The Roman

by Caroline Storer

  “Get out!” She shouted, “Get out.”

  Marsallas hardened himself against the vulnerable picture she presented and bowed, the gesture a mocking one, his eyes unreadable as he looked down at her. “If you insist,” and with that he left the room without a backward glance.

  *..*..*

  Justina only managed a few hours’ sleep, having finally drifted off when the sun had started to rise. And when Olivia - her tire-woman - had come into the room barely an hour later she had risen listlessly before washing and donning a simple cotton stola. She now sat in a chair next to her bedroom table eating some fruit, as Olivia fussed about the room tidying it up. Once the young girl had finished, she set about styling Justina’s hair. But unusually for her, Olivia was quiet, and concerned for her welfare, as normally the young girl was a little chatterbox, Justina asked, “All is well, Olivia?”

  Olivia hesitated for a moment, her hand stilling momentarily as she brushed Justina's silken hair, before she answered, “I was wondering, Mistress what will become of me, and the other slaves, now that the Master is dead.”

  Justina sighed, and she worried her bottom lip before replying, “In truth, I do not know, Olivia. I have no idea what Marsallas plans are for the villa. But I promise you, I will try my utmost to find out and let you, and the other, slaves know.”

  “Thank you, Mistress. You…you have always been so kind to me.”

  Justina never said anything more, and when Olivia had finished styling her hair the young girl bowed and left the room. For a long time Justina sat at the table, her mind racing, before she got up and walked over to the window. She hadn’t said anything to Olivia earlier, but she had been thinking a lot about what would happen to her tire-woman. She had some money, not a lot, but she planned to ask Marsallas if he would be willing to sell Olivia to her. She couldn’t bear the thought of the young girl being sold to someone else.

  Pain lanced through her, and she wrapped her arms around her middle as she remembered the time five years ago when Olivia had first arrived at the villa. She had only been thirteen, bought from the slave markets to serve Justina’s every need.

  But what Olivia didn’t know at the time was that she had been a replacement for Justina’s first tire-woman, Vibia.

  Justina’s heart lurched as she thought of the young girl. Vibia, had only been fifteen, a year younger than Justina had been. But unknown to Justina at the time, as well as catering for her every needs, Vibia had been ordered to report everything that Justina did to Quintus.

  She was, in effect, Quintus’s spy…

  So when Justina took it upon herself to escape from the villa one night, six months after she had been given to Quintus, she hadn’t realised what the consequences of her actions would be.

  The attempt to escape had been a futile one in the end. She’d had no plan, no strategy as to how she was to do it. Desperation had driven her to it. Being confined in the villa had driven her insane, so one night she had gone down to the pier and she’d just jumped into the water intending to swim to the shore and run away. Her plan had been to get to Rome somehow, to find Marsallas, explain everything and beg his forgiveness.

  But she’d never even reached the shore. She’d been seen by one of the slaves who’d told Quintus, and a boat had been launched to fetch her. It had been Diogenes who had lifted her out of the water, like she was some sort of exotic fish that he had landed, and who had taken her back to the villa where Quintus was waiting for her.

  She would never forget the moment she saw Quintus standing on the wooden decking of the pier waiting for the boat to dock. He had hold of Vibia by her hair in one of his hands, and a long thin whip, which he’d often used on the slaves, in the other. And when she had been unceremoniously dumped out of the boat to lay in a sodden heap on the wooden planks, and he was sure he had her full attention, only then had he thrown the poor girl down onto the floor and started to whip her. It was then that Justina realised to her horror that Vibia was being punished for allowing her to escape.

  He’d given her twenty lashes; lashes that had cut through her clothing causing her to bleed, and to this day she remembered the agonised screams of the poor girl as she lay crouched on the wood, her hands covering her head as she tried to protect herself.

  But it was only when he’d finished whipping her that Justina found out what Quintus was truly capable of.

  “Get her out of my sight,” he’d ordered to one of the male slaves that stood silently next to him. “I never want to see her again. Take her to the local brothel and sell her,”

  “No, Quintus, I beg you,” Justina had pleaded, and on her hands and knees she had crawled over to him and pulled at the hem of his toga, “Let her stay, I beg you. I…I promise you that I will never try to leave here again.”

  But it had all been for nothing, and she’d watched in horror as Vibia was dragged away, kicking and screaming. It was the last time she ever saw her…

  And as she watched Vibia being taken away, she had been was unprepared for the sting of the whip that lashed across her back when Quintus turned his fury onto her. Pain tore through her as she felt the sting of the lash slice across her skin. Over and over he whipped her, and like Vibia she tried to shield herself from the blows by wrapping her hands over her head.

  Eventually, he stopped, and Justina was vaguely aware that he’d only stopped because of the intervention of Diogenes who had stepped forward and grabbed his arm.

  “Enough, Master.” The two words were enough to jolt Quintus out of his blind rage, and he’d thrown the whip down next to her and stormed off back to the villa.

  For several long minutes Justina lay on the floor, curled up in a tight ball of misery, before she felt herself lifted, unable to stop the exclamation of pain that tore through her.

  “I am sorry, Mistress, but we must get your wounds tended to,” Diogenes said, cradling her in his massive arms, “If we don’t, they could fester and you could die,” and with her whole body screaming with pain she was carried back to the villa.

  The only good thing that came out of the whole sordid mess was that she came to know Lydia who had been brought to the villa to tend her wounds, and who was to become a firm friend to her over the following years…

  * * *

  Justina took a deep breath, wiped her suddenly sweaty hands down her silk gown, before she knocked on the door to the tablinum, and without waiting for an invitation opened it and stepped inside.

  She saw Marsallas leaning over a pile of papers and ledgers, a frown of concentration on his face, totally unaware of her presence. His dark hair appeared tousled, as if he had recently raked his fingers through it, and she had the urge to go over to him and brush it back to normality. But despite his dishevelment, he still looked totally in control. This was a man who knew his place in society. For a few uninterrupted moments she studied him, taking in his power, his strength as he sat at the desk. He was dressed in a blue tunic, the colour, she knew, would complement his eyes perfectly, and her eyes dropped down, taking in the finely honed muscles of his legs, down to his sandaled feet. Then unbidden her eyes travelled upwards, past the muscled forearms, the corded neck, and back to his face. He looked tired she thought-

  “Did you know about these debts?”

  The words were bitten out, interrupting her thoughts. She blushed in mortification as she realised that he had once again caught her staring at him. Not wanting to inflame what was already a difficult situation, Justina walked over to where he sat, staring up at her with an inscrutable expression on his face. Firming her chin she said with quiet dignity, “Yes.”

  “And did it not occur to you to tell me about them?”

  “I would have told you of course – but you were not here,” she explained with calm logic before continuing, “I was about to send a messenger to Rome to tell you.”

  She heard Marsallas grunt, as if, reluctantly he accepted her explanation. Then pressing her advantage she said quietly, “I didn’t even know you had retu
rned to the villa until…last night.

  “How long have you known about all of this?”

  Justina shrugged slightly, “Since the morning of Quintus's death, when the creditors started to arrive at the villa.” She hesitated for a moment before asking, “Could you contest the will? I’m sure Quintus never meant-”

  “What would be the use of that, Justina?” He said harshly, “Quintus wasn’t mad was he? Just ill.”

  Her shoulders slumped. He was right. There had been nothing to say Quintus had lost his mind. He had been the same as always. Cold, and cruel, right up till the day of his death.

  “You can go now,” he said interrupting her thoughts.

  For a moment she hesitated, and Marsallas raised his eyebrows in silent command for her to continue. Justina lifted her chin slightly, “I…I would like to know what you intend to do with the slaves? Some of them have come to me with their concerns. I…I have a tire-woman, a young girl called Olivia.”

  Marsallas's eyebrows rose even higher, obviously surprised by her question. Shrugging slightly, he said, “I haven’t thought of them yet. I’m still trying to sort out the mess my uncle has left me, but I haven’t found anything here that helps me though,” he said with disgust, as he lifted a thick sheaf of papers from the desk.

  “I looked yesterday as well. I never found anything either.”

  “So you have been snooping around! Perhaps you did know what was going on after all!”

  Justina stiffened at his barbed comment before retorting, “I wasn't snooping as you so crudely put it. I was merely trying to find out exactly how much debt Quintus was in. And I told you the truth, I knew nothing of the debts until the day he died. Your uncle creditors have been hounding me ever since he died. They think -” She stopped speaking abruptly.

  “ … that as his mistress you could pay them.” Marsallas finished off, his mouth twisting in derision.

  Justina chewed her bottom lip, “Yes.”

  The tension in the room was palpable, and eventually Marsallas spoke, “In answer to your earlier question I haven’t thought of the slaves. How many of them are there?”

  “Not many. Ten at the most. Quintus had been reducing their numbers over the past few years. I suspect it was to reduce his overheads, considering the debts we now know about.”

  Marsallas grunted again, running a hand through his rumpled hair before murmuring, “I think you are right. It would seem to make logical sense.” For a long moment he said nothing, then he shrugged, “You can keep your tire-woman for now. As the former lover of such a prominent man as Quintus, you are expected to maintain a certain position here in Herculaneum. I will think about what to do with the other slaves once I have sorted this mess out.”

  Justina stiffened at the barbed insult, but she deliberately bit back a retort. Losing her temper right now would be stupid. She didn’t want to antagonise him to the extent that he rescinded his offer of letting Olivia stay. So instead, she bit her tongue, and changed the subject. “I’m not sure if you know, but Secundus, Quintus's overseer, left yesterday morning.” Thank the gods…

  A wry smile flitted across his face. “Yes, I had heard. But I don’t think it will be any great loss will it?”

  Justina smiled back at him, before she shook her head, “No. No loss at all.” Then she hesitated momentarily, before saying, “And I … I don't know if you are aware, but Diogenes has been given his freedom-”

  “Diogenes!” At her words Marsallas stiffened, his face suffusing with anger, at the mention of the former slaves name.

  Justina tried to appeal to him, “I know you hate him Marsallas, but he was only carrying out Quintus’s orders.” She felt a pang of sympathy as she saw a myriad of expressions cross his face. Then she firmed her resolve and continued, “You, of all people, should know what Quintus was like. If his orders weren’t carried out, then he would punish the slaves without any mercy. And…and not just the slaves either,” she added as an afterthought.

  “What do you mean “and not just the slaves either”?” He asked, frowning up at her.

  Justina shrugged, “He was a cruel man that is all.”

  “You’re lying, Justina. I’m in no mood for games, now I’ll ask you again, what do you mean?”

  Justina hesitated, cursing her wayward tongue. But realising she had no choice, she expanded, “He punished me as well.”

  “What for? How?”

  Justina looked away from the intensity of his gaze, taking an inordinate amount of interest in picking an imaginary piece of thread off her silk gown. Then she answered slowly, “He sold my tire-servant – a girl called Vibia. To…to the brothel in town. She was only sixteen years old.”

  “What did you do to warrant such punishment?” The words were spoken quietly, as if he sensed her fragility in talking about what had happened.

  She finally lifted her head and looked him squarely in the face, “I ran away.”

  “Why?” he asked, his voice was like silk, commanding an answer from her as he leant back in his chair and watched her.

  For a heartbeat she considered telling him everything. But she felt too raw, too vulnerable to reveal her innermost longings, the hopes she’d had back then. So instead she gave him a watered down version of the truth, “I…I was going mad. Your uncle forbade me to leave the villa, and I had nothing to do, day after endless day. One day I just couldn’t take any more, so I waited until it was dark, and left.”

  “Obviously you were caught.” The words were said drolly, and Justina blushed.

  “Yes,” she said, biting her bottom lip, “I hadn’t got very far when Diogenes caught me.”

  She heard Marsallas grunt, saw a faraway look enter his eyes, as if he too remembered what it was like to be a prisoner here in the villa, before she carried on, “And to punish me for running away, Quintus took his revenge out on Vibia. She was, apparently, supposed to watch my every move, no matter what time of the day it was.”

  Marsallas said nothing when she stopped speaking, and thinking he had nothing more to say to her she composed herself and said in a soft, measured tone. “If I may, I would beg your leave to remain here in the villa for a few more days before I leave.” And with that, she turned and walked towards the door.

  “Wait!” Marsallas shouted, at her retreating back, “Leave? Who said anything about you leaving?”

  Justina turned back to face him, “I…I can't stay here. This … this is your villa now,” she stammered, when she saw confusion shadow his eyes.

  Marsallas jerked his head slightly, his lips thinning, “Not for long I imagine,” he drawled, “I will need to sell it to pay my uncle’s debt. Stay as long as you like. I'm not that heartless as to throw you out on the streets.” Then as an afterthought he asked, “Where will you go anyway, if you were to leave here?”

  “I … I have friends. Lydia, your uncle’s healer, and her husband Marcus have offered me a place to stay. But I haven’t decided yet.” She lifted a shoulder in a gesture of nonchalance, “I have some money of my own-”

  Pushing back his chair, he advanced towards her, his eyes intent. “Where did you get the money from?” he barked, “I know my uncle never left you any in his will.”

  Justina hesitated in telling him, but then annoyed by the domineering tone of his voice, she snapped, “I earnt it by-”

  “On your back no doubt!”

  Justina gasped, and her neck jerked back in anger, her hand lifting to strike him, but as quick as a snake Marsallas grabbed it, roughly pulling her forward so she fell hard against his solid torso. His arms came around her holding her prisoner, before his face swooped down and his mouth captured hers.

  The kiss was a punishment, designed to humble and humiliate her, and Justina groaned in mortification, as his lips ground down on hers, demanding her surrender. She tried to twist away, but her strength was no match for his, and she heard him chuckle deep in his throat, the sound resonating deep in his chest.

  For endless moments the kiss went
on, until, subtly it changed and Justina felt his tongue probe gently, demanding, and eventually gaining access to the softness within.

  She moaned in longing as his arms slackened, allowing hers to creep upwards, until her fingers came to where the hair grew at the nape of his neck. Hesitantly, she ran her fingers through the silky softness, glorying in the texture, as the kiss deepened in intensity.

  Like someone lost in the desert, and desperate for water, she drank him in, the smell of him, the taste of him, the strength of him …

  Justina didn’t know how long the kiss lasted, but eventually her subconscious realised that Marsallas had stopped kissing her, and slowly she opened her dazed eyes pulling away from him, to see him staring down at her with hooded eyes, a dark stain of colour riding high on his cheekbones.

  He lifted his hand, to ward her off, as if she were an evil spirit of some kind, then he wagged a finger at her and whispered, his face hard, his eyes fierce, “You are good, Justina. Very good. One of the best I've ever had. You have learned the whore’s tricks well.”

  The insult made Justina recoil from him, before she bit out, her eyes flashing, “I am not a whore, Marsallas. You will do well to remember that.”

  Marsallas raised his eyebrows, “That's as maybe, but six years as my uncle’s mistress you have learned to kiss well.”

  “I repeat. I am not a whore. Your uncle never took me.” As soon as she had spoke the words, she saw disbelief cross his face, and unable to bear his scorn she turned away.

  She heard Marsallas laugh behind her, the sound hollow and false. “Your story is worthy of any of the plays I’ve seen performed at a Roman playhouse!”

  “It’s the truth I tell you,” she hissed, turning back to face him once more, anger making her bristle and spit like a frightened kitten. “Your uncle never took me. Why don’t you believe me?”