Of course, gambling could bring down even the richest person. Carbo cursed himself now for not keeping track of her, writing to her, making sure she was safe and happy. He knew that deep down the reason was that she belonged to a time in his life that he was trying to forget, although the way it intruded into his dreams made a mockery of that. It was no excuse, though; he should have looked out for her. He looked at her now, a woman with a child, old enough to be the matron of her own household if she had remained free and married well, but in reality a scared, grubby, fugitive slave, and guilt gripped him.
Carbo cleared his throat. ‘So, you were sold?’
‘Yes, a private sale, to an equestrian, a lovely house on the Palatine. I was a serving girl, but of course, as soon as I was old enough to bleed, I was used for pleasure as well. At first it was very infrequent, but as I blossomed into a woman, I became my master’s favourite and I often shared his bed. He treated me well enough, for the most part, but his wife became more and more jealous. When I became pregnant with Fabilla, his wife insisted I was sold. Being pregnant reduced my value a lot. I guess it’s a risk for a buyer – if they are lucky they get a second slave to own a few months later, even if it’s one who won’t be much use for a while. If they are unlucky, their new slave dies in childbirth and they are left with nothing.’
Carbo nodded. He remembered friends of his mother who had died during labour, and it was even more common amongst the whores and other camp followers that were the recreation of the legionaries. Rufa was probably lucky not to be very fertile – to have produced only one child by her age was uncommon amongst slaves and the poor.
‘So I was bought by a tradesman, a fuller. I used to help him with his chores. I collected the urine from the public toilets in jars, and I helped him with the laundry. I have never felt free of that smell since. The fuller wasn’t married, and had a temper. He used me for his pleasure, and he beat me, and seemed to get pleasure from that too. He never touched Fabilla, though, thank the good goddess. Once though, when he was… using me roughly, I lashed out in pain, instinctively. My nails scratched his face, made him bleed. As a punishment, he branded me.’
Rufa rolled up the sleeve of her dress, so he could see the branded scar indented into her upper arm, paler than even the pale skin that surrounded it. It read ‘Bad Slave’.
‘And then, a few months ago, the fuller decided he had had enough of Rome. He had saved a little money, and made some more selling his business and selling Fabilla and myself, so he could move to the countryside and buy a small farm, growing cabbages he said.’
Carbo laughed. ‘Each to their own. I can see the appeal. You would certainly get more intelligent conversation from the cabbages than some of the people I have met in Rome.’
Rufa gave a half smile.
‘So that’s how I ended up at the slave auction, and the slave of Elissa. And the rest you know.’
Carbo looked puzzled. ‘I’ve no idea what your mistress Elissa is up to. It’s nothing to do with me, though. I’m not in the urban cohorts, and I’m not in the vigiles, and I’m no longer in the legions. I look out for myself, and I look out for my slaves and other property, and I will look out for you two for now. That’s all. Now you can rest here tonight. You and Fabilla take my bed, I will take the floor with the slaves.’
‘What will you tell your slaves about me?’
Carbo raised an eyebrow. ‘Why would I tell them anything? They are just slaves.’
Rufa’s face fell, and she looked at the floor and said nothing. Carbo realized what he had said, and felt confusion. A slave was just property. To be cared for, for certain, like a valuable horse, or even a loved pet dog. But slaves weren’t Romans, they weren’t citizens, they didn’t have rights. Yet here was Rufa, a slave, but in his mind still the free child he had left all that time ago.
‘I’m… sorry,’ he said falteringly.
‘Why should you be sorry? You are right. Slaves are just that, slaves. You wouldn’t be helping me at all if it wasn’t for a promise you made to a free man about a free girl.’
Carbo opened his mouth to reply, but closed it as he realized she was speaking the truth. He stood.
‘I’ll get Marsia to bring up Fabilla. You two get some rest. We will work out a plan tomorrow.’
Carbo went downstairs to the kitchen, to find Fabilla engaging Marsia in a deep conversation about hairstyles. Obviously a follower of fashion, Fabilla was describing with a child’s frankness how Marsia could improve her appearance with new make-up and a more up-to-date hairstyle. Marsia was taking the advice with open-mouthed horror, to which Fabilla seemed oblivious as she continued to eat nuts and expand on her style theories. Carbo watched for a short while, smiling at the little girl’s innocence.
He cleared his throat. ‘Marsia, take Fabilla upstairs to her mother.’
Marsia turned, her face showing relief.
‘Yes, Master. They are staying tonight?’
‘They are. Fabilla and Rufa will take my bed. Make up a mattress for me on the floor with the slaves.’
Marsia looked at him with a questioning expression. He hesitated, wondering if he should share some more information with her. Slave or not, though, he still barely knew her, and he didn’t know whether he could trust her with that sort of secret. So he simply said, ‘You are not to speak to anyone about Rufa and Fabilla. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Master,’ said Marsia, and led the still chattering Fabilla up the stairs.
Carbo sat alone in the kitchen. His gaze wandered over the kitchen utensils, the pots and pans and jugs and ladles and knives, while his mind spun. What was he to do? What could he do? He was newly back in Rome, with few contacts, few resources, no influence with rich or poor. He didn’t know how to keep his ancient promise, or even whether he should feel obliged to. She was an escaped slave, and if there was one thing the might of the Roman authorities would not tolerate, it was rebellious slaves. Although there was almost certainly no one alive now who was even born when Spartacus’ revolt, the third Servile War, ended, nearly a hundred years before, the fear of the mass of enslaved humanity that thronged Rome rising up and slaughtering their masters was ingrained deep in the Roman psyche. Even the concept of slaves wearing a uniform to identify them was forbidden, to prevent the slaves realizing how numerous they were.
This was of course to Rufa’s benefit – she had been able to move through Rome that night like one of the poor free citizens, with no one the wiser. Some slaves were tattooed, some branded, although usually this was reserved for previous runaways or other miscreants, but Rufa had no visible slave markings.
So Rufa could pass for a free woman, especially with her ethnicity being Roman in origin. The problem would arise from being recognized personally as the property of Elissa, by one of her other slaves for example, or the fugitivarii, the slave hunters, which no doubt Elissa would unleash to track Rufa down. Rufa’s bright red hair was hardly inconspicuous, although maybe some sort of headwear would help with that. Of course Rome was huge, the biggest city in the world, with a million inhabitants or so it was said, which also helped someone who wanted to disappear. Yet Rome was in many ways also surprisingly small. The large population, especially the poor part of it, was crammed into tall insulae in choked and cluttered residential areas. It was impossible for everyone not to know their neighbour’s business. Word spread as fast as the regular fires that ravaged the poor districts – how quickly Rufa had heard of his fight with Cilo was an illustration of this.
Carbo sighed. He supposed he would have to get her out of Rome. What he would do with her then, he had no idea. He thought back to her expression when he had suggested finding her a good master. She hadn’t been pleased. Maybe she had expected him to keep her as his own slave. That was clearly impossible, if he wanted to remain in Rome and run his new business. Or maybe she had thought that having run away, she would become free.
Carbo mused on this. What slave would not aspire to that? Well, the elderly, the in
firm, the children, who would likely die of starvation if they were cast out of their master’s home, as in fact often happened. For all the rest, though, who were able-bodied enough to make their own living, freedom was surely preferable. Carbo could not imagine living the life of a slave, at the whim of every command and desire of another man. Yet was it so different to life in the legions? Here was he, suddenly free from the chains of command, and he had to admit that he felt lost, bewildered by the lack of structure and direction that his life had previously held. He missed the legions, he realized. Could a slave of many years feel the same?
Marsia returned, and stood looking at him, hands on hips, saying nothing, but a question in her expression. Carbo hesitated, the desire to share his problem almost overwhelming his sense of discretion. Then he thought of another, a man he didn’t know well, but thought he could trust. Tomorrow he would seek advice. He stood.
‘I’m going to bed. Ensure there is no one passed out under the tables before you lock the doors for the night.’
‘Yes, Master. Good night.’
* * *
Rufa lay awake, her thoughts in turmoil. She wasn’t sure what she had expected from Carbo. He had at least sheltered her for the night. But if that was as far as his protection went, what hope was there for them? An escaped female slave with a young child, having to fend for herself, inside or outside Rome. Yet what choice had she had? She had no idea what was going on in her mistress’ house, or her mind, but she knew something was very wrong. She knew too that it involved Fabilla, and there was nothing she wouldn’t do to protect her only child.
Fabilla stirred in her sleep, rolled away from Rufa. Nothing she wouldn’t do. She looked across to where she could just make out Carbo’s still form. He was undoubtedly attractive, she thought, but passion was the last thing she wanted right now, with her stomach churning in anxiety. Nevertheless, she needed his help. And what did women of her station in life do when they wanted the help of a man? What had they always done?
She crept over to Carbo and put a gentle hand on his arm. He started awake, but she put a gentle finger to his lips before he could cry out.
‘Rufa?’ he said in confusion. ‘What is it? Has someone come for you?’
Rufa shook her head. ‘Don’t speak,’ she whispered, then kissed him softly on the lips. Carbo stiffened in surprise, then relaxed as her mouth worked against his. Still half-asleep, he put up little resistance as she pushed him backwards and straddled him. Nervously, but as seductively as she could, she lifted her tunic over her head, her bare breasts swinging free. Carbo gaped at her.
Rufa gave Carbo an encouraging smile, then reached down beneath her for Carbo’s shaft. It was limp and seemed to shrink at her touch. Her surprise must have showed in her face, and she saw Carbo’s expression fall. Abruptly, he pushed her off him, and she sprawled heavily across the floor.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ Carbo yelled.
Rufa blinked in confusion. Marsia, Philon and Fabilla woke up. Marsia fumbled with an oil lamp, and the room sprung into a dim, flickering light. Rufa looked around her in sudden shame and grabbed her tunic, clutching it to her bare torso.
‘I take you in for one night, and you think you can climb into my bed?’ Carbo roared. ‘Do you think I succoured you just for your body? That I would go to this trouble and risk for a fuck with a slave?’
Rufa stared at Carbo as he towered over her, fists balled, and she went cold. Fabilla started to cry. Marsia and Philon looked on in shock.
‘Get out,’ said Carbo in a low voice.
Rufa’s mouth dropped open. ‘Carbo,’ she whispered. ‘Master, please.’
‘Get out,’ said Carbo again, voice terrifyingly steady. ‘Take your slave daughter with you, you whore.’ Rufa hesitated. ‘Now!’ he roared.
Rufa leapt to her feet, threw on her tunic and grabbed Fabilla’s hand. Carbo took Rufa’s arm and dragged her to the door, pulled her down the stairs, Fabilla in tow. Marsia followed.
‘Master, maybe you should reconsider,’ said Marsia. ‘It’s the middle of the night. The streets are dangerous…’
‘Silence, slave, unless you want a beating.’
Marsia looked like she was about to say more, but the expression on Carbo’s face made her think better of it. Carbo opened the front door of the tavern and pushed Rufa and Fabilla outside. Fabilla stumbled onto her front and started to wail. Rufa picked her up and stared accusingly at Carbo. Carbo merely folded his arms.
Rufa held Fabilla close to her, then turned, straightened her back, and walked slowly away.
Marsia stared at Carbo, her face white with anger. Carbo defied the stare for a moment, then relented.
‘Speak, then, slave. I can see you must.’
‘You commanded me to silence,’ said Marsia sullenly.
‘And now I’m commanding you to talk,’ said Carbo, exasperated.
Marsia drew breath, choosing her words.
‘Why did you save me from Cilo?’
Carbo had wondered the same. He had been bored, lonely, terribly anxious and in need of distraction. And he had seen enough bullies in the legions to have learned to detest them. He shrugged.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
Marsia tilted her head on one side. ‘I think you do. I think you know what is right. I think you are someone who understands there is more in the world than his own self interests. I think you are a brave man. I also think you are a coward.’
Carbo’s jaw dropped, then his face twisted in anger.
‘I have fought in battle after battle with the legions. I have faced down screaming German warriors and drunken brawling legionaries. I have travelled alone from Germany to Rome despite hostile locals, robbers and bandits,’ Carbo roared. ‘How dare you call me a coward!’
‘It is the simple truth,’ said Marsia, unflinching in the face of his rage. ‘All men are. Bravery is doing the right thing, despite your fear. Something in you is scared. Maybe something from your time in the legions, I don’t know. But inside, you are like a lonely child. Maybe it was your fear of being alone that led you to help me, to buy the tavern. It is your fear now that is driving Rufa away.’
‘I’m not scared of the urban cohorts.’
‘No, I think you are scared of Rufa.’
Carbo gaped at her. The damned slave was seeing right into his soul. From the moment Rufa had arrived, he had been wondering how to get rid of her. She was a reminder of his terrible past, but she was also someone he had cared deeply for. He didn’t want that responsibility, didn’t want to care for her again, care for anyone, because people could die, and that was too much to bear.
Marsia said nothing else. Carbo turned to look down the dark street, where Rufa and Fabilla, heads bowed, were just turning a corner. He let out a curse and ran after them.
Chapter VI
Elissa woke as light from the open-roofed peristylium flooded through the window of her bedroom. She kept her eyes closed, momentarily reliving her successful gathering. Metella was committed to the cause now, which meant funds were no longer a problem. And the sacrifice, so necessary to receive the blessing of the Lord and Lady, had been selected. The necessary tools and equipment were coming together. She smiled, excitement in the pit of her stomach.
She opened her eyes. One of her slaves, a tall Greek boy called Stathis, waited patiently at the foot of her bed, holding a cup of water and some bread for her to break her fast with. She sat up, the bedclothes falling off her naked torso. She noticed the slave boy’s eyes widen at the sight of her small breasts, his eyes lingering just too long before being averted. She thought about punishing him for his impudence, and his impiety – he was, after all, one of her followers as well as her slave. Then she thought about having him make love to her. She pondered for a moment. It had certainly been a very long time since she had allowed a man inside her. She had a mission, after all, a divine calling which she must not be distracted from. Besides, as the high priestess of Ba’al Hammon and Tanit, was
she expected to be pure as a Vestal, or to allow her body to be used like a temple prostitute? It was not something she had ever been taught by her mother, although clearly her mother was no virgin.
She ran her fingers in a little circle around her breast, noticing the nipple becoming erect. She looked at the boy. He had blonde, curly hair, and a lightly muscled, hairless chest. She presumed he was around eighteen or nineteen years of age. His eyes came up from the floor to meet her gaze, and this time he stared in fascination, watching with mouth slightly open as she caressed herself. He wore only a loincloth, and she could see the bulge underneath betraying his excitement. There had been a time when the thought of an erect man would have caused her to collapse in anxiety. She had rid herself of those internal demons when she had taken a male slave, tied him up, beaten him, and then used him for her pleasure. Seeing that large, brutish man begging for mercy from her beatings, then begging for release from her attentions, had showed her just how deserving of contempt men could be. Sometimes useful, sometimes ornamental, but always at the mercy of their urges, however disciplined they claimed to be.
‘Put that down and come here,’ she commanded. A lifetime of obedience showed, as he immediately did as he was told, depositing cup and bread on a table, then walking to the bed. Elissa sat on the edge of the bed and pulled away his loincloth. His erect penis sprang out, and she smiled and took it in her hand. She looked up into his eyes and he remained silent as she gently stroked it up and down. She lay back on the bed, spread her legs, and directed him to use his mouth on her. As he did as instructed, she sighed with pleasure. He had obviously done this before. Clearly he had a girlfriend, or more than one, among the other slaves. Maybe it was because he was Greek that he was willing and happy to do this. No Roman, slave or otherwise, would happily perform cunnilingus, demonstrating as it did passivity and submissiveness. A real man should be active in bed.
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