The Roman Lady's Illicit Affair

by Greta Gilbert

  ‘She did?’ Relief flooded into Ven’s heart. ‘But where is she? And how may we rescue her and the others?’

  The man’s expression was full of pity. ‘You are brave to come, son of Enica, but I am afraid we cannot be rescued. Our animals are stolen and our homes are burned. There is nowhere for us to go.’

  ‘We can go to the forest,’ answered Ven.

  ‘There are too many of us and not enough deer. We must be content with our lives here now. To dream of more would be foolish. Go now, dear boy, save yourself.’

  ‘I am not a boy. I am the man of my household and I have come to rescue my mother. For whom does she labour?’

  ‘For no man, son. Not any more.’

  ‘What?’ Ven felt ill. He put his hands against his ears, not wishing to hear.

  ‘I am sorry, son of Enica. You mother died just days ago. It is too late.’

  Ven lay down in the dirt, letting the cold invade his limbs. He could not move. He could barely even breathe. He had failed in the worst way a son could fail. He felt as if he had killed his mother himself.

  When he was discovered the following morning, he did not even try to run. He accepted the collar around his neck and embraced his new life of servitude. And days later, when the Romans invaded the Parisi hill fort and captured everyone—Parisi and Brigante alike—Ven gave no resistance.

  The Romans won. They always won. They took and took and took and then kept taking. They starved their allies and captured their foes. Land, grain and now the Britons themselves—it did not matter whether Parisi or Brigante. Wherever the Romans went, they plundered. They made a desert and called it peace.

  Ven and hundreds of other captives were marched to Londinium where they were loaded on to the deck of a ship. They huddled together in their furs, hungry and afraid, trying to stay warm as they were ferried across an endless sea.

  Ven ignored his misery, for certainly he deserved his wretched fate. He no longer cared for food or warmth. He wanted nothing at all.

  He had earned his punishment and would endure it like a warrior. He was young, but he was old. He was full of life, yet he was bone tired. The Roman sun shone down from above, warming his skin, but he felt nothing at all, for his heart had finally turned to ice.

  * * *

  Now Lepidus grunted a laugh as the Dacian woman rose to her feet. Ven reached out an arm to help her, but she did not take it. Nor did she even look at Ven as she rushed past him through the door.

  Ven took a deep breath, willing away the dull ache inside his chest. She was not the first slave of Lepidus’s whom he had failed to protect. She would not be the last.

  Still, a wave of self-loathing overtook him as he retrieved the stylus from a nearby shelf. He willed that away, as well and took his seat in front of Lepidus’s desk.

  ‘You wish for me to take down a letter, Dominus?’

  ‘An invitation,’ replied Lepidus. ‘One which you will deliver yourself tomorrow morning.’

  ‘After I accompany Domina to the baths, or before?’

  ‘During that time,’ said Lepidus. Ven looked up from his stylus in confusion. ‘Your domina will not miss you. She is planning to meet her lover at the baths tomorrow.’

  ‘Dominus?’

  ‘My wife betrays me,’ Lepidus replied, ‘though I do not expect that you would have noticed such a thing.’

  Ven shaped his expression to indicate surprise. On some level he was surprised—that Lepidus had managed to identify his wife’s affair so quickly.

  Lepidus pulled his stylus pen from its holder and studied it and Ven wondered how many lashes young Lollia would have to endure for her indiscretion. It does not matter, he told himself. He was just a slave after all. The suffering of others was not his concern.

  ‘You look as if you have swallowed a bad oyster, Ven. What is the matter?’

  ‘I am impressed by your cleverness, Dominus. How did you discover it?’

  ‘My wife’s whoring? I have suspected it for a long time. But when she accepted the invitation to the vigile’s banquet, I knew something was wrong. Lollia would never normally attend a banquet of people so far beneath us in rank.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘She tells me you conversed with the vigile’s wife yesterday at the baths. Tell me, what did you learn about her, Ven?’

  ‘Dominus?’

  ‘What do you know of the vigile’s wife?’

  Why was Lepidus asking about the vigile’s wife? ‘Ah, her name is Vita.’

  ‘I know that, idiot. What else?’

  Ven paused. Did Lepidus mean to approach her? But why? To do her some kind of harm? Gods, no. Ven would kill the man first.

  ‘Ven?’

  ‘She is no longer the vigile’s wife, Dominus. She has recently divorced him.’

  ‘And?’

  Ven felt as if he were being put to a test. ‘She rarely goes to the baths, Dominus. She is uncomfortable there.’ Though she seemed to enjoy swimming. ‘In truth, I hardly know her.’

  Lepidus twisted the hairs of his beard. ‘Lollia reports that you massaged the woman for nearly an hour and that you spoke together in the tongue of the north. Do not tell me that you do not know her.’

  ‘She did not say very much, Dominus,’ Ven lied. ‘She is a modest woman and rather shy.’ At least that was the truth. Still, Ven could not help but feel as if he was describing Persephone to Hades.

  ‘Tell me something I do not know about her, Ven, lest I begin to believe you are lying.’ There was menace in Lepidus’s voice. It tickled the scars on Ven’s back.

  ‘She learned the northern tongue from her mother, I believe.’

  ‘And her father?’

  ‘Deceased. She was disowned by him at the time of her marriage.’

  Lepidus rolled the stylus pen between his hands thoughtfully. ‘Does she know that my wife is her husband’s lover?’

  Ven swallowed hard. ‘She does, Dominus.’

  ‘Does she plan to sue for the return of her dowry?’

  ‘No, Dominus. She does not wish to subject your wife’s reputation to ruin.’

  Lepidus rubbed his bald head. ‘An honourable woman. I expected as much.’

  ‘Yes, she is, Dominus.’

  Ven noticed the Dacian woman’s hair tie on the floor beside Lepidus’s feet. It occurred to him how different the world was for women than it was for men.

  ‘You seem to have a well-formed opinion about her,’ said Lepidus. ‘I thought you said you knew her scarcely.’

  Was it hot inside Lepidus’s office? Why did it seem as if there was no more air? ‘I think well of her effort to protect Lollia’s reputation, Dominus, for it is the reputation of this very house.’

  Lepidus slid the stylus pen across the desk to Ven. ‘I am ready to dictate the letter.’

  Ven had never been less ready to receive a dictation. Still, he opened the stylus and held the metal pen over the wax.

  ‘Good Vita Sabina,’ Lepidus began, ‘I am writing to entreat you to pay me an audience. The matter is urgent—your discretion, essential. Please call on me at my Esquiline Hill home tomorrow afternoon at the latest and in the meantime please accept this offering. Yours, Gaius Lepidus Severus.’

  Ven wiped the pen clean against his tunic and tried to appear calm. ‘Offering, Dominus?’

  ‘I want you to take her an amphora of our good Massilian,’ Lepidus stated. ‘Give her the wine, along with my best wishes, and nothing more. Do not even think to speak to her in that barbarian tongue of yours.’

  Ven struggled to keep his thoughts in order. ‘If I am to bring the Massilian with me, I will not be able to accompany Domina Lollia to the baths.’

  The old man leaned back in his chair. ‘Then do it afterwards. Take the Scythian with you and get back as soon as possible. We must finish our drawings of Hadrian’s Wall t
omorrow. I wish them to be completed before we depart for Britannia.’

  ‘When will that be, Dominus, so that I may plan for it?’ Ven asked, but Lepidus had closed his eyes and at length appeared to fall asleep. Ven placed the stylus pen on his desk and turned to leave.

  ‘Where are you going, Ven?’ Lepidus grunted. ‘I have not dismissed you.’

  Ven turned and caught a glimpse of his master’s coal-black eyes. They did not seem to reflect any light.

  ‘You say that the vigile’s wife—the vigile’s ex-wife—has northern blood. I am wondering if it is true that women with northern blood make fiery lovers.’

  Fiery lovers? What sort of question was that?

  ‘Well?’ Lepidus prodded. ‘You must have some knowledge of the subject.’

  Ven felt pressure against the backs of his eyes. Surely the old man was trying to provoke him. Either that, or... Ven could not even think of the other reason.

  ‘I am not certain, Dominus.’

  ‘Ah well, I suppose I shall soon find out.’

  Ven blinked. He tried to breathe. Everything around him seemed to take on a slightly crimson hue. Did he mean to suggest that he desired Vita? Impossible. He would never want a kind, thoughtful woman like Vita. He was a man of thoughtless, primal appetites. He saw women as all alike—and the younger the better.

  ‘Poor Vita,’ Lepidus continued. ‘To think that she sacrificed her dowry to protect a woman like Lollia, a woman who would shame her own husband. But I will be the winner in the end, Ven, and do you know why?’

  Ven clenched his teeth, reminding himself that he was just a slave. He was nobody. His thoughts meant nothing. His feelings meant even less.

  ‘Why, Dominus?’

  ‘Because Vita is a desperate woman now and desperate women do desperate things.’ He flashed Ven a yellow-toothed grin. ‘We leave the day after Vulcanalia, to answer your question. Without Lollia.’

  Ven gazed at the tiles of the floor, but he could no longer distinguish them. ‘And Vita Sabina, Dominus?’

  ‘I will make her mine, Ven. Just watch me.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘It does not appear as terrible as it may feel,’ said Avidia, regarding Vita’s bruise-blackened eye. ‘It rather looks like you had a night of poor sleep.’

  ‘In one eye?’

  It was the fifth hour of the morning and Avidia stood outside Vita’s doorway in her best tunic and sandals, ready for a day of apartment hunting.

  ‘Maybe it is slightly terrible, but only in the light,’ said Avidia. ‘Come, I have an idea.’

  Avidia lead Vita into the kitchen where she moistened a rag and dipped it into the ashes of the hearth fire. ‘Close your eyes while I turn you into a goddess,’ Avidia said. ‘And stop fidgeting.’

  ‘I am not fidgeting.’

  ‘You are always fidgeting. Now take a breath.’ Vita did as she was told. ‘Good,’ said Avidia. ‘Now hold it.’

  Vita raised a brow, wondering how long she could last without breathing. She imagined it would take Avidia quite a long time to make her bruise-blackened eye look normal.

  Magnus had gifted her the bruise that morning to go with the bump on her head. ‘If I ever see you in my tablinium again, I will kill you,’ he had threatened.

  Now Vita exhaled. ‘I am useless at holding my breath.’

  ‘Better than being useless at breathing,’ Avidia said, then stepped back to behold her work. ‘Now it does not look as if you have a blackened eye at all, it merely appears as if you have not slept for days.’ Avidia grinned wickedly. ‘I fear I have made you into the Goddess of Too Little Sleep.’

  ‘That will do, though I wish you could have made me in to the Goddess of Too Much Coin. Speaking of which, how much coin did you bring with you?’

  ‘Five sesterces—my life savings.’

  At least it was something. With twenty-six sesterces between them, Vita hoped that they might be able to find something in the area of Aventine Hill. It was the ideal location, for it was near to the marketplace where Vita sold her capes and also to the tavern where Avidia worked.

  Vita imagined the two women living together and watching out for each other. Avidia would work in the tavern by night and occupy the apartment by day, and Vita would do the reverse. It would be the perfect convivial arrangement—if only they could afford it.

  ‘Have you ever been to a sibyl, Avidia?’

  ‘A seer? I could never afford such a thing.’

  ‘In the early days of my marriage, I visited one. I asked if happiness lay in my future.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘She told me that it was a useless question, that happiness was pointless—as ephemeral as a cloud—and that I should not aspire to it.’

  ‘What did she recommend you aspire to then? Fame?’ asked Avidia.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Love?’

  ‘Guess again.’

  ‘Perfectly cooked dumplings?’

  Vita grinned. ‘She told me to aspire to freedom.’

  ‘Freedom? But you are a Roman citizen. Are you not already free?’

  ‘That is what I asked the sibyl. She replied that there are many kinds of prisons, most of them invisible, and that most people spend all their lives trapped inside them. “Seek your freedom first,” she told me, “and everything else will come.”’

  ‘A wise woman,’ Avidia observed.

  ‘Wise, indeed, but I was too young to see it. I stood in her stuffy office and told her I cared nothing for freedom. I begged her to tell me if happiness would ever be known to me and she agreed to cast my horoscope. A few moments later, she was foretelling my life.’

  ‘Mercy of Juno! What did she tell you?’

  ‘That I would find the happiness I sought, but only after a long while and many trials, and that it would come as a surprise—like a knock on the door in the middle of the day.’

  ‘She gave you no other details?’

  ‘Only this: that the gods had a wicked sense of humour and, because I was so intent on happiness and so eager to dismiss her own good advice, that one day I would have to choose between the two.’

  ‘Between happiness and freedom?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That is all she said?’

  ‘She said I must pay her three denariis, or I would have neither,’ said Vita.

  Avidia laughed. ‘Not just a messenger of the gods, but also a thief!’

  ‘But perhaps she was right, Avidia. For all these years I have tried and failed to find the happiness of a wife and keeper of a home. The only time I ever feel happy is when I am making and selling my capes. The rest of the time I am miserable...or at least, have been miserable, until very recently.’

  Vita imagined Ven staring down at her, his eyes beaconing to her in a way that made her stomach feel strange. Every time she thought of him, her spirit felt light.

  But that was wrong, was it not? For that was happiness and not to be trusted, at least, not according to the sibyl. Freedom was the prize, not happiness.

  She closed her eyes and pictured herself free and alone. She was living in a tiny room in one of the squalid insulae that crowded Rome’s neighbourhoods. Still, she had her capes around her, along with plenty of fabric and thread. She was alone, but she could do what she wanted. Her money was her own, to spend as she liked. She could come and go as she pleased, answering to no one.

  ‘Perhaps freedom is more important than happiness,’ Vita mused.

  ‘But you have been pursuing your freedom for years,’ said Avidia, ‘in the form of your capes. You earn steady coin by them, do you not?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘That is freedom. You have taken the old sybil’s advice without even knowing it.’

  ‘But if that is the case, then so have you, Avidia.’

  ‘In
what way?’

  ‘You can cook.’

  ‘Everyone can cook.’

  ‘Senators cannot cook.’

  ‘Senators do not have to cook!’

  ‘Soldiers cannot cook.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that is true.’

  ‘I cannot cook. I can barely make a stew.’

  ‘That is sadly, and utterly, true,’ Avidia said with a grin.

  Vita studied her unlikely friend. The woman’s nose was red, her teeth stained brown from too much drink. The lids of her eyes lay heavy upon her face, as if she had exhausted herself. ‘I think that we both must overcome what enslaves us,’ Vita said. ‘Lest we die without ever having lived.’

  A tear cascaded down Avidia’s cheek. ‘I pray to the gods that I might find the will one day,’ she said. Slowly, she brightened. ‘Come, let us go find a place to live.’

  The two women gathered their things and were nearing the door when they heard the knocking of a fist against it.

  Tap, tap.

  * * *

  ‘Who is there?’ asked Vita, and the sound of her voice sent his heart racing.

  ‘It is I, Ven.’

  I have come to pretend that I do not think of you, that there is nothing between us, that I wish to do my duty and nothing more.

  ‘I am the slave of your friend, Lollia Flamma,’ he clarified, for it was possible that she had forgotten his name. ‘I served you at the baths yesterday. Do you remember me?’

  Do you remember me? What a foolish thing to ask.

  ‘Of course I remember you!’ she shouted.

  Ven glanced back at the Scythian guard standing just behind him. ‘I have come to read you a message from my master. An invitation.’

  ‘An invitation? To a banquet?’ she chirped. ‘Just a moment.’

  He could hear her fumbling with the lock inside the door. Even the clanking of metal seemed full of her enthusiasm.

  Ven glanced behind him at his blond-haired companion. He stood not two paces away, as still as a statue. His gaze was stony, his expression, blank. He was holding out the amphora of Massilian as if it were a baby that disgusted him.