The Roman Lady's Illicit Affair

by Greta Gilbert

  ‘Almost?’ Vita smiled, though she knew Ven could see through her façade. ‘The house has certainly never looked better,’ he observed.

  Vita looked around, feeling bored. There was only so much cleaning and folding and tidying she could do.

  She fetched a bowl and spooned some soup into it. ‘I was thinking I would explore the forest tomorrow,’ she said, ‘consult with the oaks, you know, perhaps gather a few mushrooms.’ She crossed to Ven and placed the bowl on the table beside him, but he showed no interest in it. He frowned at the doorway.

  ‘Please just keep to the settlement for now, Vita—at least until this business with the cattle is over. There are angry tribesmen roaming about. I would not want...’

  Vita sat down beside him and placed her hand on his. ‘I understand that it will take time,’ she said. ‘I am patient.’

  He stared into her eyes, then took her face in his hands and kissed her more tenderly than he had ever done. Feeling bold, she let her tongue slide sensually into his mouth.

  ‘Gods, Vita,’ he breathed, deepening the kiss. Soon their tongues were sparring and Ven’s hand was reaching slowly up her skirt.

  Days ago, she might have stiffened with nerves, or played coy, but now she opened her legs invitingly. ‘What are you doing to me?’ he growled into her ear. He lifted her up and carried her to the bed.

  ‘What about dinner?’ she protested.

  ‘It is not soup I hunger for any more.’

  It is me, she thought in wonder. Me.

  * * *

  The next morning when she awoke, he was already putting on his boots. ‘I agreed to help a kinsman clear a field and there is still the matter of the cows. I will be back before dusk.’

  Vita glowed with pride for her strong, honourable Brigante, yet she was already bereft. ‘Be safe,’ she said feebly. She followed him out to his horse.

  ‘Ah, I nearly forgot!’ he said. He reached in his saddle bag and held up an object so small she could barely see it. ‘It is a gift for you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It is a needle and thread—for your sewing.’

  Vita gazed at the wondrous instrument, her heart filling with gratitude. ‘Really?’

  ‘My cousin procured it for me. A small but mighty spear.’ He winked at her and her stomach did a flip. ‘And there is something else—just a moment.’ He dug inside the saddle bag to produce a thick mound of green wool.

  He heaved it into her arms and she instantly felt its fine quality. ‘How did you come by this beautiful cloth?’

  ‘I traded a fur for it.’

  Vita was near to tears. ‘How can I ever thank you for this, Ven? It is wonderful! You are wonderful!’

  ‘Not wonderful, darling, just in love.’ He kissed her hard, then swung up into the saddle and in seconds he was gone.

  * * *

  Vita had filled that day with sewing. And the next. And also the next and she was content. Soon they settled into a comfortable rhythm. Ven would leave in the morning to attend to tribal business and Vita would remain at the house, keeping herself busy.

  The needle and thread were her solace; the woollen fabric her muse. She contrived to sew a cape so beautiful that the people of the settlement could not help but give her a chance. It would be for the girl she had met that first day—little Armea. A green wrap to warm her small shoulders. A peace offering.

  Meanwhile, Vita discreetly kept to their house, choosing the hour just before dark for trips to the river. She managed not to encounter a single soul.

  If her days were sober and solitary, her evenings were filled with untold delights. She sensed that Ven was unique among men, not just for his admirable gifts, but for his insatiable desire to use them.

  It was as if he had sealed up all of his lust for her in a wine amphora and had finally broken the wax. Vita could drink as much as she liked.

  Fortunately, she had a healthy thirst. She had begun to learn his body and how she could please it, delighting in every small discovery she made. He was always overjoyed by her efforts, often rather vocally so, and seemed not to begrudge her lack of experience.

  Besides, she was gaining experience quite rapidly now. By summer she would surely be an expert, for they could not seem to get enough of each other. She never felt more alive than in his presence. When he was gone, her body missed his. It did not matter what she was doing, she always found her thoughts drifting to her tall, strong barbarian warrior with that dangerous look in his eye.

  It seemed that he thought of her, too. He always brought her things from his travels. A feather here or a pretty stone there. He would present his gifts as an afterthought, however, usually the following morning, because when he saw her at the end of a day all he wished to do was kiss and touch.

  It was almost shameful the way they carried on. On the bed. On the table. On a nearby patch of grass. There were many nights when dinner went uneaten, news unshared and words unspoken because their bodies had far more urgent business.

  And yet it was not only their bodies that seemed to be converging. Each time they made love, Vita felt as if she gave him another piece of her heart. She sensed that he was giving her pieces of his in return and she gratefully accepted them, not believing it could be true—that a man as good and noble as he could find her worthy of his love.

  But there it was, all around her, even when he was not near. It seemed to fortify her, to root her in the ground, and somehow also to send her flying. Part of her did not care if she ever saw another living soul again as long as she had this wondrous man by her side.

  And by the gods, she was going to make him biscuits.

  * * *

  One morning after he had left, she dug a hole in the ground and lined it with stones. She poured a dozen smouldering coals into the hole, covering them with a long plank lined with sticky rounds of dough. She topped her invented oven with another long plank and in less than an hour she had the most delicious biscuits she had ever tasted.

  Setting aside Ven’s portion of biscuits, she took the rest and divided them into two bundles. She placed the bundles in the doorways of the old man she had encountered and also the mother and the daughter. Surely they would appreciate a little sustenance and would know that Vita meant well. She settled into her sewing for the rest of the afternoon, congratulating herself for her neighbourliness.

  * * *

  That night when Ven returned, he wore a look of puzzlement.

  ‘What is it?’ Vita asked.

  ‘Did you see the outside of the house? It appears as if we have been pelted with a rain of biscuits.’

  Stepping outside, Vita saw her biscuits in pieces all over the dirt. A few still clung to the clay siding, like ugly smears of plaster on a wall that would always be cracked. She broke down in tears. ‘They loathe me, Ven.’

  ‘They do not loathe you, they just loathe Romans. I am not even a Roman and still they do not trust me.’

  ‘But I am a Roman!’ She glanced at him in his long woollen trousers and dyed blue shirt. His hair had grown so long that it hung about his head in ropes. He was a Brigante through and through. It was she who did not belong. ‘What am I going to do? I am not wanted here. My life is so endangered that I cannot even roam the forest. I cannot do as I like. I cannot be free.’

  Ven shook his head. ‘Tell me, what is the one thing that is more valuable than silver or gold?’

  ‘I do not know. Nothing.’

  ‘Silver and gold together, remember? Electrum. That is what you are. Roman and barbarian. You see both sides just like me—a diplomat. You must not forget your own value. You can help these people just as much as I can.’

  Vita gazed at the destroyed biscuits. ‘It appears that my diplomacy is now fodder for the birds.’

  ‘Come inside now,’ Ven urged, ushering her away from the mess. ‘I wish for you to show me what you
have sewn today. And what is that smell? The gods themselves could not cook so well.’

  * * *

  The next morning, Vita awoke to discover Ven gone. Outside, his horse remained hitched, indicating that he had not gone far. Vita took a moment to pet the old mare’s long face, then caught sight of Ven striding back from the middle of the settlement. His eyes flickered with rage.

  ‘What is wrong?’

  ‘Roman soldiers from the fort at Coria have slaughtered our herd.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Last night. There was a large feast at the fort. They killed all twenty cows. Fed the entire fort. The chieftains are on the edge of war. I must fly to the hill fort now and try to stop something terrible from happening. I may be gone for several days. Will you be all right?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Vita, biting her tongue. Please do not leave me here alone.

  What a selfish thought. Ven was trying to prevent a war and all she could think about was a few grumpy neighbours. Still, there was a knot forming in her stomach and a deep foreboding overtook her. She feared she would not see him again.

  ‘Please be careful,’ she said. ‘If there is violence, do not involve yourself.’

  He placed his four-horned saddle on top of his mare. ‘I hope to prevent it before it can take place.’

  He was such a good man, the noblest in all of Britannia, and she needed him to know what was in her heart.

  ‘Ven?’

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘You are the best of men. I mean, you are my best man.’

  She shook her head in frustration. He laughed gently and kissed her lips. ‘And you are my best woman. You are also my only woman. Always will be.’

  He mounted his mare and gave her a kick.

  ‘Wait! Ven!’ she shouted. He was riding away from her. Soon he would be gone. ‘I love you!’ she shouted. She saw him turn and grin.

  And she never saw her barbarian warrior again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When Vita awoke that night, the roof was ablaze. She jumped out of bed and found herself coughing amid heavy smoke. She could hear the menacing roar of the flames above her and saw the red of flames beginning to penetrate the roof.

  She dashed around the house, gathering as many of Ven’s belongings as she could until she heard a loud pop. She rushed away from falling embers as the roof collapsed above her, trying to keep her panic at bay. Ven had very few things to call his own and could not afford to lose any of them. She had to save as much as she could.

  She lunged about, keeping her eye on the roof, the flames her only light. She scooped up clothes, tools, food, furs—anything that could fit into her arms—and threw them into a pile outside the door.

  Her sewing! She ran back inside and grabbed her basket of fabric just as a blazing timber came crashing to the floor.

  Vita threw herself from the collapsing building and rolled on to the ground. The fire was growing in strength and she stood alone, watching the flames consume everything. Nobody from the settlement came to her aid, though surely they could smell the smoke. She was all alone.

  How could this have happened? What wicked god had decided to destroy her small, fragile world, just as they were beginning to make it her own? His world. Theirs.

  Vita searched her memory, trying to determine how she had failed. She had completely squelched the hearth fire that evening and had not even lit a lamp. There was simply no source within the small roundhouse that could have produced such a dangerous blaze. Besides, if she had started the fire herself, the house would have been burning from within, not without.

  It did not make sense. Vita stalked about the yard, searching for clues. Finding nothing, she started towards the settlement and gasped. It appeared that the fire was spreading. Three small blazes raged right in the middle of the very road.

  Vita ran to put them out, then realised that they had nothing to do with a spreading blaze. They were not fires, but dropped torches.

  She felt ill. She could imagine the wicked souls who had utilised them, their guilty shadows escaping back to the settlement whence they came. She picked up a torch and peered into the shadows.

  Ven’s house had not caught on fire, it had been set on fire, likely by three of Ven’s own kin. They had waited until Ven was away. They had probably been planning it for days.

  They did not want her there. It did not matter how hard she tried. She would always be Roman and they would always be Brigante. Their hatred for her went back nearly a hundred years, when the late Emperor Claudius first called this land his own. It was not going to change with kind words and biscuits.

  She felt a hand tap her shoulder and turned to discover the old man from the barn. His wrinkly eyes danced beneath the torchlight. ‘If you are not gone by tomorrow, you are a dead woman,’ he whispered softly. He glanced behind him. Several figures stood just beyond the flames, quiet as ghosts. ‘Leave this settlement now or lose your life,’ one said.

  The old man yanked the torch from her hand and she watched him and the other figures march back to the settlement by its eerie light.

  She was not going to cry. She would not pity herself or wallow in her powerlessness. Nor would she blindly brush the incident aside, hoping things would get better. She had done that for years back in Rome. It was a dangerous thing, acceptance.

  She found a piece of hide and spread it out upon the ground. She would not ask Ven to fight for her. He had bigger things on his mind, like saving Brigante lives and preventing a war. She would not ask him to take her side in this or in anything else.

  But she would be a fool to continue to live a life in which she could not leave her home, or speak with her neighbours, or go and explore the forest in safety and peace. She could not let her soul wither as she had allowed it to do back in Rome. In another year, there would be none of her left.

  She began to place small necessities at the centre of the hide: biscuits, a knife, a loincloth. Vita loved Ven more than she had ever loved anyone, but how could she live with him in this dangerous, threatening place? She added more supplies: a flintstone, a drying cloth, a hairbrush, more biscuits.

  She was not safe and could not even be in charge of her own life. Ven had liberated her—that was true—but as long as she lived in fear, she never would be truly free.

  She laughed bitterly. It seemed that she had chosen happiness over freedom once again, without even knowing it. ‘Seek your freedom first,’ the old sibyl had told her. ‘Everything else will come.’ Perhaps it was her destiny to live the lesson over and over again until she finally learned it.

  Vita spotted her basket of sewing. She pulled the needle from the fabric and admired it. ‘A small but mighty spear,’ Ven had called it. How dear he had been to obtain it for her. How hard he had tried to help her get free from her invisible prison.

  Holding the needle between her teeth, she placed the fabric on top of her other belongings, then gathered the hide around them into a neat, portable ball. She sensed her life repeating itself as she secured the makeshift travel bag with a knot.

  Locating the shovel, she dug a shallow hole beneath a nearby tree and placed all of Ven’s belongings inside. She covered the pile with his collection of furs, which she secured in place with rocks. She knew he would not be home for many days and she wished to protect his things from damage.

  The moonlight poured over the makeshift cache and she stared at it for a long while, her body trembling. Impulsively, she pulled the last fur off the pile.

  She knew he would not mind. He would want her to be warm on her journey, though warmth was not the reason she wrapped it around her shoulders. She wanted it so she could be reminded of him always.

  Because she was leaving him.

  There are many kinds of prisons, the old sibyl had warned her, and then Grandmother had warned her again. Freedom was the prize and so Vita sheathed her sm
all, mighty spear and lifted her leather bag, then strode off into the darkness.

  * * *

  It was raining the day Ven journeyed home from the hill fort and he was smiling like a fool. He was returning home to his love after all—his own beautiful Vesta, the keeper of his flame—and could not get his mare to run quickly enough.

  He shook out his wet hair and grinned up at the sky. He thought of Vita whenever it rained like this. ‘This reminds me of the day we met,’ he would always tell her. It had become a kind of jest between them, for it rained most days in this part of the world. Whenever it would begin to pour, he would peer outside and say, ‘This reminds me of...’

  ‘...the day we met,’ she would always finish. It was their private joke. He never got tired of it.

  The rain had stopped by the time he reached the settlement, though Ven was soaked to the bone. He could not wait to step inside their little house and see her scolding grin. ‘You are a wet rat!’ she would say and he would lift her off the ground and kiss her well.

  At first he thought that the blackened ground was an illusion of the light. He encouraged his mare closer, confused. Had he taken a wrong turn? He glanced back to the settlement and observed the road in its usual position. He was in the right place, but his house was not. It was gone. It was...burned. Vita.

  He wheeled his horse around and charged back into the settlement. ‘Where is she? he shouted. ‘What happened?’

  He did not know who answered him. There seemed to be a chorus of voices speaking to him from far away. ‘We do not know what happened,’ they told him. ‘We do not know where she is.’

  ‘My house is burned, my woman is gone and nobody knows what happened?’

  ‘We are sorry,’ they said. ‘Truly sorry.’

  ‘Vita!’ he bellowed. He galloped back to the burn, fell from his horse and lost his stomach. Had she been killed? Gods, no. Please. Ven gazed up at the heavens. ‘Mighty gods, I will do anything you ask, just tell me she lives.’