I am the daughter of Julius Caesar. I know that most people love to profess that they were someone important in a past life, like Marie Antoinette or George Washington or Elvis’ pork chop distributor, but I’m not talking about a past life. I’m talking about my only life; at least, the only one I can remember. After living the same life for so long, it’s kind of difficult to remember anything before that.
Anyway, like I was saying, I am the daughter of Julius Caesar and a very popular camp whore. I was born in 54 BC in an army camp that was traveling through Italy, following my father from conquest to conquest. Before anyone starts demanding proof of my claim, let me state here and now that it is possible that good ole Julie wasn’t my dad. After all, there had been a rumor going around the camp just before I was conceived that Julius was sterile, and that his raping, ravaging, plundering and pillaging was his way of compensating for his…ahem…shortcomings. As popular as my mother was, I could be the daughter of the whipping boy just as likely as the spawn of Caesar. But as it has happened many times in my life, fortune smiled on me. Caesar was looking for a way to prove to his detractors that he was a man, my mom was pregnant by the gods know who…and BAM! I was Caesar’s daughter.
I thankfully wasn’t born with my father’s strong profile, although many people were quick to mention that I had his eyes. I think that they would say anything just so they wouldn’t incur his wrath. Besides Dad’s eyes, I have long black hair and olive skin, look more gypsy than royalty, and at that time was just like every other dirty-faced rug rat that ran through the camp. What separated me from the others, or so I was told, was my smile. While the other kids, even at so young an age, were hard looking with cynical views, I had a soft face with deep dimples and a cheery disposition. They all saw me as the joy spreader; the one who saw the bright side to everything and brought a little bit of sunshine to the gloomy camp. The truth was, I didn’t have a stern expression or cold eyes because I didn’t have a care in the world. Why would I? I was daughter to the Emperor, however illegitimate, and my mother, never to be Empress, was still treated like royalty. She even received a semi-private tent and two new dresses! Hey, it may not seem like much to you, but for a camp whore, this was pay dirt!
Anyway, because of my assumed lineage, the soldiers in the camp were a little more patient when I came around. I admit that I was a quiet kid, spending most of my time watching the activities going on around me rather than participating in them. I didn’t bother people with frivolous questions, I helped without being asked (believe me, I was never asked), and I learned whatever anyone would teach me. I tried a couple of times to learn things from private tutors, but they were so scared of Ol’ Julie, they would never correct me on anything. I finally got disgusted, tied my mound of hair into a bun, hid it all under a hood, and joined the boys as they helped the soldiers during training. I was quickly found out, of course, and all the begging in the world wasn’t going to get them to let me stay. I am ashamed to admit that I used the ‘I am the daughter of Caesar’ trump card to get my way, but it was well worth it. I was taught swordplay, horseback riding, hand-to-hand combat, and even my letters and some mathematics. At first they tried to coddle me, but a look that did my lineage proud stopped that nonsense cold. I got the bumps, bruises and scars just like the rest of the young hopefuls and was finally accepted by almost all of my peers.
The one glaring exception was my nephew Octavian. He was about seven years older then me, a gangly youth who was awkward and uncoordinated and got his ass kicked every day at training…usually by me. This did not make him my biggest fan. The other boys made him the butt of their jokes and pranks, not fearing his link to the Emperor as much as they did mine. I think the final straw for him was when he was set upon by over a dozen teens who wanted to use him as a punching bag. I foolishly decided to help him. This did not help his reputation, or his pride. He avoided me like the plague after that, and a few weeks later he latched on to a regiment that was invading some poor (as in dirt) villages up north. We really thought that that was the last we were going to see of him.
I didn’t see much of my mother during this time. I stayed with the boys throughout the day, and spied on the soldiers at night. What can I say? The males of the species fascinated me even then. While the camp women spent most of their time primping and preening themselves to look as good as they could with what little they had, the men were sweaty, dirty and loud. They smelt of horse and leather, and their bodies were hard, chiseled and tanned, not soft and sagging like the women. They spent their nights in each other’s company, the women hanging on to their arms and their words like puppy dogs. They fought hard, slept hard, drank hard and had sex hard (is there any other way?), while the women just whimpered their way through their meaningless existence.
I had watched my mother at work a couple of times. The pretty young thing that had turned the Emperor’s head was getting a little worn around the edges, and her new position on the whore social ladder limited her customers to high ranking soldiers and political compatriots of Caesar. I mean, after giving birth to the Emperor’s daughter, she couldn’t rightfully sleep with just any peon, now could she?
The bad thing about her selective screwing was that when soldiers reached a certain rank, they lost their chiseled manly looks. Instead of being tall and sleek, they became short and square and what they lost in neck they gained in stomach. They also had a different attitude when it came to sex. Granted, I wasn’t even eight at this time, and it may be my centuries of experience giving me this insight, but I think that even then I noticed the differences. The young bucks spent hours in the act of lovemaking, using various positions and sometimes even going at it more than once. The older ones just rutted like pigs while the woman thrust her hips and stared up at the ceiling.
There was one high-ranking soldier who was the exception to this rule. His name was Mark Antony, and he was one of the gods’ greatest gifts to women. Venus would have waited in line for a night with this guy. Broad shouldered, clean shaven, soft spoken, and the only man I would let pat me on the head, Mark Antony was a rare Italian commodity indeed. While others talked on and on about their great successes of the past, Antony lived in the now. He was the one who knew how to soothe bruised egos and calm rising tempers, which might be why he was also my father’s second-in-command.
When I was nine, this Roman Adonis took an unusual interest in me. He began watching whenever I was training, making suggestions about my stance and form to the younger soldiers who were teaching me. He also started taking me on long horseback rides away from the noise and smell of the camp. I know this sounds like it’s going in a bad direction, but nothing like that happened. Most of the time we talked about my responsibilities as Caesar’s daughter. The fact that I was illegitimate meant that I was not going to be welcomed with open arms by Dad’s wife. What was probably going to happen, Antony told me, was that I was going to be married off to a high-level lord. The disgust I felt for this must have been written all over my face because he laughed, gave me a hug, and blatantly lied by telling me that my marrying age was a long way off. But he did suggest that I spend time with and start taking lessons from Octavia, my niece and Octavian’s sister. She was a girl of high breeding, as I was, but was legitimate and had been training to be a lady long before I was born.
It took a lot more of these little talks to convince me that Octavia was the way to go. I mean, Antony was cute and everything, but it was going to take more than a pretty face to get me to leave the camp. Actually, that face would have been more of an incentive to stay. But, as my tenth birthday neared, Antony’s pleas for me to train to be a lady became more intense, more…desperate. I finally agreed to go to Campania and start my dreaded training. It was not more than a month later that Antony and a bunch of others conspired against and killed my father. That’s when the chaos ensued. My mother, proud whore that she was, was pulled from her tent by her hair and raped repeatedly by those generals who had been so indifferent all those other times they had been in her. Then she was sold to the highest bidder…or the lowest bidder…or the one who was able to grab her first…that part I’m still not really clear on.
I didn’t find out about the murder until almost three years after the fact. You see, one of the main requirements to being a proper lady is to be cloistered away where nothing that could cause wrinkles can find you. I actually found out by accident…ok, by eavesdropping. While Octavia’s father was making arrangements for his daughter’s upcoming marriage to Mark Antony, he mentioned how her value had gone up, now that she was the sister of the Emperor. Unperturbed, Antony reminded the lord that it was because of him that she now had that position. That’s when he spotted me. Without another word to the lord he walked out of the room, dragging me in his wake. He didn’t say anything until we were back in his chambers. He didn’t seem angry with me; he seemed…concerned. I’ll give him credit, though. He tried to hide it.
“A lady is not supposed to listen in doorways,” he chided.
Back then, it took a lot more than that to shame me--it still does, actually. “Is my father dead?”
His handsome face darkened. “Yes.”
“Did you kill him?”
He had the decency to look ashamed. “I was there, yes.”
My eyes must have narrowed accusingly, because he turned away from me and poured two goblets of wine.
“And Octavian is the new Emperor?” I asked his back.
There was silence from Antony for a few moments, then he turned and handed me a filled goblet. “Yes.”
I walked past him and put the goblet on a nearby table. “Please understand if I do not trust anything that is given to me by your hand.” I turned to him; I’ll admit that that was a mistake. The look of hurt he gave me cracked my harsh exterior. I softened my tone. “And so where does that leave me?”
Antony slowly took a drink of wine, then handed me his goblet, taking the one I had declined. I watched him cautiously for a moment, then tentatively took a sip. Antony had walked over to a window and was staring thoughtfully outside. “We need to keep you safe.”
“In other words,” I sighed, “I’m about to get married off.”
Before he could respond the doors of his chambers crashed opened, and Octavian strode in. He was almost twenty by then, but was still tall, lanky and awkward with hands and feet that seemed too large for the rest of his body. On top of his mousy brown hair was a wreath of golden laurels, reminding me that he was now the Empire personified. I dutifully curtsied as he approached me, ignoring the hatred that I still had for him after all of these years.
“Well, well, well,” he said, his voice cracking. It was very difficult for me to keep a straight face. “My dear Celeste. Aren’t we developing nicely?”
Believe me, it took a lot for me not to respond sarcastically to that one. “If you believe it to be, your highness, then it must be true.”
He leered at me. “Very good response. My sister has taught you well.”
He turned away from me, not giving me permission to rise, so I had to stay curtsied while he walked over to Antony. “You have just recently been betrothed to my sister, and you bring another female to your chambers? Not a wise decision, Antony.”
I could tell that he responded through gritted teeth. “No, my lord.”
Octavian turned to me with a look that made me want to take a bath. “Well, we can’t have you distracted before your wedding, can we?”
He snapped his fingers, his lecherous eyes never leaving me. Two large soldiers came into the room and grabbed me by my arms, lifting me off of my feet. I didn’t bother struggling. Not only would it have been fruitless, but it would also have given the new Emperor way too much satisfaction. So, like a sack of flour, I hung between the two men as they carried me to what I believed would be my doom.
Instead, I was taken to a relatively large room somewhere in the bowels of the castle. It was sparsely decorated and furnished, but did have a large, soft bed, a full-length mirror, and a modest water closet with a door. There were other doors in the room as well…more than was necessary, in fact. The two that I entered through were big, wooden and, by the sound I heard as they closed, barred securely. Two more doors, also locked, were across from the bed and probably led to servants’ quarters. One small door opened to a closet, and a yet another hid what used to be a pantry. There was also a locked hatch on the floor that probably once led to a cellar.
At dawn the next morning, three maids entered from the main doors. They bathed me, fed me, clothed me, and wouldn’t answer any questions I asked. They came back two more times with food, and then once more at sunset to change me into my nightclothes. This went on daily for quite some time, becoming so routine that eventually I was up before they arrived in the morning, unclothed and waiting. They would sometimes bring me needlework, literature or an instrument to pass the time with but, aside from their silent presence, I had no other human contact.
One evening I was lying in bed, staring out into the gloom, when the side doors opened, startling me. I turned my head slowly; dread filling my entire body. I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that I was being primped, powdered and perfumed for a reason, but nothing I had imagined could prepare me for the actual event. Without seeing his face, I still knew that that lanky, gawky frame in the shadows belonged to the new Emperor.
He dropped his robe as he walked towards the bed, then slid between the sheets next to me. He didn’t waste any time with cumbersome things like conversation. He straddled me and then started…well, I still can’t seem to put a word to what he actually did. He was grabby and slobbery and awkward…remember when I mentioned he was skinny? Well, to put it delicately…I can honestly say he’s consistent. I could tell by the smirk on his face that he had figured out that I was a virgin, and I think he also hoped this meant that I had nothing to compare him to. But I had seen enough to know that, as a lover, he was bad...
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