“And then this morning when I sacrificed, he was in the crowd, watching me.”
“Did he speak to you?” Larthia muttered, looking toward the door, which was ajar.
“No, but...”
“But what?”
“The way he looks at me...” Julia closed her eyes and swallowed with difficulty.
Larthia got up and glanced into the hall, then shut the door. She rejoined Julia and said in a low tone, “This is what’s been bothering you? The way he looks at you?”
“Not just that. The way he makes me feel.”
“And how does he make you feel?”
Julia put her hand to her throat. “Since seeing him I can’t eat,” she whispered, “I can’t sleep...”
Larthia examined her sister intently. “Maybe his presence at the sacrifice was an accident.”
Julia shook her head. “He never took his eyes off me. I can feel them still. And now I think the next time I go out to that altar...” she stopped and bent her head.
“Do you want him to be there?” Larthia asked softly, grasping the situation immediately.
Julia bit her lip and shook her head, then she shrugged helplessly.
Larthia reached across the table and took Julia’s hand. “Julia, you know how perilous this is. You can’t encourage a flirtation with this man, I don’t care who he is. Your very life is at stake.”
Julia nodded sadly.
“You must remember how opposed I was to Casca’s choice of this life for you, but you’re committed to it now. If you violate your vows you’ll pay the price.”
Julia wiped her eyes. “Larthia, I haven’t even spoken to him...”she said.
“Something significant has happened, or you wouldn’t be in this state.”
“I just didn’t expect to feel this way. Once I entered the service I accepted that certain aspects of life would not be available to me.”
“You entered the service when you were ten years old! I was only fifteen but I did my best to avoid this fate for you; you know how successful I was. But surely you didn’t think that your training or your celibacy would exempt you from feeling desire.”
“Is that what I’m feeling? Desire?”
“Of course. I’ve seen this Demeter, he’s a very attractive man. And he’s also a celebrated war hero. How could you fail to be impressed?”
“It’s more than that. Men have come here before to record wills, it happens almost daily. But once I saw him, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.”
“And it seems he feels the same way about you.”
Julia was silent.
“He must know the penalties for pursuing a Vestal,” Larthia said quietly. “Is he that reckless?”
There was a knock at the door and both sisters jumped involuntarily.
“Come in,” Julia called.
Margo entered, bearing a tray.
“Livia Versalia presents her compliments to the esteemed widow of Consul Sejanus,” Margo announced, placing her burden carefully on the table in front of Larthia. It contained delectable pieces of honey glazed fruit, apples and figs and pears cut into slices and placed ornamentally around a centerpiece of whole oranges from the province of Judea.
“Return my compliments to the Chief Vestal, with my thanks,” Larthia replied.
Margo bowed and retreated, closing the door behind her as she left.
“Do you think she heard anything?” Larthia asked anxiously, looking after the servant.
“Even if she did, Margo wouldn’t say a word to endanger me,” Julia replied.
“Are you sure?”
Julia nodded. “I may not be sophisticated in the ways of the world you inhabit, Larthia, but within the confines of these walls I know which people I can trust.”
Larthia looked at the dessert tray without enthusiasm; she had lost her appetite too.
“What are you going to do about this centurion?” she asked Julia.
Julia closed her eyes. “I may never see him again.”
“But you think you will.”
Julia lifted one delicate shoulder. “I think from his history that he goes after what he wants.”
“What is his history?”
“I don’t know that much, only that he is the son of a freedman farmer from Sardinia.”
“But to come from that background and rise as high as he has in the army bespeaks a determination that he will now apply to his pursuit of you, is that it?” Larthia supplied.
Julia met her eyes and then looked away.
“His career must mean a great deal to him. He’s the confidante of Caesar, a line officer of the Imperator’s elite first cohort. Do you imagine that he will throw all that away in order to chase a forbidden woman?”
“I guess it does sound ridiculous, doesn’t it?” Julia replied, sighing.
“A little.”
“I don’t know, Larthia, but seeing him there watching me when I was sacrificing, I was so shocked...” She stopped and smiled gingerly. “I suppose I am making too much of it. Maybe it was a coincidence, or maybe he was just curious and wanted another look at me. That doesn’t mean anything further will come of it.” She laughed a trifle shakily. “I fear I am spending too much time by myself. Brooding allows one to magnify a small incident and turn it into a big problem.”
“I will come and see you more often,” Larthia said, smiling too. “If I request permission of Livia personally I’m sure she will allow it. It’s clear that you need company. I’m not doing anything except planning parties, posing for guild portraits, and fighting with my new bodyguard.”
“You’re fighting with him?” Julia said, grinning, taking pity on this anonymous slave who had the nerve to thwart Larthia’s whim of iron.
“Oh, he’s impossible, but Casca has attached him to me and I seem to be stuck with him.”
“Tell me about him,” Julia said, glad to change the subject, and Larthia complied.
* * *
When Larthia emerged from the Atrium Vestae a short time later, the square outside the temple was deserted except for her bearers and Verrix, who were waiting for her at the bottom of the steps. A few revelers on their way to the Suburra appeared around a corner as she said goodbye to Junia Distania, and Verrix placed his solid body between them and the path to his mistress until they had vanished from sight.
Larthia climbed into her litter without looking at him and then tapped its roof for the bearers to start moving. She sat staring straight ahead, her curtains closed, the increase in the amount of noise surrounding her telling her that they had moved from the quiet temple square into the main thoroughfare. This was jammed with the wagons of tradesmen: fruit sellers and wine merchants and rug vendors who were prevented by law from bringing the carts containing their wares into the city by day. So once darkness fell the streets came alive with the creaking of wheels, the neighing of horses and the cries of the slaves transporting goods for their masters. The occasional private litter mingled with this traffic, the bearers dodging wagon wheels as they crossed intersections to seek out the gravel side paths set aside for pedestrians.
Larthia was thinking about her visit with her sister, wondering where the latter’s fascination with the celebrated centurion might lead, when a crescendo of shouts alerted her to the presence of danger. She looked through the litter’s curtains to see a runaway horse bearing down on her, dragging a wagon piled high with African bananas. The slave driving the cart was trying desperately to rein in the terrified animal. Larthia barely had time to take in this nightmarish scene before Verrix leaned into the litter, seized both of her hands and yanked her bodily out of her seat. She had a sensation of flying through the air before she landed on her dignity on a grassy verge and Verrix landed on top of her.
For several seconds neither moved. Larthia dimly heard a splintering crash and then the horse thundering by her, followed by a confused babble of voices. Then she realized that she was immobilized; Verrix had her pinned to the ground.
It was not
an unpleasant sensation. He was big and solid and warm, and she DID feel protected. He smelled strongly of the pine soap Nestor issued to the slaves. Soap was an eastern innovation disdained by the Roman upper classes, who preferred to cleanse the skin with a strigil, but Nestor insisted that soap was necessary to counteract the effects of many hard laboring bodies living together in close quarters. She noticed too that her bodyguard’s hair and tunic smelled fresh, and that the skin at the base of his throat where her face was pressed was as silky as a baby’s.
Then she realized what she was thinking and said in a commanding voice, “Get off me!”
Verrix sat up immediately, surveying her to see that she was in one piece and then looking toward the litter. It was smashed at the side of the street and both bearers were sitting on the ground next to it, looking intact but shaken.
“Are you all right?” he called to them.
The men looked at one another and then nodded individually, standing gingerly, as if testing their limbs.
“You might ask that question of me,” Larthia said huffily, arranging her clothing and patting her hair. “I feel as if I’ve been hit by a German phalanx.”
“I hit you,” Verrix replied evenly. “It was me or the runaway horse and wagon.”
“That slave should be flogged and his owner fined,” Larthia said peevishly. “Any man who can’t control an animal shouldn’t be left in charge of one.”
“Her ladyship is fine,” Verrix called to the crowd which was lingering to see if there were any injuries. “Go about your business.” He extended his hand to Larthia, who took it and tried to stand. Her left ankle gave way beneath her.
“I am not fine!” she barked at him. “I can’t walk, I think my leg is broken.”
He astonished her by squatting next to her and lifting the hem of her palla. He encircled her slim ankle with his supple brown fingers and manipulated the joint.
“It’s not broken,” he announced, as she gasped at his effrontery, looking around furtively to see who was witnessing this familiarity. To her relief the crowd was dissipating and only a few people were looking her way.
“Take your hands off me this instant,” she said between her teeth.
Verrix obeyed, rising in one smooth motion. “I merely wanted to see if the bone was splintered,” he said mildly. “I think it’s just a sprain.”
“Are you a physician now?” Larthia asked sarcastically, wincing as he withdrew his support and she tried to put her weight on the injured leg.
“I saw many such injuries during the rebellion,” he replied. “I think I know when a bone is broken, and yours isn’t.”
“Nevertheless, I cannot walk,” Larthia said, enunciating each word clearly as if he were slow witted.
“Then I will carry you,” he answered, and before she could protest he had scooped her up in his arms and was striding along the footpath in the direction of the Palatine hill.
“Leave the litter where it is, the street cleaners will get it later,” Verrix said to the two bearers. “Just follow me back to the house.”
They fell in behind him as Larthia had no choice but to let the big slave haul her bodily up to the Sejanus estate. She stared off into the distance with her arms around his neck, refusing to meet his eyes, as he carried her easily, not even winded. She tried not to dwell on the strength of his arms or the breadth of his shoulders under her hands, but since her only experience with men had been the feeble embraces of a bisexual old man, she could not help noting the difference. This was a YOUNG man, a young and virile man, and his constant proximity to her person was beginning to make her anxious.
Once inside the house, Verrix set Larthia on a couch in the tablinum and then brought a torch from a wall niche to examine her injured member more closely.
“Leave me alone!” Larthia snapped as he bent over her foot. Her nerves were raw, the prospect of another probing by this infuriating man increasing her tension. “I’ll send for my physician in the morning.”
“You should bathe the ankle in cold water,” Verrix said stubbornly. “It will reduce the swelling.”
“Then send Nestor for some,” Larthia replied wearily. She was achingly tired, her ankle was throbbing, and Verrix looked as if he had just arisen from a restful nap after carrying her uphill for more than a mile. She wanted to hit him.
Verrix went into the hall and she heard him talking to someone; he returned shortly with a basin. He elevated her foot onto a stool and then slipped the basin into place, easing her ankle into the water.
“Ah!” she gasped, yanking her foot out again and splashing water onto the tiled floor. “That’s freezing!”
“Yes, I know,” he said, seizing her foot and submerging it firmly. “Unless you want your ankle to look like a Jericho orange in the morning I suggest you leave it where it is.”
Larthia obeyed reluctantly, her expression mutinous.
“You’re enjoying this,” she said accusingly.
His disgusted expression indicated what he thought of that statement.
“It’s all your fault anyway,” she added childishly.
He stared at her.
“If you had been looking where we were going none of this would have happened.”
“The horse came around a bend in the road. If you have devised a method of seeing around corners I wish you would let me know about it,” Verrix replied.
“You’re supposed to be taking care of me!”
“I thought I was doing that,” he replied evenly. “You have lived in Rome far longer than I have. You know you should not be abroad in the streets late at night when deliveries are being made and the gangs roam at will.”
“I will not be trapped in this tomb of a house all my life!” Larthia burst out, then looked away from him irritably.
“Then go to see your sister during the day,” Verrix said reasonably.
“She is busy during the day. Don’t ask me with what, but they manage to keep her occupied.”
“It seems to me you have enough to do,” Verrix said. “Your late husband’s affairs are complex.”
Larthia snorted derisively.
“If you are lonely...” Verrix began.
“Don’t speak to me that way!” Larthia said tersely, suddenly conscious of the fact that she was confiding in a servant. “I don’t care if your uncle was a king or your grandfather a god, you will keep a civil tongue in your head when you address me!”
Verrix stiffened, as he always did when reminded of his servile status, but his expression revealed nothing. Then it changed from perfect blankness to startled consternation when Larthia burst into tears.
He waited a long moment, then said, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
She looked away from him and said, “You can go.”
He hesitated. “Are you certain you want me to leave?”
“Yes. Send Nestor to me when you do.”
Verrix went into the hall and then back to the slave quarters, where the slave master was giving directions on airing the bedding. The wooden frames were being stripped of their straw mattresses and woolen blankets. The mattresses would be replaced with fresh ones and the blankets washed. Nestor saw to it that this was done regularly; it was a point of pride with him that his slave dormitory was well maintained. He always supervised the process at night because he thought it was bad luck to change bedding during the daylight.
Nestor looked up impatiently when he saw the big Gaul standing in the doorway.
“What is it?” he asked.
“The mistress wants to see you,” Verrix replied.
“Where is she?”
“In the tablinum. She met with an accident in the street and is bathing her foot.”
“An accident?” Nestor inquired, raising one gray eyebrow, his lips pursed.
“A runaway horse smashed her litter, but she escaped unhurt. I carried her back here.”
Nestor looked at the younger man intently for a moment and then said, “Go inside and help remov
e the old mattresses. I’ll attend to the mistress.”
Verrix obeyed and Nestor hurried along the corridor leading from the slave quarters to the front of the house. When he entered the tablinum he found Larthia wiping her eyes with the hem of her diploidion and frowning down at her elevated foot.
“Are you quite all right, mistress?” he asked, although the answer was obviously in the negative.
“I am not. I want you to summon that Greek physician from the Via Sacra near the Diana fountain, first thing in the morning. What is his name?”
“His name is Paris, mistress. He was the house slave of Senator Pilatus Dolabella and was freed in the will when the Senator died.”
“Yes, yes, that’s the one. I remember that he healed my father’s wrist the time he broke it.”
“He is very skilled, mistress, I will certainly get him for you as soon as the sun rises. Will there be anything else?”
“I’ll need some help to get to my bedroom. I can’t walk unassisted.”
“Shall I summon Verrix?” Nestor asked.
“No!” Larthia said sharply, and then, in a milder tone, “I am not heavy. I think you can manage.”
“Has Verrix offended in some way, mistress?” Nestor asked. “I will speak to him...”
“It’s not necessary to speak to him, Nestor, as if that would have any effect,” Larthia said dryly, rising with difficulty and putting her arm across the old man’s frail shoulders. “Verrix just has a tendency to take charge and I don’t want him taking charge of me again tonight.”
She hobbled toward the door as the servant assisted her; they headed in tandem toward her room.
* * *
Verrix finished turning the beds in the dormitory and then retired to his room. He lay down on his bed, identical to the ones he had just changed, and stared out his tiny window at the stars blooming in the sky.
He slept poorly in this house. Often he dreamed he was back in Gaul with his tribe, swimming in the icy rivers, making camp in open fields, moving from place to place as the spirit and the harvests directed his people. Then he would awaken in this cell and remember his slavery, his isolation, and his bitter fate.
He hated being at the beck and call of his conquerors, but he was beginning to feel a little sorry for Larthia, Lady Sejana. Scarred by the early death of her mother, bartered by her grasping father, hideously neglected by her frequently absent and always inattentive husband, confused and unhappy as a result: these things he had learned about her from listening to the other servants. Added to that fund of information was what he had observed for himself. She could not pass a beggar without tossing a coin, she was as solicitous of fussy old Nestor as if he were her father, and that evening on the way to the Atrium Vestae she had given up her litter to a sick child who needed assistance in getting home. This did not make her the good goddess, certainly, but neither was she the self centered shrew that she appeared to be at first glance.
The Raven and the Rose Page 7