The Roman

by Caroline Storer

  Lydia smiled at the younger woman, before saying drolly, “Well, it’s not surprising really, this is the first time the plebeians of Herculaneum have ever seen the mistress of the mighty Aulus Epidius Quintus,” then, her voice hardening slightly she continued, “Because for six years he has practically kept you a prisoner in that villa!”

  Justina said nothing when she heard the anger in Lydia's voice, for there was nothing she could say. Lydia spoke the truth. Quintus had kept her hidden away from the outside world, and she could count on one hand the amount of times that she had been allowed to leave the villa, and only then when he had allowed it. When she had first arrived at the villa, she had begged Quintus to let her lead a normal life, to leave the confines of the villa to do normal things, like shop or go to the baths. But he had refused point-blank and had then forbidden her to ask him anymore, warning her that she would be punished if she did so.

  Finally, they came to the entrance of the Forum, and as the eulogy started, a hush descended over the crowd. The impersonated actors stopped their tomfoolery and sat motionless in their ivory curule chairs, and as she stood listening to the magistrate’s long speech she glanced across at Lydia who stood next to her, thankful for all the help she, and her husband Marcus, and the rest of their family had given her these past few days. She knew with a certainty that without them she wouldn’t have been able to cope.

  Over an hour later the Magistrate finally finished his eulogy, and Justina breathed a silent prayer of relief. The funeral was nearly over, and as she turned to walk behind the cortège, her manner dignified, she surveyed the crowd, noticing with a slight blush of embarrassment, that she was still being watched by most of them.

  And then she saw him, leaning against one of the marble columns of the basilica.

  Marsallas! So he had come to the funeral after all.

  Her stomach fluttered, when she saw with a hint of trepidation, that he was watching her intently. She could feel the colour draining from her face, but she refused to be cowed, refused to succumb to the power that radiated out from him. For a moment she wondered what on earth had persuaded him to turn up here. He didn't have any reason to be here, after all, there had been no love between him and his uncle. And even though he was some twenty feet away from her, she could feel the heat of his gaze, as if it were reaching across the crowd towards her. Hot, raw and sensual it pierced right to the core of her body, and she shivered at the feelings that assailed her, unable to tear her eyes from his. Heat curled in her stomach, as a wave of pure longing surged through her.

  Then he smiled across at her, a smile that never reached his eyes, mocking her, tormenting her, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, what she was feeling.

  Tearing her gaze away from his, she stared down at the cobbled pavement, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other.

  “It's nearly over, Justina. We will soon be at the villa.”

  Lydia’s words broke into her tormented thoughts, and she looked up, noticing in astonishment that the crowds were already drifting away. Quickly, she risked a glance over her shoulder, to where Marsallas had stood, but with a small jolt of regret saw that he wasn’t there anymore.

  Sighing, she turned and followed Lydia as they made their way through the villa gates. Now all she had to do was survive the feast of remembrance that had been prepared at the villa, and then wait for the contents of Quintus’s will to be read out. Some of the magistrates present at the funeral this morning had been appointed as executors of Quintus's will, and they had already informed her that it would be read out once the feast had been concluded.

  Justina rubbed the dull ache at the back of her neck, as tension pooled there. Today was going to be long. Very long indeed…

  * * *

  “…To my faithful slave, Diogenes I give manumission and a stipend of one thousand sesterces.”

  Justina glanced up from where she sat, and looked across the room to where Diogenes stood. As usual the slave showed no emotion at the news that he had just been given his freedom, and she smiled to herself, wondering what he would do now that he was a free man at last.

  Then she turned her attention back to the magistrate who was reading out Quintus’s will. So far it had been predictably long, and boring, as Quintus thanked all those influential persons in Herculaneum for their support over the past years, but now, finally, it was getting to the important parts.

  “I have sent a messenger to request Marsallas’s presence here, as he-”

  No sooner had the magistrate spoken, when the door opened, and Marsallas walked in. Justina felt her stomach drop, a slow warmth spreading through her. She watched as he closed the door behind him, leaning against the wooden door, his arms crossed in a gesture that brooked no resistance. He nodded at the magistrate who, like the rest of them had stopped dead in their tracks when he had entered the room.

  The magistrate cleared his throat and continued, “Ahh, Marsallas. Good. Good. You have arrived. Now I can carry on with reading the rest of your uncle’s will. It, rather coincidentally, concerns you,” the magistrate drew in a deep breath and continued, “Your uncle has left all his goods and chattels, including his business interests, and this villa, to you his nephew, Aulus Epidius Marsallas.”

  At his words a collective gasp echoed around the quietness of the room, and Justina, like the others could not contain her shock at what she was hearing.

  Everything to Marsallas! But why? Everyone knew that Marsallas had been cut out of his uncle’s will the day he ran away. Now, why after all these years had Quintus changed it? Justina rubbed her forehead in confusion, a headache starting behind her eyes. It didn’t make any sense!

  “Unfortunately, that is all there is in the will.”

  The magistrate’s words brought Justina back to the present with a jolt, and she looked up to see the small smile of regret that he gave to her. Then the silence of the room was broken by the slamming of the door; and without having to look behind her she knew that Marsallas had left.

  “He left you nothing. It is not right.”

  Justina turned to face Lydia. “I wouldn’t have taken anything anyway.”

  “Yes, but-”

  “It doesn't matter, Lydia. Truly. I didn’t expect anything. I’m just surprised that Quintus gave everything to Marsallas, and not to his adopted son, Cnaeus.”

  Lydia nodded, silently agreeing with her, for it had been common knowledge for several years now, ever since Quintus had adopted Cnaeus, an adult son of one of the poorer merchants in the town, that he would inherit the bulk of Quintus’s fortune.

  “Justina, you do know you can always come and live with us? Our home is always open to you.”

  Justina felt tears spring in her eyes at her friend’s words, seeing the earnest expression on her face.

  “Oh, Lydia. You have all been so kind to me. I don’t know what I would have done without you these past few years. I have been truly blessed to call you my friend.”

  Lydia opened her mouth to speak, but Justina continued, “But truthfully, I’m not sure what I want to do at the moment. As you know I have some money of my own. I need to think carefully as to what to do with the rest of my life. But thank you.”

  Lydia nodded, “I understand, Justina. But I promise you one thing. I won’t let you suffer any more. If … if things don’t work out, and I have to resort to kidnapping you I will! You will live in a household that loves you!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  "More wine Master?”

  Marsallas shook his head, and the slave bowed before leaving him alone in the triclinium. As he sipped the wine he shook his head slightly. Master. The word sounded strange. He had never envisaged that he would ever come back to this place. He had vowed to himself when he had listened to his uncle's words on his deathbed that he would never set foot in this villa again.

  So what went wrong? How on earth had he persuaded himself to return here? Not once, not twice, but three times! The second time had been on the
day of Quintus’s funeral, and the reading of his uncle's will, and now, the third time, some three days later.

  He had gone back to Rome, the very afternoon he found out that his uncle had left him everything in his will, intending to appoint a lawyer to sell the villa and all his uncle’s belongings, and donate all the proceeds to the poor of Rome.

  But he hadn’t. He’d barely lasted half a day there before he had returned, riding his horse hard, arriving here at his uncle’s – his villa now – just over an hour ago. The villa had been in darkness, everyone had obviously retired apart from the slave who manned the main gate. Once he had been let in, a sleepy slave had been summoned to provide him refreshment, which he was now partaking in the darkness of the triclinium.

  Life had just got complicated all over again, he mused to himself. His life at the Circus Maximus was simple in many respects – it was just a matter of survival. Get in his chariot, race at break neck speed around the arena, and hopefully live to tell the tale at the end of it. And if he was lucky, he would remain unscathed, win, and then take home the prize money.

  He had a life outside the Circus of course – but many of his so called friends knew nothing about this. It was his sanctuary from the madness of the Circus – a villa rustica – a massive self supporting farm about two hours ride out of Rome. But that was his secret life, and no-one in the Circus, apart from a select few knew about it.

  For several more minutes Marsallas sat alone in the room deep in thought. Then a wave of fatigue came over him. He was bone tired, having ridden non-stop from Rome to get here, but he knew that he would not be able to sleep. His mind was whirling, his emotions in turmoil. Deciding he needed time to clear his head before he retired for the night, he took his drink and made his way out into the garden, before walking down to the pier and gazing out across the sea.

  As he looked out across the Bay of Naples, the moonlight illuminating the inky blackness, he finally acknowledged to himself why he had come back to Herculaneum.

  Justina. She was the reason. The only reason he was here. Ever since she had turned up at the Circus, she’d dominated his every waking thought. Once again she had gotten under his skin, and it was a feeling that left him totally unsettled.

  He lifted his goblet and drowned the wine in one swallow, grimacing as the liquid burned down into his empty stomach. She was so beautiful, more so now, as the veneer of childhood had gone, to be replaced with full blooded womanhood. Tall and slender, but with curves in all the right places. Her hair was as black as the night, long, swept back off her heart shaped face, highlighting the high cheekbones and the soft fullness of her mouth. But it was her eyes that he was drawn too. Eyes so dark, so passionate, he felt himself drowning in them. He remembered his hands, shaking with desire, sliding over the bareness of her sun-kissed skin all those years ago and he hungered to do it again.

  And that was why he was here. The kisses they had shared at the Circus, and in the inn where she had stayed, had only whetted his appetite for more.

  Yes, she was his dead uncle's mistress, but he still wanted her, still desired her. And that, as far as Marsallas was concerned was unfinished business.

  Their unfinished business…

  With a grim look on his face that boded ill for Justina, he turned from the pier and with purposeful strides walked back inside the villa. A few moments later he barged into his uncle’s bedroom, only to stop dead in his tracks when he saw that the room was empty.

  Totally empty. The large bed, a raised dais of massive proportions had been stripped of all its coverings, and the chest that would have held his uncle’s belongings was open and empty. But more to the point, there was no sign of Justina.

  Marsallas turned, and walked back down the corridor. One, by one, he opened each of the doors to the other rooms in search of Justina, but she wasn’t in any of them. Eventually he came to the last door. He hesitated for a moment before he opened it slowly and entered the room. Like a wolf stalking its prey, he made no noise as he walked over to the bed – what had once been his bed – and gazed down at Justina’s sleeping figure. What in Jupiter’s name was she doing sleeping in his room?

  She slept on her side, a thin silk cover over her. He could make out her slim form as she slept under it, the light from the moon and the outside torches, providing enough light to see her. Her knees were drawn up high to her chest and she had both of her hands tucked under her cheek. Her long black hair was unbound, and streamed down her back and she looked almost childlike as she lay there, her chest rising and falling with each breath she took.

  He had never watched a woman sleep before, he realised with a start, as he stared down at her.

  He had always left after having sex with the women he’d taken to his bed. He was blunt, to the point of rudeness, in stating his terms to any prospective lover at the outset of any new affair. And if that made him cold and hard in their eyes then so be it…

  He knew why he did it of course. It was his way of making sure no woman ever got under his skin. He avoided women who wanted “love”. Lust was his only coin. The only way in which he conducted his affairs. The only way to ensure no woman ever took advantage of him or hurt him again…just as Justina had done …

  But as he watched her sleep, he couldn’t stop the pang of longing, the urge to lift the silken covers and lay next to her. And what? Hold her? Kiss her? Caress her? Take her…?

  For several seconds he stared down at her, his brain racing furiously. Then she stirred, turning over onto her back, her hands lifting above her head and the silk sheet that had covered her from head to toe slipped down, revealing a tunic of white silk that moulded the softness of her curves.

  His stomach tightened as his gaze lingered on her breasts, ripe and full, as they pushed against their silk covering. He fought the urge to lean forward, to kiss the silk, wet it with his mouth and see if her nipples reacted to his touch.

  Had she learned how to please a man in his uncle’s bed? His mouth twisted. He imagined she had. After all, Quintus had bedded her for six years. He swallowed hard as a metallic taste entered his mouth. He knew what it was. Jealousy. Bitterness. Raw anger.

  It was what he had experienced six years ago when she had chosen his uncle instead of him. And now, after all these years it reared its ugly head once more. Had she lain with Quintus replete, sated from his lovemaking? He hoped not. But then he couldn’t be too sure. Bedfellows came in all shapes and sizes. And money always had a way of sweetening the bitterness of choices poorly made.

  He turned on his heel, stiff with anger that was evident in every line of his body and moved away from her to walk over to the open window. He stared sightlessly out it, into the shadowed darkness beyond. It was the same window he’d looked out of as a teenager as he’d watched, and waited for her to come to the beach. She would turn up, more or less, at the same time every day, around the Ninth Hour, kneel down onto the sand and start to work furiously, moulding, shaping, creating magnificent sand sculptures for hours on end, only leaving when the sun set over the horizon.

  His memories were interrupted when he heard a noise from across the room. Turning, he walked back to the bed, and saw that Justina was tossing and turning, a deep frown on her face. Her delicate scent, the merest hint of lavender, teased his nostrils and he felt his body harden. It was a scent unique to her, and it had driven him mad with longing when he was a youth.

  He inhaled deeply, pulling the scent of her deep into his lungs, as he imagined her without clothing. Naked. Writhing beneath him, her back arched in wanton abandonment. The ultimate in temptation. And he wanted her. Desperately. She moaned something, and Marsallas leaned forward to try and make out what she was saying. But the words were incoherent and he realised that she was obviously distressed about something, and without conscious thought he leaned forward and shook her gently, waking her.

  He saw her eyelashes flutter, and then her eyes opened, and for a heartbeat they remained unfocussed, until the light from the moonlight illu
minated his presence in the room, and she gasped in fright, pulling the thin silk cover up to her chin, the gesture one of pure protection. But then she must have realised who it was, as she whispered, “Marsallas! You have come back. I didn't think you would.”

  Marsallas said nothing. He watched her sit up slowly, using one arm to pull herself up, whilst with the other she gripped the silk cover in an age old gesture of modesty. Her hair hung down her back in thick black silken waves that shone as the moonlight reflected off them. Marsallas realised that this was the first time he had ever seen her hair unbound, and he had to resist the strong urge to wrap his fist in it, and pull her forward, until-

  “Is something wrong, Marsallas?” She asked, her voice hesitant.

  Marsallas came back to earth with a start, and his eyes shot to hers. Eyes he noticed, that were watching him intently. For a moment, neither of them moved as they stared at each other. Then he saw her tongue come out to moisten her lower lip, the movement so erotic that he found himself hardening with desire, and he moved towards her, placing his hands on either side of her headboard, trapping her. He leaned forward, inch by slow inch, until they were a hairs breath from touching each other, so close that Marsallas could see the pupils of hers eyes dilate in response to his nearness. They stared at each other. He could smell the sweet scent of her skin, lavender floating on a breeze, and he had to fight the urge to kiss her.

  But then the sound of a screech from outside the window – an owl most probably – startled Justina, and the spell was broken between them. Marsallas pulled back from her as if he had suddenly been burnt.

  He cursed himself for succumbing to her charms, and for nearly kissing her. Angry with himself for desiring her, wanting her so much, he lashed out, “Nothing is wrong, Justina. Nothing at all,” he drawled, “I was wondering what you must have looked like in my uncle’s bed every night, that is all. And now I know.” His words caused her to gasp, and she recoiled from him, the desire he had seen in her huge grey eyes replaced by hurt.