How can I begin, but at the beginning

Warning: The themes of this story are to become slightly more adult, beginning with this chapter. Future instalments will deal with such issues as the consequences of incest, rape and other such unhealthy relationships and incidents of violence. I advise you only to read on if you know you can deal with this.

* * *

My name is Annia Lucilla. This is my life.

How can I begin, but at the beginning? I am so busy trying to remember everything that has led up to these terrible times that I do not sleep anymore. I have decided to write instead, as my father taught me to. There is a memory – my father writing, endlessly writing, while I watched, never able to keep away for very long. My father, the Philosopher. I am no philosopher. I do not know what I am. I am no longer a daughter, no longer a wife. I am barely even a mother now that Commodus has monopolised my child.

How I hate Commodus, when such a short while ago I loved him more than life. How he would hate me if he could read this. Since I have been denying him entry to my bedchamber, a request I fear he will ignore one day soon, I know he has been longing to know what I am thinking, and what I do in here all day when I see no one. I must leave the palace at night in secret. My ladies tell the guards that I have not left at all. I do hate putting that burden upon their shoulders.

They are innocent. My son is innocent. Maximus is innocent. Yet we are as bound as slaves, all of us, because my brother will not be satisfied. His coil is terminal; his anger is like a cage lined with spikes, so that if he stops wailing and lashing out, he will hurt even more. Why will he listen to no one? I knew him when he was innocent. Are all of us doomed to either end our days as Commodus will, or perish much sooner? I believe that my own life will be cut short, because I will not submit to my brother in the ways he most desires.

Maximus is my emotional balm, and yet I will lose him soon. I am remembering the times when we belonged to one another, when he tied garlands of flowers around my wrists to mark me as his, and brashly refused to court me the way the other gentlemen did. Twenty years old and so handsome, so lusty, so utterly alive. He kissed my lips, not my hand. I was a girl who had spent her whole life within palace walls being trained to be a lady, to encourage only highborn aristocrats who treated me as such. And yet my first love, the man I chose myself to be my husband, was a soldier who took endless liberties with me.

Now I am laughing, wondering what my mother would have said, nay done, had she known what we did together.

I loved it. I loved him, because of his vigour and rebelliousness. He has none of that now, when I see him, and he kisses my hand, not my lips, through the dungeon bars. The light has gone from his eyes. First, his sprit was crushed by the wars he fought. I know it. Then he died when she did, the woman he chose himself to be his wife. He loves me no longer. I will love him forever, my Maximus. I cried for him, consumed by worry, as I lay beside the husband they chose for me.

I wanted my soldier back so much.

I wanted our youth back, for both of us; to relive those days, from the first time he approached me when I managed to get my attendants to leave me in peace. I can still smell him sometimes, when I try to sleep, and feel the smoothness of his skin against mine in place of the bedcovers. I hear his voice, and hold back the tears, knowing we will never make love again the way we did as youngsters, in the long grasses and secret palace chambers. He said he loved me, smiling. Tonight when he stroked my cheek and smiled that way again, and when he kissed me, I didn't ever want it to end.

Perhaps I was wrong to go to my husband's bed having already been touched, but my Maximus did not sully me. What we had was purer and truer than any marital union could ever be. I thank the Gods for every single time he made love to me then, for introducing me to life, before we went our separate ways. For he was never to hold me in his arms that way again, I know. There will be no opportunity, I am certain, for us to be together now. He loves me no longer.

I can only pray that my brother does not kill him, for I will never cease loving my brave General. I will hang on to these memories for the rest of my days.

* * *

A muted cry escaped Diana's lips, the papers all but slipping from her hands. A torrent of tears had poured down her face as she read, every sentence throwing her into an agony of grief, reviving recollections and emotions gradually buried over fifteen years. Every reference to the General Maximus negative, resigned…they had been separated completely, long before Julia's conception. Of course, he had been a slave: imprisoned, constantly watched. It made complete sense.

In their unworldly and idealistic youth, Diana and the other handmaidens had taken the Princess's mysterious late night visitations at face value – she was gone to visit a lover, no doubt the legendary gladiator. It now seemed next to impossible; in light of the lady's own secret confessions, that the lover was he – if she had had one. Yet Lucilla had borne a child, and the pregnancy definitely began around the time that this diary, this priceless artefact, had been created. There had to have been a man.

Still weeping, Diana reordered the pages of the diary and, ever so gently, wrapped them and placed them back in the jewellery box. Having placed it beneath a small table beside her bed, she stood and composed herself, drying her face and breathing deeply. Now, of all times, despite the barrage of unbearable possibilities now assaulting her brain, she had a right to a little happiness.

Sitting on her bed, she took out a comb and began rearranging her soft, waist-length hair into the style Antoninus liked it best. She allowed herself a smile, thinking of her fiancé, beginning again to anticipate the day that would follow. He had arranged for them to be married then.

A fair number of their neighbours congregated to see them wed. Unable to take his eyes away from his bride for a moment, Antoninus noticed with pride and gladness how Diana's happiness made her skin, which in recent days had greyed worryingly with fatigue, glow shades of pink and bronze once again. Her hair was braided, wound and pinned atop her head, where Julia had adorned it with small dried flowers, having sewn similar blooms into the delicate pink linen gown her mother wore. Even in her quietness, the girl had shown her own delight at their marriage by creating the beautiful garment especially.

Diana herself, beneath her undeniable elation at finally becoming his wife, struggled to hide her inward turmoil from him all through their wedding celebrations. Several times, tears sprung in her eyes, which she struggled to keep from spilling. The perverseness of what she was now doing, in light of what she had so recently discovered, did not escape her. I am marrying a man with whom I can never share my greatest secrets, she thought, mouthing a curse upon herself. I need to confide in him more than anything else, and I never can.

She understood now why they had waited ten years when, had she initiated their relationship any time sooner, he would have gladly married her. Basking in the adulation of the numerous friends come to witness their nuptials, she watched her husband from a small distance, speaking good-naturedly with his new stepdaughter.

Julia had smiled from ear to ear all day. She looked like the princess she was, dressed like Diana in delicate, hideously expensive linen, flowers adorning her gleaming dark auburn hair. Her huge eyes glistened as she accepted Antoninus's invitation to dance, blushing as she attempted some complicated steps, yet carrying them off with such truly majestic grace and carriage that Diana felt a shiver down her spine, wondering whether royal blood carried royal attributes within it to subsequent generations, without the need for training in regal characteristics.

As they danced, the pair caught Diana staring at them, and smiled and waved. She smiled back, the tears starting again against her will. Silently, she spoke to her husband: How lucky you are, loving her as purely as you do when she is not your own. She is not mine either, and though I love her, I must now discover whose daughter she really is, before peace of mind can return.

The festivities carried on until the early hours of the next morning. When Diana and Antoninus sought Julia to tell her they were leaving, having decided to retire to bed, they found her curled up, fast asleep, beneath a tree. Chuckling, Antoninus bent down to lift her gently and carry her to the villa.

"She's exhausted because she was finishing your dress this morning before you got up. She told me she was determined to make you the most beautiful bride who ever lived." He looked at Diana, and then back at Julia, bursting with pride in his little family.

Diana, though touched at this knowledge, could not help recalling how moody the girl had become in recent days, and how the dress was more than likely meant to be some kind of an apology. Julia could be independent, headstrong, determined…so much like Lucilla. Even in her adolescence, she showed clear signs of developing the Princess's great sense of pride.

The moods and bouts of silence, however, had to come from elsewhere. Steeling herself, Diana resolved that, after her wedding night, she would gather her reserves of strength and continue reading the diary.

Julia slept soundly that night in complete contentment, innocence, and safety from the truth of her beginnings. Unknown to both she and to Diana, it was to be the last such night of both their lives.

* * *

Several mornings later, Diana sat in the sun by the side of the villa, pretending to relax. Her duties as mistress of the house – all of those she was permitted to carry out, in her weakened state of health – completed in a couple of hours, she had no choice but to sit, and think. The previous three days had been a living hell.

She and Antoninus had spent almost the entire first two days of their marriage in bed – "To make up for lost time," he had lovingly declared. During that time, Diana had all but forgotten what had been troubling her, so delirious with joy had she been. Secretly, she was ashamed of herself for never realising what she had been missing during those years. His kisses and touches could never get boring, she thought, enjoying the endless pleasures, physical and emotional, he constantly and enthusiastically gave to her.

Finally, reluctantly, they realised they had to get back to normal married life, reserving lovemaking for its proper time: at night. Julia turned a blind eye, blushing discreetly with her usual modesty and artlessness, the first time her parents emerged from their bedroom. The girl was, thankfully, fairly self-sufficient, taking care of herself mostly with only occasional assistance from the maid, Catalina.

Diana took up the diaries again quite by accident, feeling her heart sink and her eyes blur with tears once more as she saw Lucilla's handwriting, delicate and yet firm against the worn paper. As she read slowly, she chewed on some fruit, trying to restore some of her energy after Antoninus's loving 'attentions' had depleted them. The following few short, rushed, deeply troubling entries almost caused Diana to choke. The identity of Julia's true father, albeit cryptically, was placed directly before the former handmaiden's eyes.

At last she knew why the Princess had not seen fit to tell them who he was. Not out of propriety. Not even out of loyalty. Out of pure shame.

Now, the midday sun beating down on her face, she wondered how she would ever look Julia in the eye ever again.

The blameless young girl in question saw her mother that evening, at dinner, as she returned from one of her long walks in the vast fields around the villa to find the woman sitting stony still at the table.

The exercise had brought a healthy colour to Julia's usually sallow skin; her silken brown hair was dishevelled, and her large, bright eyes glistened as she smiled a greeting in Diana's direction, sitting in a ladylike fashion opposite her.

Diana bowed her head, feigning a headache when Catalina asked if anything was wrong. Closing her eyes, all she could see was Lucilla's writing, the hellish revelation flashing through her mind for the hundredth time at least.

Dear Gods…the thing I feared most has come to pass. I can barely write, but I will. I must. I cannot let this rest upon my heart any longer.

"Good evening, Julia," Antoninus greeted his stepdaughter, gazing at her and smiling widely. Under the table, he took his wife's limp, cold hand, and frowned. "Darling, are you alright? Diana?"

"I'm fine…I have a little headache. It's all this sun…"

I denied him entry to my chambers; I did not let him see me…he said he had become impatient. He had told me my Maximus was imprisoned, that he was to die. All of Rome is a bloodbath now. I cannot see my son. Because I would not submit to him. Now he has broken down my door, and defiled me. Dirtied me. Raped me.

Bile rose sickeningly in Diana's throat. She could not suppress the images in her mind of her mistress being blackmailed, threatened, and finally forced to…What must he have told her to frighten her so, to have her expect that?

"You will provide me with an heir of pure blood."

He was twisted, deranged. Everyone told stories about him, tales that Diana, in her immaturity, had barely understood, let alone believed. Now she understood what had truly caused the misery that had driven Lucilla to her death. Not merely General Maximus's death.

I loved my brother, while all the while he was readying me for the kill. He told me he would kill my Lucius if I resisted, and he would have. Oh Gods, now my brother has touched me. My hand shakes as I write this, my whole filthy body shakes. He has sullied me. I fear he will do it again, and there is nothing I can do but wait here, a prisoner, a whore to my brother. He is trying to leave a legacy, I know. Now he may have started some unnatural fruit in my body. I pray he has not.

The last words in the diary, before a succession of empty pages. The last she had written before his death, Maximus's death, her own death.

Diana fixed her eyes upon the bowl of steaming broth on the table before her, feeling the eyes of that 'unnatural fruit' upon her, full of concern. Eyes huge, streaked with startling bright green – she remembered those eyes, and that colour. Who could forget them? Hating herself suddenly, she felt the blood rushing out of her cheeks, leaving her face cast over with a horrible, telltale white pallor.

Across from her, Julia put down her spoon, unable to eat. She knew her mother was distressed about something, again – something to do with her. The dress had obviously failed to cheer her up. Julia was uneducated, yes, but she was far from stupid. She glanced knowingly at her stepfather, seeking some communication. His own eyes lay fixed upon his wife, as he reached over a hand to stroke her cheek.

Julia made the decision at that moment to go to her mother's room after dinner, to seek some evidence of what exactly was going on.