by Mira Zamin
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“She what?” Olympia exclaimed, aghast. Her coiled black hair slipped out of its demure bun as she shot out of her sinking seat.
Avaritus gave her an oily smile. “Your Calista has been seen with Captain Claudius. Although, I assure you, they had no wish to be seen,” he repeated calmly.
“I cannot believe it!” Lucretius declared. His dark eyes flashed dissent as his fingers curled into a tremulous fist.
Avaritus answered patiently, but great contentment bubbled beneath his voice. He attempted to submerge it, but was not completely successful. “One of my loyal slaves saw them, a man that I would trust with my life, your life and indeed, the life of your daughter. I hope that I need not say that I am as disappointed as you are.”
“What shall we do?” Olympia implored Lucretius worriedly, collapsing back into the couch and not hearing the simmering satisfaction in Avaritus’ tone, but fixating solely on his words. “She is a good girl,” she added for the benefit of the room.
Lucretius thought for a moment. “Wait, my dear,” he murmured to Olympia, laying a gentle hand on her knee. “Avaritus, when did your slave report this to you?”
Avaritus closed his eyes, feigning remembrance. “Within the hour,” he finally said.
“Around when Captain Claudius was with us, then. He took leave of our company a few moments before you arrived.”
“It would take Claudius and my slave approximately the same time to get here, I would believe,” answered Avaritus, smooth as a slithering serpent.
“Claudius just arrived at Portus Tarrus,” objected Lucretius.
“One night is enough to make a difference and he has had weeks. Calista was emotionally unwrought the night of the sponsalla.” He paused significantly, allowing their imaginations to work. He could almost see the visions their minds were creating.
“Are you implying...?” Olympia breathed. Her expression was part disbelief, part anger.
She is beautiful, noted Avaritus, but has the same streak of independence that sullies her daughter. It speaks of Lucretius’ weakness as a husband, a father, a ruler—in short, his weakness as a man.
Calmly spreading his hands out in a conciliatory gesture, he answered, “I am implying nothing. I only point out what could have happened in the space of a night.” He leaned back against the cushions, letting Lucretius’ mind tweak the puzzle he had presented.
Lucretius rose, quivering with fury at the insinuation. “Your accusations are outrageous. Our daughter, your future wife, is no harlot. You may leave, domino. I must speak to my wife!”
“As you wish.” Avaritus stood up and bowed to the proconsul and his consort. “You must know that I desire this to be as untrue as you do,” he added convincingly as a slave ushered him from the meeting chambers.
CHAPTER V
