‘What are you doing to me now?’ she asked, as if to suggest it was the first time she had experienced such a thing. ‘Oh, gods,’ she murmured as he increased the pressure of his tongue. He wondered if, in fact, it was the first time.
He began to knead her other breast with his free hand. She moaned, then sighed, watching him with a half-lidded curiosity. ‘Has no man ever done as I am doing?’ Ven murmured. She shook her head, as if the question itself puzzled her.
Magnus Furius, he concluded, was not just cruel, he was a fool.
‘Relax, my goddess,’ he said, as he moved his lips to her other nipple and watched her head collapse backwards. He had imagined this moment many times, yet he did not envision the pure joy he would take in it.
He wondered how long he could keep himself from her. His desire was already so full that it pained him, but he had vowed not to take his pleasure until he coaxed hers.
He gently removed her loincloth, then lay her down atop his furs and drank in the sight of her: her abundant breasts, her wide hips, her small, round navel.
He marvelled at the shape of her—so very different from his own. Where he had bones and angles, she had curves and flesh. He knew he should not be staring, but the soft forest of curls between her thighs would not release him, nor would a desire so keen he could not order his thoughts.
He straddled her hips. He made a heroic pose and she laughed and her momentary distraction gave him the perfect opportunity to return his attention to her breasts. He gathered them in his hands like flowers.
‘I love these,’ he admitted.
She sat up on her elbows. ‘Then they are yours,’ she said.
He buried his head in her cleavage and she shrieked. ‘You really do love them, don’t you?’ she asked.
‘They are not of this world.’
‘It is strange to think that in another life, we would be enemies.’
‘Our tribes would be enemies...but we...’ He released her breasts and leaned down to kiss her lips. He wanted all of her right then and he pressed herself against her.
‘No, no, no,’ she said playfully. She swung her leg around his body and manoeuvred herself on top of him. ‘There will be no further lip kisses until my debt is paid.’
She leaned down as if to kiss him, but instead whispered in his ear, ‘Please remove your tunic.’
He did as he was told, removing his bothersome tunic and casting it aside. Ah, that was much better. He might have removed his loincloth as well, but he did not wish to alarm her.
‘Now turn over and lie on your stomach.’
‘My stomach? Are you certain?’
She nodded gravely and he could do nothing but obey. She would certainly change her mind as soon as she saw the scars criss-crossing his back. They terrified any soul who had the misfortune of catching a glimpse of them.
He lay flat on his stomach and waited to hear her gasps of horror, but all he heard was the soft pattering of rain atop the roof.
Then he felt her lips. They moved down the length of his spine in a soft, tender rhythm. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Kissing your scars.’
‘It is a rather large area to cover,’ he remarked, though he did not want her to cease.
‘I have many kisses stored up inside me,’ she said. She moved to the edge of his shoulder and kissed a diagonal line downwards, placing the last kiss at the top of his hip. Moving to the middle of his back, she placed another line of kisses along the edge of his shoulder blade. She seemed to be following the scars themselves, as if tracing the story of his misery.
And somehow, changing the ending.
By the time she was done, he was yearning to hold her. He twisted to the side and reached behind him, but she remained seated firmly astride his buttocks. ‘That was divine,’ he said, trying to coax her back to the bed, but she refused him.
‘That was just the beginning.’ She reached for something on the bedstand and soon he felt drops of thick liquid being scattered over his skin. ‘Try to relax,’ she said.
He could feel the delight in her fingertips as she began to knead his weary shoulders. Each of her gentle squeezes seemed to release some hidden demon, while each of her soft caresses seemed to banish it for ever. ‘You have never received a massage, have you?’ she asked.
‘Not ever,’ he admitted.
‘And yet you give them to others all the time.’ She moved her hands down the long muscles of his back.
She worked with a methodical tenacity, kneading the bands of muscle in alternating columns. He could feel her concentration, could sense the generosity in each sweep of her hand. She wanted to make him feel as good as he had made her feel at the baths. To pay her debt.
He feared she was paying it back with interest. Her touch was gentle, but so very precise. She found the tiny knots beneath his shoulder blades with the instincts of a hunter. She pressed those knots and held them, willing them away. He nearly shouted with ecstasy.
‘You are rather good at this,’ he said.
‘I had a rather good teacher.’
She worked her way down the length of his back until reaching the crest of his buttocks where she paused. He held his breath and waited, wondering and also fearing what she might do next. ‘I am the baker and you are the bread,’ she chided, then began kneading him in lavish round strokes.
He chuckled softly, unsure what was funnier, the fact that a Roman woman was currently kneading his buttocks or the fact that he was enjoying it so much.
Then he felt the soft dribble of oil on his upper thighs.
She slid her soft fingers down between his legs and touched his desire. His breath caught as she stroked him gently and whatever relaxation she had coaxed in him quickly came to an end.
Angst swelled inside him. Something else swelled, too—nearly to the point of pain. He wanted to have her right then, but he could not, for her hands were now completely wrapped around him.
Lust raced through him. ‘Be careful, Vita,’ he warned. ‘You are driving me mad.’ He reached for her and this time she did not resist. She tumbled on to the mattress beside him, laughing wickedly.
‘May I do this, Vita?’ he asked. He was already untying his loincloth. ‘It will be very fast.’
‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘I want you, Ven. Please.’
He moved astride her and in a single motion he was with her. He plunged into her depths, wanting to bring her along with him, but feeling as if he were already losing himself.
This woman—she was everything. He felt it with each thrust, with each gasp. He could not stop for her. He could not even slow down. This was the end of the world and its beginning. Every second was a sensation. Every sensation was not enough.
‘Vita,’ he gasped, but he had already taken off into the air, catapulted towards his own undoing. Then he was there, reaching the crest, an explosion of ecstasy, followed by a cascading fallout of bliss.
He slumped over her—equally helpless in his descent. Icarus himself falling out of the heavens. ‘That was selfish,’ he mumbled. ‘I am sorry.’
She was staring up at him with eyes of adoration and it occurred to him that he did not deserve this woman, this moment. He did not merit feeling this cursedly happy, and yet...he would take it.
He was a starving man given manna from heaven. He would not question it. He would not push it away, not any more. He would accept it humbly, gratefully. He had been starving for so long; now, finally, he would eat.
Her hair was hanging across her face in the manner of a siren. He reached out and moved it behind her ear. ‘Gods, your eyes,’ he said, ‘they remind me of—’
But she would not let him finish, for she was pressing her lips against his.
They made love once more that evening before dinner, then again afterwards—a long, slow congress followed by the most wondrous sleep Vita ha
d ever known.
* * *
When she awoke the next morning, she felt changed, as if a part of him remained with her.
It was at once glorious and unnerving. Each time they made love she felt closer to him. When he told her he would be gone again that day she felt strangely bereft. She needed to do something to occupy her mind—some project to help her return to herself. Then she remembered—the biscuits!
She would make a dough and then venture out into the settlement in search of the communal oven. She would introduce herself to as many people as she could find and do her best to make a good impression.
It would be a way she could erase yesterday’s strange encounter with the tall woman and begin again. She would not be afraid. She was under Ven’s protection after all. She would show this group of Brigantes that not all Romans were wicked, and, when Ven returned, she would not only have delicious biscuits to share, but a story of her triumphant day.
She made up her dough and placed it in a cloth, which she set inside a small handled pot. Thinking again, she pinched off a small piece of dough and hurried down to the stream, where she placed it beneath the oak tree and asked for protection. Finally, she set out towards the central cluster of roundhouses.
Built around an open area in which several chickens ran free, the centre of the settlement reminded her very much of the Brigante hill fort, but smaller. Hearth smoke emanated through the thatch roofs of the low roundhouses and several loose sheep meandered about, but there was nobody to be seen anywhere.
‘Hello?’ Vita called, but no one emerged to greet her.
She heard the sound of bleating emanating from a barn and stepped inside to discover a rather desperate-looking goat with an udder swollen to the size of her own head. Setting her dough on a small table, Vita put her pot down beneath the crying animal and began to milk.
‘What are you doing there?’ shouted a voice from behind her.
She turned to discover an old man leaning heavily on a cane. ‘That is my goat and you do not have permission to milk her,’ he said. He pointed his cane menacingly at Vita.
‘Apologies, sir. It is just that she was in pain. I could not bear to hear her cries. Here is the milk.’ Vita stood and held out the bucket to the old man. ‘I am Vita. I have recently come to live with Ven. It is nice to meet you.’
The man glared and Vita. ‘They say you are a slave of the hill fort chieftain.’
‘I was a slave,’ said Vita, ‘but now I am free.’
‘Not free,’ said the old man. ‘If Ven bought you, then you are his slave now.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir. I am not his slave. I am his...’ What was she, then? His lover? His good friend? His Roman curiosity?
‘You are certainly not a Brigante,’ observed the man.
‘I am certainly not a slave.’
‘Get out of my barn.’
Vita hurried past him, fearful of the cane, which he seemed to wield rather like a sword. When she emerged from the barn she was near to tears. She poured out the goat’s milk on to the ground, scattering a group of chickens and drawing the attention of a girl stepping out of one of the homes.
‘Why did you do that?’ she asked Vita.
‘Do what?’
‘Pour out that goat’s milk?’ Vita read innocence in the girl’s expression.
‘It was...tainted,’ explained Vita. She walked towards the girl, determined not to lose faith. ‘I am Vita,’ she said, bowing politely. ‘It is lovely to meet you.’
‘Are you the slave from Rome?’
‘I am no longer a slave,’ Vita clarified, ‘but, yes, I am from Rome.’
‘What is it like?’ asked the girl.
‘Well, it is very crowded.’
‘How crowded?’
‘About a million souls,’ said Vita. The girl cocked her head. ‘It is so crowded that they do not allow carts in the city during the day. Do you know why that is?’
‘Why?’
‘Because so many people fill the streets that there is not enough room for them!’
The girl’s mouth hung agape.
‘How many people live here, in your settlement?’ Vita asked.
The girl looked at her fingers, then held them up. ‘This many people, three times.’
‘You mean thirty.’
The girl nodded shyly.
‘And how long have you and your kin lived here?’
‘Since I was a baby. There are excellent grazing grounds just down the river.’ The girl pointed towards the river and Vita turned to peer through the trees.
‘Ah, yes, I think I see them,’ she said, but when she turned back to address the girl, she was no longer alone. A short, large-chested woman stood behind her, her arms braced on her formidable waist.
‘Can I help you?’
‘No—ah, yes. I am Vita.’ Vita gave a deep bow.
‘I know,’ the woman said. ‘What do you want?’
‘Ah, I was just looking for an oven. I wish to bake some biscuits.’
‘No oven here, I am afraid,’ said the woman. ‘You would have to go back to the hill fort.’ The girl turned to the woman as if to protest, but the woman shot her a look.
‘Thirty souls and no communal oven?’ Vita asked.
‘Not a one.’
‘But the hill fort is more than ten miles from here.’
The girl tugged at her mother’s sleeve. ‘Mother, what is a mile?’
‘It is the way the Romans measure how much territory they have conquered, Armea,’ the woman replied, then spat on the ground. She narrowed her eyes at Vita.
Vita bowed her head. ‘Well, thank you anyway,’ she said. ‘It was nice to...’ she continued, but the girl and her mother had already disappeared behind the door.
Turning back towards Ven’s house, Vita glanced down at her pot. Curses, she had left her dough in the barn.
Turning back towards the barn, she spotted the old man standing at its entrance. She could not give up now. She just needed to be friendly, to show the old man her good intentions.
She started towards him. ‘May I retrieve what I left inside? It is a round of dough. For biscuits. Do you like biscuits?’
‘This is not your barn,’ he said, though he seemed to be speaking of something more than the barn. ‘Go home, Roman.’
Vita felt a little piece of her heart break as she bowed and conceded defeat. She returned to Ven’s roundhouse on feet made of lead and lay in bed for a long while. As a slave at the hill fort, no one had questioned her right to go about her day. She had been merely invisible: not a threat, but a tool. Now that her status had changed, she seemed to have become an enemy.
She should have anticipated it. She represented everything that the Brigantes hated—a free Roman woman with roots in a rival tribe. She was as suspicious as the legions currently amassing at the forts of Coria and Vindolanda. As long as the Romans had its army in the north, she feared she would not be accepted.
The old sibyl’s words echoed through her mind. ‘There are many kinds of prison.’
Arriving home, she put a pot of water on the fire and tossed in a handful of grain. She added some dried vegetables and a bit of fat, along with some salted venison and herbs.
* * *
By the time Ven stepped through the door flap that evening, the roundhouse had filled with a rich aroma.
He flashed her a lusty grin. ‘I am starving and that smells divine.’ Her mood instantly lifted. He crossed to where she stood over the fire and peered into the pot. ‘Who says you cannot cook?’
‘Perhaps my cooking improves the further I travel north.’
‘Perhaps your cooking improves in proportion to how well you are loved.’ He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. ‘I missed you today,’ he said. He kissed down her neck, causing her whole body to rad
iate with heat. Inside she was beginning to feel a bit like the soup.
‘How was your day?’ she asked.
‘Not good, I am afraid.’ Ven crossed to the bench and began to remove his boots. ‘The Roman soldiers refused to release the Brigante cattle. The chiefs are furious. There is talk of an attack on the legion stationed at Eboracum, a five-day ride to the south of here.’
Vita stared into her soup. She knew nothing about war and battle, but she did know that few tribes in history had ever defeated the Roman army. ‘It would be a waste of Brigante lives,’ she said.
‘That is what I tried to tell them, but they did not heed my words.’
‘Are you not uniquely situated to give good advice about Romans?’
‘There are a few who do not trust me. Some of the Brigante warriors think that I am secretly working on the side of the Romans.’
‘They think you are a spy? But why?’
‘Because I speak like a Roman and act like a Roman and I...’
‘You live with a Roman,’ said Vita. Her heart sank.
‘You must know that it is not your fault, Vita. Every day their lands grow more threatened. Governor Nepos has been demanding more tribute from the tribes. Often he sends whole centuries to collect it. They humiliate the chiefs and inflict needless violence.’
Vita nodded. It was as if he were not describing Rome’s behaviour, but Magnus’s. ‘You are indispensable to your tribe right now,’ she said. ‘You know that, do you not?’
‘I know,’ said Ven, exhaling. He shook his head. ‘A friend once told me that a man is how he makes his life. I have come to like who I am in recent days. This life, my tribe, you—it feels right.’
Vita’s heart filled with joy. It seemed that her love had found his purpose and was finally beginning to forgive himself.
‘Come now, darling,’ Ven said, brightening. ‘Tell me about your day. Give me some good news.’
‘Well, I nearly fetched us some goat’s milk,’ she said cheerfully, ‘and I almost made us some biscuits.’
The Roman Lady's Illicit Affair Page 20