“Yes,” she replied, squeezing his hand.
Felix grinned a small smile at that. Then he gave a heavy rap on the door and asked to be admitted. Without delay they were let inside, Felix, with an oil lamp in one hand and Livia’s hand in the other, took his partner swiftly across the torch-lit courtyard and into the main residence. They traversed dark rooms and hallways before finally arriving at Felix’s bedchamber.
Felix shut the door firmly behind them. There were several unlit candles strewn throughout the chamber, and he made a circuit of the room: gliding gracefully but purposefully, lighting each wick with the flickering flame of his oil lamp. Once he was done, he set the lamp down on a nearby counter and turned his gaze on Livia.
While fidgeting with her dress, she looked up at Felix. Then down at the polished marble tiles. Then up at Felix once again.
The musician looked otherworldly in the soft candlelight. His eyes, Livia noticed, were black but for the red gleam of the flickering candle flames. They held a smouldering heat, and a voracious hunger.
That dark look of his did something to her; something fundamental. She felt a deep, secret part of herself begin to heave and churn.
Without letting his eyes leave Livia’s for even a moment, Felix began to disrobe. He unfurled his light toga slowly – letting it fall about his feet – and revealing his fine linen tunic beneath. He untied the sash about his waist and cast it away. Finally, Livia watched with nervous but heedful anticipation as he pulled the tunic up and off, revealing his nakedness to her.
The toga, she found, had not done the body an ounce of justice.
Livia allowed herself a moment to drink him in. She was delightfully surprised at what she saw. It seemed to her more like a soldier’s body than a musician’s – so much so that Livia could not help but wonder if Felix had ever served in the legions. He was well-toned and tanned, composed of sinew and lean, hard muscle. The taut lines of his stomach led her gaze downward: to the grove of black, curling hair between his legs and the rearing member, which was even now filling with vigour.
Livia looked back up at his face and, quite instinctively, bit her lip.
Felix took that as his signal. The musician lunged straight for her – closing the gap with two long strides – and seized her in a tight embrace. He pressed his mouth to her own, kissing her ravenously, licking and nibbling at her lips. The hot, salty taste of him was exhilarating, and caused her to whimper in her throat with need. He used his mouth to force apart Livia’s lips, and his tongue swept in, dancing and lapping.
He gripped her body tighter as they kissed. Livia delighted in the feeling of his hard body pressing firmly against hers; his strong arms, his chest, and the swelling hardness of his manhood.
Livia felt her boldness steadily rising, in tandem with her desire and arousal. She wanted all of him.
Before she knew it she was eagerly unravelling herself from Drusilla’s stola. Felix, kissing every inch of revealed skin, eagerly helped her to remove her clothes.
The under-tunic came off swiftly, and they were suddenly naked together. The musician took her tightly in his arms yet again and they tumbled down onto the bed together, a jumbled mass of arms and legs.
When Livia felt the hard head of Felix’s member finally meet her lower lips, swollen and sopping wet, it took all her resolve to not beg him to plunge it in. Kneeling between her legs, Felix began to slide himself, inch by inch, into Livia’s tight sheath. She angled her hips up to aid him, and could not help but quiver with delight at his slow ingress.
Soon enough the musician fell into a rhythm of sure, solid thrusts. He built up momentum gradually, probing and pumping, and every smooth slide of his marble-hard manhood seemed to delve deeper than the one before it.
Livia’s lips let out a long, quivering cry of delight – a half-shriek, half-moan. It must have sounded atrocious, but she did not care. Her insides squeezed him tightly, drawing him in further. The feeling of his quivering cock inside her was phenomenal, and she did not want to ever let go. As his long strokes reached all the way into her, she felt her peak draw nearer and nearer by the second.
She let out an ecstatic scream as her moment arrived – a hot, sublime sensation flared up within her loins and blossomed outwards in every direction, filling her completely. Her whole body quivered as the waves swept through her, and her moans became incomprehensible yammering.
Felix finally pulled himself out. His time had come too, Livia could see.
With cock in hand he angled himself over Livia’s exhausted body, bringing his tip not far from her stomach. He gave a low moan as he shot a stream of his hot essence over Livia’s belly.
With a spent and satisfied sigh, he threw himself down beside Livia and clasped her tightly with one arm. He was not too exhausted to kiss and nibble at her vigorously – on the shoulder, the collarbone, the neck, the mouth.
“You are magnificent, Livia,” he murmured in her ear. “This festival might be in honour of Flora, but you, Livia... You’re the true goddess of my Floralia.”
Livia grinned a big, foolish grin at that.
They giggled together and kissed and held each other late into the night. By the time they finally succumbed to sleep, Livia held tight in Felix’s embrace, all but one of the candles had burned out.
*
By the stark light of the morning sun streaming through the small chamber windows, Livia saw things differently.
Last night, she had been too caught up in the heat and passion of the whole situation to see clearly. The wine, too, would not have helped her judgement.
Taking pains not to wake the sleeping musician, she carefully disengaged herself from Felix’s hold and slipped out of bed.
The floor-tiles were cold under her feet. They were fine beige marble, and highly polished. Bending over slightly, Livia could see her face reflected in the smooth surface. The floors of her own bedchamber were wooden boards, and rotten in some parts. Livia did not actually have a bedchamber, however – her entire living space consisted of one cramped room, with a small hay-filled mattress in one corner.
She looked around Felix’s chamber, saddened by the opulence. The bed she had shared with Felix was monumental – large enough for four people to sleep abreast – and draped with beautiful bedsheets and blankets. Tip-toeing, she ventured around the chamber. It seemed larger than her entire apartment. His cithara, she saw, Felix kept in a box exquisitely crafted and detailed out of dark mahogany, with a silken lining inside. The oil lamp, candlesticks and candelabras were all made of precious metal – silver, Livia supposed. She was not well acquainted with precious metals, however, and could not be certain.
Quietly and quickly, she gathered up her garments and dressed herself.
Her time with Felix had been wondrous, better than she ever could have thought possible. He had been the perfect Floralia companion, and she would never forget the night of carnality they had shared.
Livia knew, though, that the notion that they could be together was pure foolishness. They were simply too different.
She heard the words of her father again. “Know well who you are, my dear Livia, and what you are.” They sounded clear in her mind, as if she had first heard them yesterday. “Do not be foolish and strive for more; for more wealth or a higher station. We are happy with what we’ve been given. This is who we are. Who you are. Do not forget.”
Livia was only a simple plebeian, while Felix was a wealthy and blue-blooded patrician.
Furthermore, Felix was a charming and gorgeous young man with a gift for the cithara. A veritable Apollo; an Adonis. He could have any woman he desired, he just had to choose. It had been Livia’s night last night; he had decided that she would be the one to warm his bed. Tomorrow it would be some other girl. And – without doubt – there would be another fawning, wide-eyed girl the day after that.
Livia was the “true goddess” of his Floralia, apparently. How many other women had he whispered that to, between the bed-sheets?
/> Of course he was so fond of the six-day Floralia festival – it was his time of year for conquering. And Livia, it seemed, had been just another conquest.
Carefully, she crept through the door. She met a servant walking down the hallway outside Felix’s chamber. He wished her a good morning and offered to serve her breakfast but Livia declined, instead asking to be shown out.
She would always fondly remember Felix and the time they shared, but she had to go on with her life.
***
Felix attended the third day of Floralia. And the fourth.
But he did not play his cithara, or sing any of songs. He drunk no wine, and did not attempt to pursue any of the young women who eyed him. He would not even speak to them – nor look at them, for the most part.
The festival that he loved so dearly passed him by in a welter of colour and noise.
Livia was all he could think about, and the constant thought of her pained him to no end. Sorrow and anger filled him to the brim. He felt like she had stolen a vital piece of him that morning, when she had climbed out of his bed and snuck out of his house while he still slumbered.
Livia was gone, but there was so much that he had wanted to tell her, that he needed to tell her. He wanted to make her see how precious she was to him. He wanted her to know that after just one sublime evening in her company, she was all he could think about and all he wanted.
All the other women faded into obscurity at the thought of her. They were dim, flickering candle-flames in his mind, but Livia was a raging inferno.
He found himself lingering close to the stage where he had first seen her, and also the wine-seller’s stall where he had first spoken to her.
Felix knew, however, that he was being a fool. It was all useless. He was searching for her in the wrong places. He had met her at the festival but Livia, he knew, was not the type to return. She had experienced what Floralia had to offer her – the sights, the sounds, the delectations – and had had her fill of it. He would not find her here.
He wracked his mind, thinking about where he could find her. He paced about this way and that, thinking intently, trying to recall.
The Augustan market! They had passed close to it on their way to Felix’s house, and Livia had mentioned that she went to market almost every afternoon, and that her residence was only down the street.
There was no other choice. He would be there, tomorrow afternoon. He hoped Livia would be there too.
*
Sure enough, Felix found himself at the market the very next afternoon. He picked out a vantage point just outside the easternmost entranceway, a thoroughfare with much with foot-traffic.
It was a large and busy marketplace, and a cornucopia of foods, spices and various goods – from the city itself, the hinterland, and from far-flung corners of the Empire – could be bought or bartered for there.
Felix, however, was not interested in any of that. He was only interested in Livia. So he planted his back to a wall and simply stood and watched, hawk-like, the various comings and goings. He saw farmers driving herds of cattle and pushing carts overflowing with cabbages. He saw shoppers, hauling large baskets filled with foodstuffs in either hand. He even saw Floralia revellers, still wearing the bright garments and flowery crowns, coming and going from the market stalls. Livia’s beautiful shock of flaxen hair, however, was what he wanted – no, needed – to see.
And so he watched, and waited. He could not say for how long, but the sun was readying itself to set by the time he realised that he had been standing and watching for nearly two hours.
And then he saw her.
Emerging from the entrance, clutching a wicker basket in her hand. Wearing a plain white stola. Felix had no doubt that it was her.
He rushed towards her, weaving through the crowd like a darting hare.
“Livia!” he exclaimed.
“Felix,” she said, shocked and sad at once.
“Livia,” he said again, suddenly feeling very foolish. He had thought about this moment all day, but now that it was occurring he could simply not find the words.
“Yes, I know,” she admitted, sullen. “I left. I disappeared... The time we shared was truly wonderful. I mean that, I do. With you I felt things I’d never felt before...”
“Then come back to me,” Felix urged.
By then a small crowd of people had stopped to watch the drama unfold. Felix felt a multitude of eyes on him – watching, scrutinizing – but he ignored them.
“It will never work,” Livia murmured. “It cannot work. We are just too different, you and I.”
“I don’t care about your class, Livia,” Felix blurted. “I don’t care if you’re a plebeian. I don’t care about how many coins you have in your purse. It doesn’t matter to me.”
The remark gave her pause, and a gleam of pained sorrow appeared in her eyes. His words seemed to strike a nerve.
She took a deep breath, and set her mouth into a hard line. “I’m sorry, Felix. We’ll always be able to remember our one night together. But it can only ever be one night. I’m sorry.”
She was putting up a stern, solemn face. But Felix could see that she was beginning to fight back tears.
“Please, Livia,” he entreated. He put out his hands in supplication. “Ask yourself. Is that truly what you want? Truly?”
“Truly, Felix.” Livia replied. There was a single, shining tear in the corner of her eye. “Leave me be. Please, leave me be.”
With that, she dashed away.
Felix stood there, in a shocked and sad stupor, for what must have been a very long time. He was a sorrowful statue, there in the middle of the busy thoroughfare.
The crowd of people dissipated, each person carrying on with their business. He heard a pack of wives chattering about what they had just witnessed. Someone slapped him on the shoulder, offering rough words of condolence. Felix did not react.
Livia, it seemed, had left him a second time. He was gutted. Distraught.
He felt the salty wetness at his eyes, and the anxious tremble of his hands.
Livia’s unhappy eyes had belied her stern words of rejection. She wanted to be with him, Felix knew. Perhaps just as much as he wanted to be with her. But she was lying about it – to him, and to herself.
He blinked the tears away, and he clutched his shaking hands into tight fists.
He could not give up on her, not yet. He had to help her to see.
Felix knew, then, that he had to do something daring. Something big and bold. Something monumental. An elaborate gesture that spelled out, loudly and clearly, just how important she was to him.
He heard, then, a kindly voice at his shoulder.
“My friend?”
Something about the tone of the voice made him turn around.
A woman was standing there. Her hair was more grey than auburn and she bore lines of age about her mouth and eyes, but she was still beautiful to look upon. There was a knowing gleam in her brown eyes, and they seemed both sad and friendly.
“I saw what just happened, my dear.”
Felix did not know how to respond to her. He could only sigh.
“Livia is a sweet and silly young thing,” she said. “She doesn’t know what she wants. I’ve known her for a long time, you see, and I love her like the daughter I never had.”
A warm, comforting hand settled on his shoulder.
“My name is Drusilla, my dear,” she continued. “And I can help you.”
*
It was morning, and Livia was in bed, engulfed in a protective cocoon of bedsheets.
She did not want to get out.
Since dawn she had heard clamour and chattering in the street outside. She did not know what it was. She didn’t care. Lately she did not – could not – care about much at all.
It had been almost three weeks since Felix had confronted her at the market, and she was still rattled and upset by the experience. The handsome and passionate citharode had caught her completely by surprise.
Why, then, did she feel so terrible about it all? Felix had been constantly on her mind, and every thought of him came with a pang of pain.
Today she just wanted to stay in bed all day.
She heard, then, a knock at the door.
“Livia?” came Drusilla’s voice. What could she want?
“You have to wake up now!” her neighbour exclaimed. “Something wonderful is happening.”
“Drusilla?” Livia replied, foggy with sleep. “What is it?”
“You’ll have to get out of bed and see for yourself, my dear.”
Perplexed, slightly annoyed, and more than a little bit intrigued, Livia climbed out of bed.
She opened the door, yawning and rubbing her eyes, to see Drusilla standing in the hallway, smiling at her serenely. Bundled in her arms was a heap of orange linen: it was her Floralia stola, which Livia had worn to the festival two weeks ago.
“I’d like you to wear this again, my dear.”
Drusilla was asking a favour of her, not making a demand. Nonetheless, there was something about the older woman’s demeanour; her face, her eyes – a stark sincerity, perhaps – which compelled Livia to oblige and not argue.
Drusilla, invited inside, stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. Livia went to a small side-table, where she filled a broad bowl with water from a terracotta ewer. She washed her hands and splashed her face with the cool water, dispelling the vestiges of sleep.
She dried herself with a nearby towel offered by Drusilla, and then they set about the business of dressing: with hardly a word exchanged between them, Drusilla helped as Livia enveloped herself once again in the colourful stola.
Drusilla then took up Livia’s comb from the side-table and went to work, combing diligently; sweeping the kinks and snares from her friend’s hair, working at it vigorously until the younger woman’s fair locks were straight and smooth.
Finally Drusilla gave her young neighbour a long up and down look, and determined Livia to be ready. Ready for what, Livia did not know.
Floralia Page 2