office here. I'm trying to discourage such thoughts."

"Why did he retire?" Apollonius asked. "He does not look so old."

"My mother, I suppose. She was Rome to my father, and Rome was her. When she fell, and Rome did not fall with her, he found he could not bear to stay there anymore. He wanted to return here, to Pompeii, where he enjoyed a very happy childhood. He had a large, wealthy family. Lots of friends. They are all gone now, moved to bigger and better things, or claimed by Pluto, but I fear he views this city through the lens of his boyhood memories, not as it stands, a city of hucksters and corrupt politicians. The people here are so greedy and unkind. He paid three times what this villa is worth, and the cost of the repairs--! But he does not see these things. He sees himself a happy boy, racing through her avenues, having one grand adventure after another. I would be amused if I were not so miserable here."

"So let's get married! I'll move you back to Rome and then we'll—!"

"Oh, no! I couldn't do that to my father!"

"Then have some adventures of your own! Here, in Pompeii!"

She leaned toward him, and the smell of her breath was intoxicating, her eyes just inches away from his, their noses nearly touching. "What kind of adventures?" she purred.

"Anything," he whispered fiercely. "Anything you desire!"

"Right now all I desire is you!"

Her seized her then, grabbed her upper arms and pulled her to him. She cried out a little at his strength, but his lips smothered her cry, then stole her breath away. She melted into him as he kissed her, his lips and tongue moving over her mouth, her cheek, her throat. She shivered all over as his teeth scraped across the sensitive flesh of her neck. If she noted the coldness of his touch, she gave no sign of it. Perhaps she thought him cold because he was nervous.

Desire pulsed through his veins like molten steel, and his heart, long stilled by his master's curse, stirred unexpectedly to life. It thumped a couple times within his breast. He felt it against the cold iron bars of his ribs, pounding like a fist.

"I must have you," he hissed. "Please, Julia, let me make love to you!"

"No, not here! Not like this!" she said, pushing him away.

"Yes!"

"Paulo, please!" she cried. "I cannot say no to you again! I haven't the strength!"

He released her and she fell away from him, her breasts heaving. Her hair had come loose and hung in her face.

"Come to me tomorrow night," she said, rising shakily from the bench. "Come, and we'll talk and kiss some more, but if you love me, take me as your wife, in our marriage bed, not like this, not like some harlot in the dirt."

He rose with her. "I would never—!"

"Come to me," she pled, and then she raced away.

For a moment he stood rooted to the spot, frustrated, desperate to follow her, and then he turned away. Her small brush fire was still crackling, orange and red sparks swirling into the sky. Apollonius found a bucket and put it out, then trudged away toward the portico. He did not dare to leap from the courtyard. Julia might be watching from some dark alcove. He left as a mortal man would leave, and shut the door firmly behind him.

He stepped out into the street. The moon was a shriveled rind, glowing feebly. A drunk was staggering home on the other side of the avenue, mumbling to himself. A few buildings down, two thieves peeked at the man from an alley. Eyes narrowing, Apollonius started toward them.

"Let them go," his master said softly behind him, and Apollonius jumped.

"Father!"

"You have already fed tonight. Save those two for later."

"But that drunk--! What if they rob him? What if they kill him?"

"We'll see him safely home. Come."

The magician traversed the street, stepping lightly on the crossing blocks. He slapped the fellow on the back. "My old friend! It's been too long! Let me walk you home tonight!"

Apollonius trailed after the two. The drunk's speech was unintelligible, but the magician conversed with him as if he understood every word. The thieves followed for another block or two, then lost their nerve and vanished into the shadows. Apollonius had caught their scent, though. He memorized the smell, and promised them a visit.

Some other night...!

The drunk lived in a surprisingly large and richly appointed villa, not far from their own home. Gon and the boy saw him inside, where he passed out in the peristyle. His porter, a short stout Gaul, thanked them for escorting the man home, then kneeled to lift his master and put the man to bed. They let themselves out and continued with their stroll.

"You cannot have her," the magician said.

"Why?"

"You know why."

"I love her."

"I know you do."

"Can you not give her the blood? Make her one of us?"

"Of course I can. But do you really want that for her? What does she want? She is devoted to her father. She wants nothing but to marry and produce a great brood of grandchildren for him to play with."

"We can tell her what we are. Offer the blood to her."

"And what if we do? What if she is horrified by the proposal? By you? Most mortals have an instinctive hatred for our kind. They hate us as they hate the wolf and the snake and the spider. We are predators, and they are our prey. You are a wolf in love with a lamb."

"Take this curse away, then! I did not know what I was asking for!"

"You know that I cannot. I have already told you. It cannot be undone."

Apollonius turned from his maker, started rapidly away.

"Paulo!"

"Leave me be," the boy answered bleakly. "I want to be alone. I'll be home before daybreak."

The magician stood and watched the boy recede down the street.

Apollonius walked south, toward the bay, until he reached a crossroad, and then he looked all around and leapt to the rooftops.

He ran lightly across the roofs of Pompeii, headed toward the marina. The wind was blowing from the sea, but it did little to temper the humid atmosphere that had enshrouded the city. The air was hot and moist and clinging. It smelled of dead fish and the effluvia of the mortals who toiled within its walls. He had to mind his step, for many of the citizens of Pompeii had fled the heat of the homes to sleep outside upon their roofs. Twice he came upon a sleeping family and had to leap over them, hoping his passage did not disturb them.

He came down from the rooftops as he neared the southern wall, turned right at the ruins of the Temple of Fortuna Augusta and then left at the Temple of Apollo. There, at the end of the Via Marina, right next to the Marina Gate, stood the Temple of Venus.

The Temple of Venus had been destroyed twice in years previous, both times by earthquakes, and was in the process of being restored again. The great marble and basalt construction was swathed in scaffolding, its yard littered with slabs of stone that had yet to be fitted. Guards had been posted to protect the building supplies from thieves, but Apollonius eluded them easily enough. He barely even paused to think on it. Just slipped through the dark behind them, staying low, moving a bit quicker than the mortal eye can follow.

He moved soundless up the broad front steps, a shadow among shadows in the colonnaded entrance.

Why did he come here? He didn't believe in gods. Hadn't since he was a child. He had prayed to the gods more times than he could count. He had prayed for his family to be returned to him, to be delivered from his oppressors. From Laevinus. From Domitianus. From the perverse Soranus. Prayed as they beat him. Prayed as they raped him. He had prayed for their deaths. Even prayed for his death. No god had deigned to intervene then, and he was certain the gods would not intervene tonight, but he couldn't help the childish thought, Maybe, this time… Maybe, for love…

In front of the statue of Venus, he got down on his knees.

Please, beautiful Venus, merciful Venus, goddess of love… I have given up my humanity… I have sacrificed my life for fear of dying… but if you lift this curse from me, if you make me a mortal man again, I will be a living testament to your grace, in your honor, I promise… I promise…

He was not sure how long he kneeled there, praying to the goddess. He implored her for a miracle, head down, hands clasped together, and for one shining moment, he imagined he felt mortal warmth spreading through his body. He imagined his heart had sprung to life and was galloping in his chest. But it was only his imagination. A moment of desperate zeal. He was as cold and still and empty as he had been when he entered the temple.

He rose, regarded the statue with contempt.

"You are not real," he spat. "None of you are real! Strike me down if you are real! Remove me from your temple if you have any power at all! I dare you! I command you!"

He waited a moment, then laughed.

"We are our own gods," he said, nodding to himself. "We are alone in this world, and our fate is what we make of it."

He spat at the base of the statue and strode from the Temple of Venus.