Yes, in his youth, Marcus must have been a very handsome man. For the first time, Phaedra realized that his stateliness held its own appeal. She hoped he was kind, or perhaps learned. They had shared few words up till now, so she knew not what to make of him. Even here, at their wedding banquet, he leaned away from Phaedra and spoke to her father and Consul Fimbria about the upcoming magisterial elections in the provinces. They discussed whom they favored and why. Phaedra tried to listen but soon grew bored.
Acestes smiled at her. Phaedra smiled back but kept her eyes down. She wanted to appear neither rude nor encouraging. To balance between the two was to walk the sword’s edge, one wrong step fatal.
“You make a lovely bride,” Acestes said.
“Thank you.” She shifted her veil so it draped like a curtain between them. He should not speak to her so, not here, not ever.
Acestes laughed. “You never need to hide from me, or my compliment.”
She wished that Marcus would intervene on her behalf. He sat next to her, his elbow so close that if she stretched out her finger she could touch him. Yet he spoke to the other men—senators and knights of the republic—ignoring her as if she were not there at all.
With her face still hidden behind the safety of the veil, Phaedra said, “I thank you for your kind words.”
She surveyed the room. It was filled with people—laughing, talking, eating, and drinking. Some wandered about, a plate or cup in hand, while others lounged on sofas. Without a doubt, it was the most guests she recalled ever having in her home.
And they had all come for her.
No, she reminded herself, very few were in attendance for Phaedra. Most had come for her father or Marcus. A few might have attended only to see the famous Valens Secundus fight.
Yet to see her triclinium packed with people made it look like a different place altogether. And certainly not the quiet room where Phaedra often came to read histories of philosophy.
It was not as if she never left the villa, not that she knew no one. She did leave, and often, too. Whenever her father needed her to attend a state dinner, Phaedra went. There were also the times he wanted to make better friends with a certain senator or wealthy Roman. Phaedra was then dispatched to call upon that senator’s daughter or wife.
Many of those women were in attendance. Phaedra wondered if Marcus would require her to continue those friendships or if she would need to nurture new ones. She liked the ladies well enough. Yet there was but one person for whom she felt true friendship.
Her best friend and matron of honor, Fortunada, stood near the door, goblet in hand. Their eyes met and she lifted her cup in salute. Phaedra lifted hers as well. Just seeing her friend lifted Phaedra’s spirits. From behind, Fortunada’s husband approached. He placed a hand upon his wife’s shoulder and lifted his goblet to Phaedra as well. Again, she returned the gesture. But neither Fortunada nor her husband saw. They stood close and spoke only to each other.
There was no place in their love for Phaedra. She did not begrudge her friend a happy marriage. On the contrary, she longed for a husband of her own who also loved her to distraction.
“A friend of yours?” asked Acestes.
“She is,” said Phaedra.
“Good and true friends are a rare commodity in Rome.”
“I believe you are right. I am sure that is why my father chose your uncle as husband to me.”
Acestes looked beyond Phaedra to Marcus and the conversation about politics. “They are all very intent on running the republic. Friendship plays but a minor role,” he said in a voice not much above a whisper.
She knew enough not to speak ill of her husband, even if he did ignore her. “All of them are important men, to be sure.”
“I plan to leave for North Africa with the legion by month’s end,” Acestes said.
“It seems as though I am surrounded by important men.”
“I plan to be consul myself one day. That is all I have ever wanted.”
“May Fortune smile on your ambitions.” Phaedra tucked the veil behind her shoulder.
Acestes sipped dark-red wine from a golden goblet and watched Phaedra over the rim. He took a long swallow and set his drink aside. “I feel as though I am well prepared to assume my position in politics. Being a patrician provides me with the opportunity to take a seat in the Senate. My father left some money, but I will get more during my time in North Africa. Upon my return I will be of age to run for consul, leaving me in need of a wife from a politically connected family.”
“Your life seems so clear.”
He shrugged and took another drink. “You must have your life planned out as well.”
“Of course I do. I now have the marriage I wanted, and soon, the gods willing, we will make a child.”
Phaedra looked at her husband and smiled. He glanced away from his conversation. Catching her chin in his hand, Marcus gave her an affectionate squeeze before turning away to greet another senator. Phaedra bit her lip. What did it foretell of their future if Marcus paid her scant attention at their wedding banquet? Did Phaedra matter so little that she warranted a quick pat on the head in passing, much like affection given to a dog or trained monkey?
Acestes leaned in close, his breath hot on her shoulder. “He never told you, did he?”
“Tell me what?”
“He has had two wives.”
“I know that,” she said.
“And no children,” Acestes added.
What was Acestes implying? Phaedra looked at Marcus and his strong Roman profile. A handsome man, she decided, one that women must desire. “I find it hard to believe that your uncle never tried to make a child.”
“Trying is not the problem.”
“What of the other wives?”
“They cannot both be barren, now can they?”
“Why would you say such a vile thing? You are jealous of your uncle and his position in Rome.”
Acestes leaned in closer. “Lower your voice.”
Phaedra took a long swallow of wine. It tasted like vinegar and slanderous tales told by envious men. She stood and turned to Marcus. “I think I shall refresh myself and then retire.”
Marcus stood, also, and pressed dry, paper-thin lips to her temple. “Of course, my dear. This has been a long day for us all. I will be along directly. I need to speak a bit more to the consul, and that will give you time, as well.”
Phaedra’s childhood nurse—now her maid, Terenita—stepped from a shadow behind the table. She wore, as she always did, a cream-colored turban and a shapeless, buff-hued tunic that fell to the floor. For the festive evening, the maid had tied a belt at her waist, accentuating her womanly curves.
Terenita followed Phaedra from the dining room. Torches in the garden smoldered on their stakes, the sharp scent of pitch unmistakable. A half-moon hung in a clear sky, and thousands of stars shone down. The sandpit gleamed white in the darkness. In the distance Phaedra heard the low gurgle of the fountain. Tomorrow she would leave her father’s villa for Marcus’s huge estate that sprawled across the very top of the Palatine Hill. Hot tears stung her eyes, surprising her. She had not expected to be sad about leaving her father’s home.
“Go back to my rooms,” she said to Terenita, with a squeeze to her hand. “I will be there in a moment.”
“Whatever pleases you, my lady.”
Phaedra wandered to the back of the garden, near the grove of orange trees. The tang of citrus hung in the air. She removed her bridal veil and wrapped it around her wrist. Tighter and tighter she wound it, trying to choke Acestes’s hint that Marcus might not give her a child. The sound of water splashing called to her, and she moved toward the fountain at the far wall. She decided to stay a moment or two. Long enough to shed her tears and regain her composure before returning to her rooms and waiting for her husband.
Chapter 3
Valens
How did a bastard born on a wooden floor in a stinking apartment in the Suburra ever find himself as a senator�
��s wedding guest? Valens knew not how to talk to men of quality, although he had bedded quite a few of their wives. They never wanted to talk to him, either—content just to pay him for the use of his body and the pleasure he gave them.
After such a fight he was in no state to remain in Senator Scaeva’s dining room. The senator had been good enough to send guards back to the ludus where Valens lived and trained as a gladiator. They had returned with his finest tunic. Scaeva had even offered the use of a bath. Valens had washed, dressed, and then spent a few awkward moments standing in the dining room. Neither a slave on display nor an invited guest, his discomfort drove him into the garden to wait for his escort back to the gladiator school.
He stretched out on a marble bench, its stone still warm from the day’s heat. The water from a nearby fountain shone silver with moonlight. He watched it, transfixed.
As always when Valens had no other thoughts to occupy his mind, the faces of gladiators he had defeated came to him. Like an infected tooth, the guilt for having slain so many was always with him. At times, the ache was not so great and could be easily ignored. Other times the discomfort threatened to split his skull in two. It was during quiet moments, like this one, when the pain was at its worst. He imagined the Gaul with yellow-white hair who died after Valens severed his jugular, along with the large African, a happy fellow with a wide smile, who died after a leg wound festered and days later the poison spread through his blood.
More faces came to him unbidden.
He shoved them from his mind and looked again at the water spraying from the fountain. He concentrated on the mystery of the unending water. How could that be? Water rose from a single pipe hidden in the fountain’s base and was somehow diverted into two separate sprays. Each of those landed in two large marble bowls that spilled over into a pool and became part of the arc again.
The feat amazed Valens. He wondered what his life might have been if he had become an engineer, trained by a Greek, instead of a gladiator taught at a ludus. But to be an engineer was not his lot, and life as a gladiator provided him with far more than Fortune might have bestowed otherwise.
Beneath the gurgling water he heard her—faint but unmistakable came the sound of a woman’s sobs. He sat up and looked into the darkened garden, finding her at once. She no longer wore the crimson veil, but he recognized the bride, Phaedra Rullus Servilia, at once. Valens thought of sneaking away through the shrubbery surrounding the fountain. He shifted on the bench. She stopped crying and looked toward him. She gasped, a small “Oh” of surprise on her lips.
“Apologies, my lady,” he said. “I came to the garden for some air.”
She swiped a hand under each eye and stood taller. “I accept your apologies.”
Valens scooted to the edge of the bench. He should not be talking to this woman in a darkened garden, alone. True, they were behind the walls of her father’s home and her father had invited him to stay. But patrician men did not want gladiators around their wives or daughters, and Valens knew he would be the one to bear the punishment if anyone saw them together.
He tensed his thighs, ready to stand. The bride could not contain herself and sobbed again, her shoulders convulsing. Then, wide-eyed, she clamped a hand over her mouth and stared at Valens. It was as he had feared—she had not wanted this marriage. Without thought he stood and moved to her side. He placed his palm on her shoulder. Her skin, soft and warm, with a hint of lean muscle underneath, enticed him to touch her more. Her silken gown draped over her collarbone and dipped low, allowing Valens a view of the valley between her breasts. Maybe she had requested him at her wedding. Like so many aristocratic women, the bride might want him as her bedmate.
Did she purposely tempt him by appearing upset and then allowing him to offer comfort? He had been seduced in worse ways by worse women. His cock stirred and he breathed Phaedra’s scent, light and clean. She smelled of lavender and something else. Aloe, he decided.
She looked at his hand, the point where their flesh joined, and then to his face. Her eyes were light blue, and he read sadness in them, not desire. The need to ease her suffering hit him like a fist. He stepped away. His hand fell to his side, damp and chilled in the balmy night.
“Apologies,” he said, feeling more like an oaf than a god of the arena. “Allow me to take my leave.”
“Stay, Gladiator. I need to return to the party.”
As a slave, he was bound to do the bidding of all patricians, the bride included. He nodded and waited for her to walk away.
She did not.
She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, and his mouth went dry. Valens imagined pulling the bride to him, kissing her lip free, and exploring her mouth with his tongue. His cock jumped again.
“Gladiator?” she said, ending his momentary fantasy.
“My lady?”
“Might I ask a question of you?” She did not wait for him to give his permission. “What thought you of fighting at a wedding banquet? Do you fight at them often?”
“This was my first,” he said.
She chewed on her lip again. “I thought that it might be so.”
“Did it please you?” he asked hesitantly. “The fight?”
“I enjoyed it more than I anticipated.”
Warmth started in his middle and spread outward. It took a moment for Valens to recognize the feeling as joy. “I was honored to fight for you.” Valens pushed his fist hard into his leg. This woman was not his to protect or make happy.
“Thank you, Gladiator,” she said. “I will let you return to your air, and I shall return to my duties.”
She turned to walk away, as she should, out of his life forever. “Valens,” he said, just to see if she would remain for one moment more. “My name is not Gladiator. It is Valens Secundus.”
She stopped and turned back to face him. He should never have called out to her. The wife of a senator, the daughter of one as well, would not want to be corrected by a mere gladiator.
“Apologies, Valens Secundus.”
She looked into the darkness and he followed her gaze. The lights from the house were visible through the surrounding foliage, yet the fountain drowned out the sounds of music and laughter. She looked back at him. Somehow she had aged years in a few seconds.
“I think I shall remain here for a moment,” she said as she took a seat on the bench and smoothed her gown over her lap.
That was it. She had dismissed Valens. He should not be surprised or injured, and yet he was. “Of course,” he said. “I should return to the party.”
“Stay, Valens Secundus,” she said as he turned to leave. “I would have a word with you.”
Chapter 4
Phaedra
Why had she just asked the gladiator to stay? Perhaps it had nothing to do with his hazel eyes or the strength in his shoulders, or that his green tunic turned his skin a deeper shade of bronze. Perhaps she only wanted the company of a single person on a day when a room full of people overwhelmed her.
Yet why him? Why not Fortunada? Phaedra knew that answer. Fortunada’s perfect marriage clearly illustrated the imperfections in Phaedra’s own. Her father, another person to whom she could speak, saw only the advantages of her union, leaving no room to understand her disappointment.
Besides, Valens Secundus had come to the garden for solace. It was what she had sought, and during this moment they shared a need.
Whatever the reason, Phaedra knew that remaining with the gladiator in the garden would be considered improper, if not wrong. She should not put him in such a position, nor open herself to a possible scandal. But no one knew they were alone together. Phaedra’s husband assumed she waited in her room. Had anyone even noticed where the gladiator had gone?
Valens stood before her with his hands clasped behind his back. His tunic fell just below his knees. Her gaze traveled from his well-muscled chest down to the woven belt resting on his flat stomach. The fabric draped over the juncture between his legs, and she wondered about his phallus.
Phaedra had never seen a real one, of course, just those on statues. But all her married friends had told her what to expect on her wedding night. And the phallus was of the greatest importance.
At the juncture of his thighs, the fabric of the tunic stretched a bit, as if the phallus had moved. Moved! Phaedra looked up. He stared at her with eyes wide, as she knew hers must be. Had his phallus never moved before? Phaedra understood that with the correct attention it became firm and rigid. But she had never been told that it might twitch.
“Did you know—” she began. Yet the courage to finish her question evaded her. With any luck, Valens did not know exactly what she had begun to ask. A minute too late, she realized that she was pointing. She lowered her arm and averted her gaze.
He shifted, rotating his hips so the fabric once again draped smoothly over his thighs. “My lady, you wanted a word.”
Phaedra’s face flamed red and hot with embarrassment. She unwound the bridal veil from her wrist, slowly, hoping that she might think of something to say. She smoothed the fabric over her lap. “Tell me of your life. You have much fame. Even I, a person who never follows the games, knows of Valens Secundus.”
“I am a gladiator, my lady.”
“Have you no purpose beyond being a gladiator?”
“For me, there is no other.”
Phaedra suddenly realized that she had endowed the gladiator with attributes desirous to her, but ones he could not possess. For a brief instant she had imagined that he enjoyed a variety of interests and was a man with great intellectual and emotional depth who also just happened to possess the physique of a god. Phaedra’s chest tightened as she realized she had only fooled herself.
She lined up the corners of her veil and folded it into a square. His dissatisfying answer echoed in her mind. Perhaps it would be better if he returned to the party and left her a moment to collect her thoughts. She had a wedding night to endure, after all, and her maidenhead to offer her husband.
The Gladiator's Mistress (Champions of Rome) Page 2