From: vaimpir@primenet.com Date: Fri, 31 Jan 1997 21:10:29 -0700 (MST) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com Subject: A Family Affair Thu, 27 Apr 1995 This piece was prompted by a comment Mr. B made on his AOL chat which i finally got to read this past weekend. "A More Permanent Hell" is still over a week away so i have nothing better to do but speculate and wonder... And make up a story which will have no resemblance whatsoever to the actual episode. i tried, i really did, but the thing just veered off course, swerved down the off-ramp, sped through several stoplights, and slammed into the J. Paul Getty Museum sending reliefs, busts, mosaics, fangs, bottles of blood and blood-lite every which way. i apologize for any historical inaccuracies which, i know, are unbearable to those who know better. A FAMILY AFFAIR (copyrighted 1995) by e. m. hall Now that winter has passed and the warmth of spring has roused the flora around Ostia, the insects rise up each night from the marshes and leave their parasitic kisses along my arm and legs. It's a silly image, but these little beings and I have long been acquaintances and only humour keeps me from going insane with irritation! I have always suffered the worst from their nocturnal raids; poor mother often said that my "sweet blood" was to blame. This year's crop of marauders are preying on me more relentlessly than ever and I don't understand why. They tapped so much blood last night that, this morning, Ulpia shook me very hard for several minutes before I awoke. I had no strength to do so alone - I, who will sit upright at the footfalls of the stableboys filing stealthily under my window on their way to the shore! I can even hear the horses nicker and sheep burble as I climb the dense foreign trees of my dreams with olive-capped fingers... For the past few nights, however, there has been nothing... No dreams, none of those intrusive, little sounds,... nothing. And I feel horribly weak, weighted, and leaden after these overwhelming slumbers. Ulpina found me in the same position she left me in last evening - body curved over a cushion, left hand supporting my weaving, right hand clutching the ivory cord of spun fleece. I'd attribute such unusual behaviour to drink, but I didn't sneak such a pleasure last night, or the night before. This I am certain of. Father is home now and, as always, scrutinizes the ebb and flow of all our provisions - especially those reserved for guests, ceremony, and special occasions. I have had no desire for such intoxication, in any case. I've become apprehensive... I don't like this feeling of no control, of not knowing what is happening. Something is numbing me... more swiftly and more irresistably than any ambrosia I've ever tasted. Antinous has set supper out for me. A bowl of fruit and flowers, the head of an lamb, newly roasted. Food - I am growing ill at the sight of it. Father is moving us for the season. At last, relief from this muggy heat, the mosquitos, this horrible port town. An associate of Father's has invited us to his newly restored villa in the south. Ulpina assures me the place is beautiful; all traces of the earthquake which had ruined much of Commander Pliny's estate 18 years ago have been carefully cemented and painted over. Surprisingly, Father came himself to tell me of his plans. He left just now, ducking his head as passed back through my door, on his way to ask for the Emperor's blessing. Most Roman buildings are too small to accomodate my father's height. He towers over these plebeians and patricians, commanding the attention of all he stands before - especially his soldiers who rever him as highly as the Emperor. I've seen the bead offerings of nervous worship on their upper lips, rolling away from their glass eyes, their bodies instinctinvely snapping to attention at the sight of him - this military legend who came to Rome from the West, a towering foreigner whose blue eyes and fair hair, long build, and rolling, slippery accent endeared him to Emperor Vespasian as easily as Father's Gaulish cousins intrigued Dictator Caesar. He is physically impressive and militarily accomplished as to demand respect from everyone. His skill, loyalty, fearlessness - his virtus - evokes love from his troops. His figure draws admiration from the senators' wives. Why, then (and I write in a whisper), does he repulse me so? I wish he would never leave for those campaigns which have made him so wealthy and so honoured, which have placed him at the front of many grand adventi. Yes, I miss him when he is away. And yet I cringe at the sight of him standing at the portico, awaiting my greeting. I believe he hates the procedure as I do. But his general's expression never changes. I wish he'd come back to me now. Sit beside me. Let me touch his hand. I must make no room for sentimentality, however. I certainly don't expect words of paternal devotion. No child does. And no daughter will expect more than legal recognition. He gave me a room in his house, he gives me my life everyday, he would give me a husband in another year... give me away... To look upon his face, not his portraits flanking the atrium... to search his eyes for...belonging? Approval? Acceptance? These things I already have. These things I do already have... He is distracted. He has always been distracted. When has he ever really seen me? Perhaps if I were one of his harlots... For Mother's sake. Good, patience, enduring Mother who couldn't say a sharp word to her maids no matter what had happened an hour before, couldn't think a deviant thought. How happily I would have accepted death after such a life. How I will welcome the vestal virgins to collect me when I'm of age - if I can bear the interim. I can't sleep at all. I waited for that shadow that drags my lids closed - but it never came. Is it my anticipation? I hear Pompeii is very beautiful, very pleasing but it certainly won't vanish when I close my eyes. I am impatient, restless. I will look for Father. I'm sure he's still awake, studying his maps. Or maybe he's sharpening his precious sword - the prized blade he allows no one to touch. Not even the lictors. And especially not me, his daughter. I won't go to him. The window rattles so violently. Is that an earthquake...? No, nothing. Let sleep come, please. Has it? I think I've just awoken... Mother. She's heard me and has come back. She came back for me... but said no words when I addressed her. Doesn't she have the strength now to speak? She's free from him. Or doesn't she remember her name? I called in my sleep (was it sleep?) loudly enough, peering into the dark face that I could not fully see, but she only answered in a low, low pebbly tone. Like a ewe crooning in an impossibly low register. But thank gods she holds me in her icy arms. If too tightly. It must have been her spirit. What else could respond to my thoughts? A garden of plum trees, jasmine, and acanthus, accented with bird baths of every kind surround us here. Both the frigidarium and tepidarium are panelled with detailed mosaics. The Commander even has a spacious maritime theater. And I haven't seen these beauties but by moonlight. I haven't gone into the day since coming here. Father's useless bellowing still throbs my ears. I cannot temper the madness. It makes me scream at my Ulpina and drive away the servants at noon but plead for their company at midnight, tears staining my nightdress pink and rusting gruesomely on my cheeks. The drops I collect in my nouth are salty, saccharine, and very, very good. I am stroking my wrists now, wondering if my blood is really as sweet as my mother said. Lucius is speaking of Egypt. He wants to escape the strange creature of the east wing, I know. Ulpina is dead and now he must care for me because I will not take another attendant. He should leave soon. Unbeknownst to him, I stand by his bedside each night and slit the bellys of the satiated women slumped across his nude body, sucking the life's blood which trickles out of them, often spilling cerise onto his skin. Mother was wrong - all womens' blood is sweet, not just my own. One night, Lucius may feel remorse for his fatal lovemaking - his deadly libido which takes another lovely, anonymous body as quietly as the stewards carry it away in the morning. One night, he may not have a woman in his bed, and I am afraid that, despite what rationale I have left, I will be the one to climb in beside his snoring figure and visit my disease upon him. Should I tell him of the groaning I hear in the air? The silent whistling of the great mountain outside the town? No one notices its tiny, suppressed mumblings but me. Perhaps not. I have urges of my own to bother with thought. The fire lighting up the sky now does not sear my greying eyes and paled skin as the sun does. Nevertheless, I am ready to flee from its glow, from the orange sap bleeding towards the villa, hissing in its hunger for our crisped bodies. The servants are scrambling for their families, for their bits of possessions even as they feel the heat upon their backs. I hear a young man call Pliny's name. No one has seen him. The line of bloody fire has reached the most northerly colonnades. The steam from the pool is dancing through my window now. I must steady my hand to write this. These claws will snap the charcoal if I don't fight myself. + She gripped the parchment, hers eyes tightly shut, and allowed her fingers to slice through her papyri and destroy the letters. Round disks of gold flashed towards the sound of feet pounding by her door. She leapt up and tore through the elaborately painted wood, listening for a husky breath, the roar of orders, her father's heartbeat. Where was he? A sinewy voice, a slow song of paced tones - tuneless, played indifferently - appeared to her over the human cries of shock and panic. She followed the dirge to the atrium, opening the door to find him reclined atop a divan at the far end of the room, stroking a resolute bow across his rebec. His gaze was directed at the door she used but he looked away when he saw his daughter and not the more plausible saviour he'd hoped for. His troops. Vespasian. Apollo... He had tried every exit (unfortunately, Pliny's body now helped to block the last open pass out of the villa). Moments ago everyone turned to see the ash descend, moments from now he will be buried and on the way to neglect. He had had only 3 portraits completed and, when the Ostian estate passed hands, 3 will become none at all... "Leave - " he began and then jumped at the slim hand which suddenly appeared before his eyes. She closed her palm over the instrument's neck, silencing the strings. "Divia..." He often disciplined her with the single word but, for a moment, as he looked up into her aureus eyes and saw a stranger, he became the docile one. "Lucius, I've come to offer you a choice." He laughed in disbelief. His child was mad. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "That is nothing more than a fantasy, Nicholas." (Erica, Last Act) +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++