The Adventures of a Roman Slave

by Lisa Cach

  She popped the fig in her mouth and shooed me with her sticky fingertips. “Go on, then. Mustn’t keep Hermina waiting. You can thank Sygarius and me properly tonight.”

  I blinked at her. “Yes, of course.” I curtseyed low. I didn’t want to think about what she was hoping I would do.

  Would Lady Lydia demand I put my lips to her cunny?

  I shuddered. Gods, no. I couldn’t.

  I left her, and headed back to my old room to gather my things. I was still too stunned to think, my eyes blind to the rooms I passed through and blind to the people, until I saw Kyrian. I grabbed a fold of his tunic, stopping the black-haired boy. “Terix. Find Terix and send him to me!”

  He crinkled his brow at me. “You’re in a state. What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t explain. Please, Kyrian. Please, could you find him for me? I’ll be in my room.”

  He looked at me curiously, then shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, certainly.”

  I let him go, and he dashed off. I went to my old room and started to gather my few possessions.

  Though I knew there was nothing that Terix could do, I had to talk to him. He was my only confidant, my only comfort. Maybe he could think clearly, while I was overcome by a sense that I was about to fall into a raging river from which there would be no escape.

  I watched my hands folding a gown, and wondered whose hands they were. Was I moving them? Was this my gown? Who was “I,” anyway? I felt strangely detached from the world, and growing more so. I heard a noise and looked toward the doorway curtain, and my vision leapt and jerked, the room spinning.

  And then Terix was beside me, his warm hands on my shoulders forcing me to sit on the bed, his large hazel eyes looking into mine with concern. “Nimia? What is it?”

  The weight of his hands—such a new sensation, so unexpected and welcome—brought me back to myself. “Oh, Terix. What am I going to do?” I told him about the change in plans.

  He chewed his lip, his eyes looking off to one side as he thought. Then he looked back at me and took both my hands in his and gave them a gentle squeeze. I stared down at our linked hands, distracted, again, by this new experience of touch. “I have an idea,” Terix said. “Someone told me it’s something the prostitutes do . . . Go to your new room and wait for me there. Don’t go to the baths! Not until I come back to you. All right?”

  I nodded, relieved beyond thought to hand my problem over to him. “What are you going to do?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  I sat on the edge of my new bed, my knee bouncing up and down as I waited for Terix. Too much time had gone by; I could almost feel Hermina’s impatience through the stones of the villa.

  I’d been in this room a hundred times before since it was used to store instruments, props, and costumes. Two large trunks in the corner still were for that use, apparently, but the bed was new to the space. The red walls were illustrated with mosaics of musicians playing pipes, lyres, drums, and of nymphs dancing. The doorway opened out onto the main garden courtyard.

  I would have loved having this room to myself, if I thought I were staying.

  If I hadn’t met Clovis.

  If I didn’t know the Phanne were out there somewhere.

  If the thought of spending my life as a concubine—even a treasured one, freed from slavery, raising her son to be a future dux of Soissons—was still enough.

  Bounce, bounce, bounce went my knee.

  Terix darted into the room. “Thank Jupiter, you’re still here!”

  I jumped up from the bed. “Tell me what to do. Do you have a disguise for me? Which door do I leave by?”

  He shook his head. “Nimia, no. You’re not running. It’s broad daylight! The whole villa knows about the initiation; you don’t think they’d notice you leaving?”

  “Then what?”

  “This.” He held out his hand, in which sat a small slimy blob. The outside layer was a wet white-gray, with a darker red-brown showing through.

  “Gwuh! What is it?”

  “It’s a bit of intestine filled with chicken blood. Put it in your cunny, and when Sygarius sticks his prick in you, with any luck it’ll burst and out comes ‘virgin’ blood. You’ll have to cry out like it hurts, and squeeze your muscles tight; you can’t let him slide right through your gates as if there’s nothing to stop him.”

  “Put that in me?” I was revolted. I picked the sack out of his palm: it was squishy, and warm from his hand. “Ugh.”

  “If you have a better idea, tell me now.”

  I stared at the foul little bag. What other choice did I have? “Do I put it in now?”

  “It’s your only chance.”

  “Turn around.”

  He did, and I hiked up my skirts and semi-squatted with my legs apart. I pressed the sack against my opening, and felt it squish off to the side. With both hands I explored myself with my fingers, trying to find a way in without bursting the sack. My body felt closed up tight, and dry with fear. “Terix. I can’t do it.”

  “You have to swallow your disgust, Nimia.”

  “No, I mean I can’t get it in. It won’t go.”

  He turned back around. “Here, give it to me.” I did. “Lie down on your back and raise your knees.”

  I gaped at him.

  “Nimia, is this really the time to be shy?”

  I scrambled onto the bed and did as he bid, parting my thighs wide. My face burned with embarrassment.

  “You really are tattooed everywhere, aren’t you?” he said, and I felt his fingertip on my gate. “Dry as a stick, too.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Don’t get the wrong idea about what I’m going to do next.”

  “What are you—”

  He bent down, stuck his face between my thighs, and ran his tongue over my cunny. His tongue darted inside my gate, then laved its doors.

  “Oh!”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think to bring oil.”

  I was too surprised to answer; even the embarrassment had been knocked right out of me. Which was a good thing, as next I felt his fingers pressing at my gate.

  “Try to relax, can you? It’s like pushing on a wall, here.”

  “I’ll try,” I mumbled, and tried to focus on those muscles.

  “There you go,” he said, and his fingers slid inside, gently prying it open.

  “You’ve, er . . . had a lot of practice at this?”

  “Not exactly this.”

  The absurdity of it all suddenly struck me, and I laughed.

  “Stop that! You’re crushing my fingers.”

  Which made me laugh even harder, and then I heard him chuckling from down beneath my thighs, and we were both giggling hysterically like children.

  “I’m serious, Nimia. You have to stop laughing.”

  “Yes, Terix.” I snorted, and tried to quell the fit of giggles. I subdued it down to a quaking in my belly.

  I felt the sack slide in, and then his fingers positioning it. “All right. It should stay in place, I think. Maybe.”

  I sat up and lowered my skirts. I was vaguely aware of it inside me, a very slight pressure; or maybe that was my imagination. “You don’t know?”

  “Just . . . try not to laugh. Or, I don’t know. Do anything that might push it out.”

  “Like what?”

  “Gods, Nimia! I’m not a woman. I don’t know.”

  The last of my humor died away as I looked at him and realized how much he had risked by helping me. I had to succeed at tonight’s sexual pantomime, not just for my sake, but for his. For if I were caught in a trick, all eyes would turn to him as my likely accomplice. He might even be blamed for the loss of my virginity.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He smiled crookedly. “Thank me afterward. If it works.”
>
  Neither of us needed to say what would happen if it didn’t.

  I was too worried about the blood trick to pay much mind to Hermina’s grouchy temper as she directed me in washing myself, and set two slave girls to work plucking hairs from my legs, my underarms, the insides of my thighs. I kept myself well groomed, of course, so there was not much for them to pluck, but I understood the need to have me clean and perfect before being offered up to Sygarius.

  I even appreciated it. I wanted to be smooth and lovely for him; I didn’t want him to be repulsed by a stray curly hair, distracting his eye from the curves and swells of my body.

  I had wanted this initiation for so long, even the events of the past couple of weeks could not completely erase the wish to please him. The wish to be touched by him, petted, adored, pleasured.

  I didn’t understand myself. How could any part of me still want that? He had trained me like a dog, until I had no control over myself. I could do naught but obey my master’s wishes, with a happy panting face. Sit. Stand. Spread your legs. Come.

  If Clovis had never come to the villa, if we’d never met, if I hadn’t given myself to him on the pressing room floor . . .

  I felt a moment’s wistfulness for that other path my life could have taken. If not for Clovis, it would be eager nervousness I felt now, instead of this strange mix of fear, rebellion, and a sexual desire that was more a helpless reflex than an honest passion.

  I brought Clovis’s image to mind: the icy winter eyes that had looked at me so intently; the long tawny hair; the eager hands; the thickness of his prick as he pushed inside me, and his helpless thrusting, caught on a tide of pleasure and unable to stop.

  Did it torture him to know that Sygarius would have me? I hoped so. And I hoped he’d hate Sygarius, not me, for it. Surely he understood that I had no choice in this.

  Although I wasn’t sure that such a distinction mattered to men.

  Worse yet, a little part of me wanted this initiation, and was glad not to have a choice about it. I’d waited too many years for it to be deprived of it now. My curiosity was stronger, perhaps, than even my fear.

  If I had to do this, then best to throw myself into it. It’s what my mother would have advised.

  Hermina braided my hair and wrapped it around my head like a coronet, pinning it in place and decorating it with sprigs of laurel. She dressed me in a fine, sheer gown, a purple cloak, and then placed a veil over my head as if I were a bride. “There,” she grumbled. “You look almost like a lady; that doesn’t seem right, for a slave.”

  “And is what I’m about to experience the same thing that ladies do, upon marriage?”

  “Don’t be smart.” Her eyes narrowed, a mean little smile twisting her lips. “I know you must be frightened; and you’ll be more so before this night is done. Remember, though, that as terrifying as things become, you won’t be harmed. Well, there will be pain, but no permanent damage.”

  I stared at her, my eyes wide. “Terrifying?”

  “The Rites of Dionysus-Bacchus are not for the faint of heart.”

  “The Rites of—what? I thought I was just going to lie down on a couch, there’d be some fondling, he would put his prick in, and we’d be done. I didn’t know there were rites.”

  I suddenly remembered the basket, with its mysterious contents that could be used either to torture or to pleasure me. Oh, gods. You could do a thousand horrible things to a person, with no permanent damage.

  “Now what fun would that be, for my lady? She’s been looking forward to this as much as your master. Merely watching Sygarius put his prick in you wouldn’t be enough to amuse her. Come, now. Time to go. They’ll all be waiting for you.”

  She beckoned and I had no choice but to follow her through the villa, downstairs, and through a corridor to the pressing room. The whole time my mind frantically jumped from the certainty that terrible, painful things were going to happen to me, to a complete rejection of such a notion, to a conviction that I would be stripped and fucked in front of a dozen onlookers. By the time we reached the wooden doors, through which I could faintly hear music and drums, I was teetering on the edge of a hysterical fit. I had to pee; I wanted to collapse on the floor; my vision was jerking from spot to spot, unable to focus.

  Hermina opened the wooden doors, and the music swelled out.

  It was not the pressing room I saw, however. It was a small antechamber with crimson curtains for walls, and Lady Lydia sitting on a thronelike chair with a table to one side, laden with cakes and wine. Her hair was piled high on her head, and wrapped in a wreath of laurel. Beside her stood a naked boy, no more than ten, holding a scroll. She gestured for me to come forward, and when I did, Hermina closed the doors behind me.

  “Tonight I sit before you in the role of Semele, the mother of Bacchus,” Lady Lydia said. “You, Nimia, come before me a virgin, untouched by the hand of man. Tell me: are you ready to undertake the mysteries of Dionysus, and face the god in the purity of your physical self?”

  I really didn’t think so. No, not at all; I wanted to turn round and flee. But what could one do? “I am.”

  “Are you ready to become one with the god, to have him enter you, in spirit and in body?”

  I knew what that meant! “I am.”

  “Are you prepared to release all inhibition; to shed it as a snake sheds its skin; or have it beaten from you if you cling too hard?”

  I swallowed. I felt sweat starting under my arms. “I am.” No, no, I’m not!

  “Then come, eat of the cake. Drink of the cup.” She gestured to the table beside her.

  I took up one of the cakes, which was deeply flecked with green and smelled intensely herbal. I took a bite, watching Lady Lydia’s face, and when she nodded encouragement I forced myself to eat the whole thing, though each bite choked me as I tried to swallow. It was foul tasting; foul enough to make me wonder what was in it.

  Lady Lydia handed me a goblet filled with wine, and at her urging I drank it. Like the cake, it had been adulterated with some other substance. They’re drugging me, I thought, and was glad of it. If the wine and cake could calm this fear that coursed through me, so much the better.

  What if the drug is meant to do the opposite? a wicked voice inside me asked.

  Gods, let us hope not. I would shatter.

  What of that trick hidden in your cunny? the same voice asked. If you’re drugged, how will you remember it? It’ll fall out, and then everyone will know.

  I was halfway through panicking about that when Lady Lydia nodded to the boy and he began to recite, while pretending to read from the scroll; I could see his eyes did not move as if truly reading. The recitation was from the Orphic Hymns, calling upon Semele; the hymn sounded comical in his childish voice. The boy did not understand the words well enough to inflect them properly, or pause between lines.

  Cadmean Goddess, universal queen, thee, Semele I call, of beauteous mien;

  Large breasted, lovely flowing locks are thine, mother of Bacchus, joyful and divine—

  I started to get the giggles. Lady Lydia as Semele, of beauteous mien and lovely flowing locks. Ha! “Joyful and divine,” I echoed, and snorted with laughter.

  The boy fumbled in his recitation, and Lady Lydia scowled at me. I pressed my lips together and tried to listen.

  The mighty offspring, whom love’s thunder bright, forced immature, and frightened into light:

  Born from the deathless counsels, secret, high, of Jove Saturnian, regent of the sky

  Whom Proserpine permits to view the light, and visit mortals from the realms of night:

  I was finding it difficult to concentrate. What was that boy going on about? And why did my legs feel funny?

  Constant attending on the sacred rites, and feast triennial, which thy soul delights;

  When thy son’s wondrous birth mankind relate, and secrets deep, and holy
celebrate.

  Now I invoke thee, great Cadmean queen, to bless these rites with countenance serene.

  Blah, blah, blah.

  Fortunately, it seemed to be over. It took me a few moments to realize the boy had stopped his chant; I was too engrossed in watching the curtain behind Lady Lydia. It was swaying, and then I realized that my head was swaying along with it. I grabbed my head to hold it in place, but the moment I did I lost my balance and stumbled, catching myself with a hand to the table—which tilted and fell over with an immense clatter, sending cakes rolling and wine sloshing over the floor.

  “Hm, yes, you do seem ready,” Lady Lydia said, and rose from her throne. She pushed back one of the curtains and went through, then gestured me to follow.

  I stepped through and into another world.

  Red draperies swathed the walls, providing a vivid backdrop to garlands of grapevine greenery hung in catenaries from the ceiling and along the walls. Grapevines twined round the immense grape press, lay along the edges of the basins, and draped over the couches that had been scattered through the room. A chaos of naked nymphs and satyrs danced and chased each other, screaming and laughing through the frantic music played by a quartet of musicians. Flowers wreathed the heads of the nymphs, while long brown goat hair covered the legs of the men. Revelers scooped wine into their cups from a huge bowl, and dribbled half of it down their fronts as they drank. Lamps and lanterns hung from above cast a summer’s twilight over the scene, creating pockets of both golden light and shadow, through which the figures ran, appearing and disappearing.

  The drug played with my vision, making figures swell and shrink. My hearing became too sensitive, the notes of the musicians painful on my ears. Time seemed to move in uneven jerks, and I had the strange sense of floating partly out of my body. I struggled to make sense of what was happening, but my thoughts would not come.

  This is all real, my befuddled mind decided. Real nymphs, real satyrs. They’ve come for the rites of their lord Bacchus.

  “Gaze upon the bull face of Bacchus, Nimia,” Lady Lydia said, and turned me around to face an immense bull with tall golden horns. I stumbled backward, a shriek in my throat, for the bull’s glassy black eyes were gazing upon me with heartless intent. A bone-shivering bellow like the blowing of a horn emerged from its chest, rousing terror within me. I turned to run, and was startled by a nymph, dashing past me and grabbing my veil, whisking it from me.