The Roman

by Caroline Storer

  Marsallas stepped closer, his large hand tilting her chin up so she had no option but to look up into his hooded gaze. “Because my uncle came to Rome, six months after I left this villa. He told me how he had taken you every night. Taught you all manner of things in his bed. He even told me you had become pregnant but had lost the child. So trust me, when I say there is nothing you can say that will convince me otherwise Justina. So don’t embarrass yourself any more by trying to protest your innocence. You kiss too well to be convincing!”

  The silence in the room was deadly, and then as if things could not get any worse Marsallas said, “And as we are talking about “truth” Justina. Just what is the truth? You pledged your love to me on your sixteenth birthday as we lay on the sand over there,” he said gesturing with his hand to the nearby beach. “Do you remember that? We were to be together. I was even going to ask you to marry me. Then I found out later that evening that you were to be my uncle’s mistress. So don’t tell me what the “truth” is Justina. I saw the truth all those years ago.”

  She looked away, unsure how to answer him. Would he believe her if she told him the truth, told him everything? She lifted her eyes to his. “I had no choice, Marsallas-”

  “There was always a choice, Justina,” he interrupted, his voice bitter. “I gave you that choice, remember?”

  Justina’s stomach knotted in fear when she realised what he was referring to, but before she could say anything, he went in for the kill, his fingers tightening fractionally on her chin before he bit out, “I gave you that choice when I came to your father’s bakery later that night and begged you to come away with me. But you just stood there didn’t you? You just stood there and told me that Quintus had the money to take you away from a life of drudgery, to provide you with everything you wanted.” His lips twisted in disgust, as he glared at her, “Didn’t you?”

  She swallowed hard, “Yes. Yes I…I did, but-”

  “Enough!” His eyes darkened in rage, cutting off her faltering words. “I once told you to rot in Hades, Justina. Well I hope you did, because I followed you there myself, and I’ve been there every day since.”

  And before she could say anything in her defence, he turned and left the study, leaving her standing there, her eyes haunted as she watched his tall broad shouldered figure stride out of the room.

  Once he had gone Justina slumped to the floor in anguish. “But I had no choice,” she whispered to herself, “No choice at all.”

  Then she moaned in despair. Was it always going to be like this between them? The past coming between them, destroying them, destroying everything? Never to be given the chance to heal, like some open festering wound?

  The truth was that she still loved him. As much – perhaps even more – than she had when she was sixteen. Her love for him hadn't died. It was as if it had lain dormant, curled up inside her heart these past six years, only to awaken once more on that fateful day when she had gone to his quarters at the Circus Maximus.

  Yes, she still loved him. Still longed for him - even though he had - and still did - treat her abominably. And that was the point? What useful purpose did it serve if she built up enough courage to tell him the truth about what had happened in their past and confess that she still loved him?

  He was so bitter, so resentful of her at the moment, that it would be emotional suicide to declare her love for him right now.

  And he wouldn't believe her anyway. Quintus had seen to that! By going to Rome he'd sowed the seeds of hate. Planted them so deep that they were incapable of being dislodged.

  She knew why he'd done it of course. He'd gone to Rome immediately after she had tried to run away. At the time she had known nothing of his trip as she had been seriously ill. A fever caused by the festering wounds on her back after Quintus had whipped her.

  Justina closed her eyes as a feeling of restlessness swept over her. She needed to do something physical to get rid of the tension that was pulsing through her. Standing up, she quickly made her way out of the villa, and headed towards the stable blocks, passing through the magnificent garden laid out to evoke the idyllic landscape of Elysium, the Roman paradise.

  When she reached the last of the blocks she opened a door and let herself in. She was momentarily taken aback when she saw Diogenes hard at work. He looked up at her, his body covered in sweat as he stoked the giant furnace.

  “I didn’t expect you here today. I thought you would have left.”

  Diogenes said nothing, but he did stand up straight, a frown of confusion on his face. Justina shrugged her shoulders slightly, “Your freedom,” she elaborated, “I thought you might have left already, that is all.”

  Diogenes came forward, and then, much to Justina’s surprise, he fell to his knees in front of her, “What-?”

  “I want to ask your forgiveness, Mistress. I have wronged you,” Diogenes said, interrupting her.

  “I…I don’t understand Diogenes?” She stuttered, taken aback by his words.

  “All these years, I have had to obey the Master,” Diogenes said slowly, his voice deep with the intensity of his feelings, “Do things that I didn’t want to do. Spy on you, follow you, watch your every move, and then tell him everything.”

  Justina stood open mouthed, amazed at what she was hearing, and amazed that he had spoken for so long!

  “And if I didn’t do what he asked, he would punish us all – you, and the other slaves.”

  “Oh Diogenes, I know that!” Justina implored, suddenly understanding. “I know you had no choice but to do as he ordered.”

  Diogenes nodded, and then stood up. “I would like to serve you if I may, Mistress. I want to repay my debt to you.”

  “But Diogenes there is no need. I understand, truly, I do. You have the opportunity to leave this place, to make a new life for yourself.”

  “Yes I know, but I want to stay here. Help you with the furnace, with the sculptures.”

  Justina lifted her hands up in frustration, “But this villa belongs to Marsallas now. I doubt very much if he wants me here. I’m only staying for a few more days until I find somewhere else to live. And if I can’t find somewhere, then Lydia has offered for me to go and live with her, and her, family…”

  Her words trailed off as she saw a faraway look come over the slave’s face. Relenting slightly, she said, “But I may very well need a bodyguard in the future, so if you wish to come with me then I would be most grateful, Diogenes.” Seeing the relief on his face Justina smiled, before nodding to the furnace, “Now shall we get to work?”

  Diogenes grinned, and for the next few hours they both worked together in a companionable silence.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Justina adjusted the fine silk scarf that she was using to cover her head. The heat from the afternoon sun was stifling, as she walked down the near deserted streets of Herculaneum. But the heat didn’t bother her in the slightest, and she glanced across at Olivia, and smiled. The young girl smiled back, and then they both giggled like two young girls caught up in the excitement of their first unaccompanied trip into the town.

  Ever since Secundus had left the villa, there had been a more relaxed atmosphere around the place, as if everyone could suddenly breathe more easily now he had gone. Since Quintus had fallen ill, the overseer had assumed total control, and he had done it without any compassion, ruling the villa with an iron will, enforcing his, and Quintus’s orders, with a heavy hand.

  But now he had gone, slinking away in the dead of night like a rat, and Justina couldn’t quite believe that after all these years, she finally had the freedom to wander down the streets of her own free will! It was a heady experience that was only tainted, when she came to what had once been her father’s bakery. It was now a silversmith, and as she peered through the wooden shutters into the dimness within, she saw no evidence at all that it had once been a thriving bakery that she, and her father, had toiled away in day after day.

  Justina sighed. It was all such a waste. Her father had been t
he best baker in the whole of the Bay of Naples. People had come for miles around to buy his bread, and both of them had worked hard to maintain their reputation.

  But it had all gone wrong of course. Her father’s gambling addiction had been their downfall. The gambling, which she had been aware of ever since she was a small child, had spiralled out of control, and unbeknown to her, she hadn’t realised that he had been borrowing money to finance it. Money, she found out to her cost that had come from Quintus. And when he couldn’t repay his debts, her father had given her to Quintus in exchange for them.

  Now as she stared sightlessly through the window, her mind recalled how it used to be when it was just the both of them working side by side in the shop. She couldn’t help the sigh of regret that escaped, oh, there was no denying that it had been hard work, but it had been rewarding work none the less. She smiled sadly when she remembered her father joking that the heat from the oven was so intense, that he was convinced that Hades was nothing, compared to the heat in his bakery on a hot summer’s day.

  And, as if it was only yesterday, she remembered how the shop had been laid out. Twenty five bronze baking pans used to hang from the walls, next to the oval oven, in perpetual readiness for the next batch of baking. It had been her job to clean the pans, as well as the shop itself, and she had been immensely proud of keeping everything clean and orderly inside the small bakery.

  At the back of the shop, in the courtyard, there were two blindfolded asses, harnessed to two huge round stone mills, and they had walked continuously in a circle, grinding the grain needed for the bread. It had been Justina’s job to look after them, and she had treated them well, her father often complaining that they were too fat, and that she fed them too much!

  To the left of the oven, there had been the dough room where her father had worked every morning, rising before dawn to prepare the traditional eight sectioned loaves that his customers had demanded. Later in the morning, Justina used to come down from their small apartment to the rear of the bakery, and help her father, once the first loaves had been taken out of the oven, and the shop had opened.

  “Do you wish to buy something from the silversmith, Mistress?”

  Olivia’s words jolted her out of the past and back to the present, and she couldn’t help the sigh that escaped. For a moment she envied the simple life she used to have. Then she shook her head, and turned to where Olivia was looking up at her, a small frown on her face, “No. Nothing from the silversmith, I was just reminiscing, that’s all,” then she smiled, “Come, we shall return to the villa now. It is far too hot for us to stay out in this heat.”

  * * *

  “Did you have a nice walk?”

  Justina raised an eyebrow at the words, spoken drolly by Marsallas, who she saw with a hint of annoyance, was lounging against the main gate watching her, as she walked towards him. His arms were crossed over each other, and her traitorous heart and stomach clenched with longing at the handsome profile he made. His eyes though, she noted, were hooded, revealing nothing about what he was thinking.

  Before she answered him, she dismissed Olivia with a small nod, noting with wry amusement that the young girl edged around him warily. Once she had gone, she replied cordially, “Yes. Thank you.” Then, with a hint of defiance in her voice she asked, “Is there a problem with me taking a walk? Did you want me for something?”

  Marsallas grinned, as a wicked glint came into his eyes, “Now there’s a leading question, wouldn’t you say?”

  Justina flushed in embarrassment, and dropped her gaze from him, totally ruffled by the almost boyish look on his face. It had been so long since she’d last heard amusement in his voice.

  Thankfully he changed the subject and asked casually, “How is your father these days?”

  Justina looked up at him quickly, as understanding dawned. He must have thought that she had gone to visit with him. “He died four years ago,” she said flatly.

  Marsallas stiffened, his smile fading. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. What ailed him?”

  Justina hesitated before answering, “I don’t know. I only found out that he died two months after he was buried.”

  “Two months! But surely Quintus would have told you sooner? Permitted you to go to his funeral?”

  Justina shrugged, “Quintus never told me anything, Marsallas. I thought you of all people would know how he was – how he treated everyone – so why would he change for me?” And with that she walked past him, her head held high and her back ramrod straight, leaving him to stare after her, a frown once again marring his handsome face.

  * * *

  “Where is your Mistress?” Marsallas asked later that afternoon as he walked into Justina’s bedchamber only to find a young girl readying the room.

  Startled the girl looked up at him and stuttered, “She … she is in the stables, Master.”

  Marsallas nodded, and was just about to leave when a thought struck him. “You are Justina’s tire-woman? Olivia?”

  “Yes…yes, Master.”

  Marsallas nodded at the young girl, who was staring at him with a fascinated gaze on her expressive face, before he turned and left the room and headed out towards the stable blocks.

  As he walked through the garden, he couldn't help but notice the sheer numbers of bronze statutes that had been placed all along the whole length of the garden. There must have been in excess of twenty of them, and he wondered how on earth his uncle could have afforded them. They would have cost him a small fortune.

  They were all magnificent though, and whoever had sculpted them was very good. For a moment he stopped, his eyes drawn to a full size replica of the Lance Bearer, the famous athlete. He knew the sculpture was a copy, as the original was by Polyclitus a Greek sculptor who had died over five hundred years ago. But none the less, this copy was superb! Whoever had done it had captured it perfectly, apart from the face, as that looked like-

  Marsallas baulked at what he saw, when he realised that the face looked exactly like his! Blinking, in case he had suddenly gone mad, he leaned closer and looked at the sculpture in detail.

  By the gods it was him! But how? Had his uncle had the sculpture commissioned to remind him of his lost nephew? It was possible of course – but highly unlikely. His uncle wouldn’t have wanted a permanent reminder of the nephew who had disobeyed him from the first moment he had arrived at his villa at the age of five. A nephew he had only taken in because it was his “duty” to look after him after his brother, and sister-in-law, had been killed by bandits who had ambushed them as they journeyed along the Apian Way.

  Marsallas shook in head in disbelief, and carried on towards the stable blocks, only to find the first one empty, both of horses and people. The second stable block only had one horse in it – his. As Marsallas patted his horse, he murmured softly, “All alone my friend? Where is everyone?” The horse just tossed his head, and Marsallas took some apples that were kept in a small wicker basket nearby, and fed his horse a treat. Once he had finished, he went into the next stable block but once again found that one empty too.

  Where in Jupiter’s name was Justina? Frowning, he walked back into the courtyard, and he was about to leave when he heard a noise coming from a small outbuilding that was set a short way back from the stables. With purposeful strides he headed for it, and without invitation swung open the door.

  The first thing that hit him was the heat. It was as hot, and dark, as he imagined Hades would be inside the room. For a moment he let his eyes adjust to the dimness within, before he stepped inside. Then he came to an abrupt halt, as his disbelieving eyes took in what lay before him. For there, covered in a thick old woollen gown was Justina, standing in some sort of sand pit. She had her back to him, totally unaware of his presence, as she waited for a sweat soaked Diogenes to finish pouring molten metal into a clay cast that was standing upright in the sand pit.

  Then reality hit him with the force of a hammer. She was the sculptor. All those bronzes in the garden had been mad
e by her…

  * * *

  Justina wiped the sweat from her brow with a piece of woollen cloth, watching as Diogenes carefully poured the molten bronze into the cast. They both knew that this was the most delicate part of the operation, as one false move would render the cast worthless, especially if air managed to get in.

  But with a practice borne out by over five years of experience, she saw that he had once again done a good job. She let out the sigh of relief that it had gone well, and looked up at Diogenes to thank him. But her words were never spoken, as she saw that he had stopped what he was doing, and was staring at the door.

  Justina had been concentrating so much on her work that she hadn’t even noticed that someone else was in the room. She whirled around, felt her stomach drop when she saw Marsallas watching them, a dumbfounded expression on his face. She felt a small glow of satisfaction flare inside, that that for once, she had managed to ruffle his feather’s and pierce his harsh demeanour.

  Justina held onto that, and taking the opportunity it presented, she beckoned him over with her hand, calling out, “Come in Marsallas, and see how I earn my living. As you can see, it is not on my back as you implied, but by sheer hard work!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "So all of these have been made by you?” Marsallas asked later, as they walked through the garden.

  “Yes.” Justina nodded, “There is about a year’s worth here.”

  “A year!” Marsallas exclaimed, “How long have you been sculpturing?”

  “For over five years now. I started after-”

  Marsallas frowned, “After what?”

  For a few seconds an uncomfortable silence fell between them, but then Justina shrugged, “I started sculpturing after I ran away. Quintus thought it would be for the best. Something to occupy my mind.”

  Marsallas glanced quickly at her, noting that she looked ill at ease for some reason. There was obviously something amiss here he thought. He was just about to ask her why when she said, “You could sell all these you know,” waving her hand to encompass all the bronze sculptures. “To…to help with the debts I mean. I’m not sure how much they will fetch, but it will be something. Quintus used to sell the ones I made before, I don’t know how much he got for them, but he must have made a profit because he let me carry on.”