“More,” she said.
He gave her more.
* * *
“I think it’s going to rain again,” Julia said dreamily, listening to the rising wind whipping the trees along the edge of Larthia’s back garden.
Marcus grunted, almost asleep.
Julia stirred, touching herself gingerly to see if she was still bleeding. She was not. Larthia had thoughtfully provided a lavabum, a water bowl and pitcher, and clean cloths. Julia had washed, but she still felt marked, as if everyone could read on her forehead that she now belonged to Marcus.
“Tell me about yourself,” Julia said to him, snuggling closer to his warmth, her head on his bare chest.
“You just learned all you need to know about me.”
“You know what I mean.”
“What do you want to hear?”
“Everything.”
He smiled, his mouth moving in her hair. “For the last thirty years?”
“Well, why did you join the Roman army?”
“To get off the farm,” he said promptly.
“Did you hate it so much?”
“I was a very bad farmer,” he said shortly.
“And your father?”
“He was a good farmer.”
“He must have been sorry to lose you.”
“I have a younger brother who stayed in Corsica.”
“And how did you join the army?” Julia asked, running her fingers lightly down his sinewy arm.
“I came to the Capitol and the consuls with the help of the military tribunes selected four thousand of the applicants to form a legion. Caesar saw me and personally picked me from a crowd to be in his.”
“Picked you?”
“For obvious physical attributes: size, stamina, general health.”
“And that was all?”
“That was all. Rome has many enemies. The army needs men to fight them.”
“And you have lived the army life for eleven long years,” Julia said.
“The time passed quickly.”
“Because you were always fighting?”
“Or preparing to fight.”
Julia sat up and touched the livid scar which bisected his chest just above the left nipple.
“Where did you get this?” she asked.
“In Gaul.”
“How?”
“A naked barbarian with his face painted blue tried to thrust his dagger into my heart.”
“And all these others?” she asked, trailing her forefinger down his chest to his belly.
“Different places. The Roman style of warfare is mainly hand to hand combat, you get carved up fighting in close quarters.”
She kissed his shoulder lingeringly. “I’m so afraid you’ll go to Parthia and I’ll never see you again.”
He put his hand under her chin and turned her face up to look at him.
“As long as I’m alive you’ll see me again.”
“That’s what worries me. Will you be alive?”
“I’ve survived eleven years against all manner of men, and now I have a better reason than I ever had before to go on living.”
“You must have had a lot of lovers in that amount of time,” she observed.
Marcus knew better than to discuss this subject with any woman, much less Julia, who was already insecure about her lack of experience.
“Not so many,” he said.
She snorted. “I’ve heard about soldiers.”
He laughed aloud at her worldly wise tone. “What have you heard?”
“That they’ll mount anything that moves,” she replied, and he stared at her, amazed that she had ever been exposed to such vulgar language.
“Who told you that?” he said.
“Margo, my slave. She was a Helvetian captive and she said when the Romans took over her village the soldiers raped all the women and stole everything.”
Marcus shrugged dismissively. “Warfare is different, though I confess I have never taken much pleasure in forcing myself on an unwilling woman. Mutual yearning is much more satisfying to the soul.”
“Mutual yearning?” she said, running her hand down his middle and encircling him with her fingers.
He closed his eyes.
She stroked him as he rose to fullness in her hand. “Like this?” she breathed.
He seized her and rolled her onto her back. “You learn fast, white rose,” he murmured, as she surged against him.
“Make love to me again,” she whispered, and he did.
* * *
Verrix knelt outside Larthia’s bedroom door, scouring the grout in the tiled floor. She had chosen this task for him because it would put him in the right place and take a lot of time, so he could protect the people inside the room. The irony of his making sure that the officer who had turned him in to the Roman magistrates was able to enjoy his lover in peace was not lost on him.
But if Larthia wanted him to do it, he would.
He had been at his task for some time when Larthia rushed up to him, her face as white as her stola.
“What is it?” he said in an undertone, rising from his crouching position.
“My grandfather has just arrived at the front door,” she said, her expression indicating what she thought of this development. “I have to keep him busy in the tablinum so he doesn’t wander around the house.”
“What does he want?”
“I have no idea, but if he finds out that Julia is in my bedroom at this very moment, entertaining her soldier lover, we are all in big trouble.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“The same as before, make sure nobody gets past you until I’m able to send him on his way.”
Verrix nodded.
“I’m counting on you, Verrix.”
“I understand.”
Larthia fled, rounding the corner outside the tablinum just as Nestor arrived with the wine she had ordered.
“Grandfather,” she said as she entered, flashing her widest smile, “I’m sorry about the interruption, just a domestic matter I had to settle. Would you care for some wine? It’s the best Lesbian, your favorite.”
Casca nodded distractedly, and Larthia gestured for Nestor to pour the drinks. When he had done so she said, “You may go, Nestor. Don’t disturb us for any reason.”
Nestor bowed his head and left.
“Now what can I do for you?” Larthia asked, sitting across from her grandfather.
“I’ve come to give you some advice,” Casca said, draping his elaborate toga over his knees. Larthia noticed that the hem of it was stained with mud, and reflected that he must have been in a hurry to get to her.
“What a surprise,” she said, smiling again to take the sting out of her words.
“I’m serious, Larthia. The political situation is worsening, the Senate was almost in chaos this morning. I think you should take your money out of the banks and put it into gold, plate and coins and jewellery. Do it discreetly, in small lots, but turn it into transportable goods.”
Larthia stared at him. “Are you doing this?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Won’t word of it get out to the rest of the people? There will be a run on the banks.”
“We’re keeping it quiet.”
“Are things that bad?”
He sighed. “If it comes to civil war, who knows who will wind up controlling the government backed banks? If Caesar prevails those of us who opposed him will be removed from our positions at the very least, bankrupted at best. The last time it reached this point, under Sulla, his enemies found their homes razed to the ground and all of their personal property confiscated.”
Larthia was listening now. “Tell me exactly what to do,” she said.
Casca outlined his plan, and Larthia was closeted with him for a good while. There was no need to prevent him from going through the house; he accomplished his mission and then left. When Larthia returned from seeing him out she noticed that Verrix was absent from his post in the bac
k hall. She sought Nestor immediately, trying not to panic for the second time that night.
“Where is Verrix?” she demanded. “ I see that his task here has been abandoned and I specifically asked him to finish it all tonight.”
“I’m afraid there was an incident with him, mistress, while you were closeted with Consular Casca and had asked me not to be disturbed.”
“An incident?” Larthia said. She did not like the way Nestor was avoiding her eyes.
“He refused to obey a direct order I gave him,” Nestor replied uneasily.
“What was that?”
“I wished to enter your room because it had begun to rain again. I had left the windows open and I was sure the floor would be flooded.”
“I told you not to go in there for any reason,” Larthia said sharply, beginning to see where this was leading.
“Yes, but...” the servant began.
“No buts,” Larthia cut him off. “The bedroom floor is my concern, not yours. Now what happened with Verrix?”
“He tried to prevent me from going into your bedchamber, I have no idea why. I knew you were not in there and could not understand his behavior, except to say that he always seems to take great pleasure in thwarting my objectives. When he would not stand aside I ordered Cammius and Menander to lay hold of him and force him back to his room. He resisted violently and fought with the men, injuring Cammius and breaking the valuable Etruscan vase that stands in the hallway outside your room. He made so much noise that I was afraid Consular Casca was going to hear it at the other end of the house.”
He was creating a disturbance to warn Julia and Marcus, Larthia thought.
“And what happened then?” she asked fearfully, holding her breath.
“Nothing. I went into the bedroom and closed all of the windows.”
“Was anything wrong in there?”
“No, mistress, what could have been wrong? The bed was disturbed, but I straightened it.”
“I took a nap earlier. So where is Verrix?” Larthia asked, relieved.
“Well, naturally I had to punish him,” Nestor replied.
“Punish him?” Larthia said softly.
“Yes, of course. How can I possibly maintain discipline among the slaves if they see Verrix refusing to take direction? There must be consequences for such behavior.” Nestor paused. “In my opinion, he should be sold.”
“What ‘consequences’ did you arrange?” Larthia said impatiently, ignoring the advice.
“I had him flogged,” Nestor replied. “Ten strokes.”
Larthia stared at the old man, stunned, unable to find her voice.
He looked back at her unblinkingly.
“What?” she finally managed to whisper.
“It’s the usual punishment for...”
“It’s not the usual punishment in this house, and well you know it!” Larthia said in a deadly tone. “How dare you take such a step without consulting me?”
“You said not to disturb you...” Nestor replied, his voice beginning to quaver.
“Don’t try to use my words to defend yourself!” Larthia shouted, livid with rage. “You seized the opportunity when I was preoccupied to do something you’ve wanted to do since Verrix first arrived here! Where is he?”
“In his room,” Nestor answered in a subdued tone.
“Send Menander to fetch Paris immediately. I don’t care what that doctor is doing, tell him I’ll pay him whatever he requires to come here right now and tend to Verrix.”
“His wounds are not serious,” Nestor started to say. “He is just...”
“I will be the judge of that!” Larthia shouted, cutting him off. “And take yourself out of my sight. If I deal with you now I may regret my actions, I’m too angry to make any decisions. I’ll summon you later.”
Nestor bowed and withdrew without a word. As soon as he left Larthia ran down the corridor to the servants’ quarters, her skirts gathered into her hands. The slaves who had heard her voice raised in the tablinum scurried out of her way, anxious not to be the next victim of her wrath.
Larthia burst into the cell next to the kitchen, raising her hand to her mouth when she saw Verrix sprawled face down on the bed. His tunic had been ripped open to the waist to expose his broad back, which was now striped with ugly red welts, the skin flayed open and oozing blood. The tunic still hung down in shreds over his homespun trousers, which he insisted on wearing in spite of the fact that they marked him as an outsider, a non Roman, as much as his torque. His blond hair was dark with perspiration, the valley between his shoulder blades damp and glistening. His eyes were closed and his breathing labored.
Larthia went over to his bed and sat on its edge next to him, putting her hand gently on the back of his neck.
How often she had longed to touch him like this, longed to see him stripped to the waist, his beautiful torso bare, but it took this awful accident to make her wishes reality. He had suffered this painful punishment, and said nothing to stop it, because he wanted to keep close the secret she had entrusted to him.
Larthia felt her throat constrict with tears but forced them back. Crying now would not help Verrix; she had to be strong in this situation. She dug her fingers into the golden curls at the nape of his neck and then caressed his arms, the well developed biceps, the tanned skin covering them warm and dry. She tried not to look lower, but eventually had to see each individual stroke of the lash, the skin ripped at the edge of the welt indicating that the flogger had used the metal tipped flagellum, the leather whip, not the less abrasive rope favored for servants.
Nestor had not done this himself, she thought, he didn’t have the strength to cut so deep. He must have assigned one of the younger men the job.
“Oh, my poor darling,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “This is all my fault. I was so flustered at my grandfather’s sudden arrival that I didn’t think..” She broke off despairingly. “I told Nestor not to go in my room, but he just wanders the house at will, no matter what I say to him. He seems to think the place is his, he’s old and getting senile but I can’t put him out on the street, he was with my family before my father was born.” She stopped, realizing that her distress was making her ramble. “What does it matter now how it happened? It did, and I am so sorry.”
Verrix stirred and she withdrew her hand as if she had been burned. He rolled to one side, wincing as the edge of his back came into contact with the bedding, and looked up at her.
“Larthia,” he said hoarsely, reaching out with one hand as he propped himself up with the other.
“Yes,” she said soothingly. “Yes, it’s me. Just lie still, don’t try to get up. The doctor is on his way.”
“Don’t need...doctor.”
“Yes, you do.” She pushed him firmly back into position, face down on the bed, as he murmured, “Nestor...going...your room...had to...stop...”
“Shh, shh, no talking. Don’t waste your strength. I know all about it. He saw nothing, they must have gotten away safely. I will deal with Nestor in my own good time.”
His eyes drifted closed, but as she slipped her hand into his open one on the bed his fingers coiled around hers.
“I am so sorry,” Larthia whispered again, biting her lip to stem the tears that threatened once more. “This should never have happened. I shouldn’t have drawn you into my sister’s intrigue, just look at the price you’ve paid.”
His breathing slowed, became deep and even. He was either sleeping or unconscious; in either event the doctor would be with him soon.
Larthia crawled up onto the bed and put her head on his bare shoulder, taking care not to touch the abraded skin below it.
She would stay with him until the doctor came.
* * *
The Gracchus house was dark except for the torchlight blazing in the tablinum windows. Marcus hoped that the Senator and Septimus were sitting up talking (fighting), which meant he could slip Julia into his friend’s bedroom unnoticed. He carried her across the portico and
then set her down, barefoot, on the flagstones outside Septimus’ window. When he tried the shutters he found that they were locked. Quietly, carefully, he removed his knife from the sheath at his waist and sliced through the latch, then removed the bar from the inside. He lifted Julia over the sill and then vaulted into the darkened room after her.
“Just wait right here,” he said softly. “I’ll go and get Septimus.”
“What if someone comes in here while you’re gone?” Julia whispered. She was pale, damp, terrified; he felt like a brute, hauling her around in the night like a sack of grain. He knew she was humiliated; they had fled the Sejanus house like a pair of thieves when they heard Verrix making a commotion in the hall, and now they were entering the Gracchus house in the same surreptitious manner, through a window.
“Get into the bed. Any servant who comes in will think you’re Septimus’...companion. He often brings women home, his parents prefer that to his risking his life in the Suburra.”
He could see from the expression on her face that the whole episode was distasteful; their romantic interlude had deteriorated into a farce by Plautus. But he didn’t have time to worry about that now. He had to find Septimus and get Julia back to the Atrium before Livia Versalia began to wonder where her charge was.
He kissed her forehead. She was shivering uncontrollably, even while wearing his heavy cloak. He put his arms around her and held her tightly until her tremors subsided.
“Better?” he said.
She nodded.
“I’ll be back as quickly as possible.”
He left her standing in the middle of the room, a dim outline of light clothing as he vaulted back over the sill and onto the portico. He raced through the garden and sprinted around to the front of the house, pausing to smooth his hair with his palms and straighten his clothes. Then he knocked on the door, hoping nobody would notice that he was missing his cloak.
A servant admitted him and went to summon Septimus. When the latter appeared it was immediately apparent to Marcus that he was drunk.
“Marcus! Did you decide to take us up on our offer anyway? Better late than absent is my motto. Come into the parlor and have a drink.”
Marcus waited until the servant had left and then grabbed his friend’s arm.
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