by Mira Zamin
* * *
Olympia lay huddled in a mass of shredded fabric. Avaritus stood over her, arms crossed. Her face, which had once been as smooth and white as sea-polished stone was now etched with tiny creases of worry and horror.
“I would advise you to reconsider my offer, Olympia,” Avaritus drawled.
The dark-haired woman stared at him, her eyes raking him up and down and with one last shred of energy, spat at his feet. “I would never marry you. You could not have my daughter, you could not keep my son, and you will not have me.”
“Your courage is admirable but misplaced. I shall be victorious. Or am I not already? Despite all of your efforts, here I am, the Proconsul of Portus Tarrus. Your son will return here soon enough—how could he not when I hold their mother in my fist? If he returns and you have not yielded, I will kill him. Marry me and he will be safe. I give you a day to mull this over again; I will return tomorrow at sunrise.”
Drawing herself up, she stood straight-backed and looked Avaritus fearlessly in the eye. Not by a tremble did she betray how much effort it took her. “Don’t bother. My answer here and forevermore will remain no.” The defiance seemed to rub away some of the grooves of her face.
With one last hateful look at the petite woman, Avaritus left the cellar. The very bloody defiance of her. As if she were still in power, as if she still even had a speck of power to her name. As if he were still a no-name a bastard and she a patrician who could trace her lineage back to Aeneas. He supposed he did humor her by asking her to marry him, but he had hoped that if she acquiesced freely it would not only cement his status as proconsul but in the good graces of the people, that despicable mob.
Locking the cellar viciously behind him, he caught Flora bringing dry bread and water to Olympia. Grabbing the fire-haired woman’s fleshy arm, he said angrily, “She continues to refuse me. Bloody impudence of her. You have not been warning her, have you Flora? You let that whelp of hers go…if you have, woman…”
Flora flinched. When Avaritus had discovered that the boy had managed to escape under her guard, he had been furious. Her back, arms, and legs still throbbed with bruises. “You know I have not,” she said calmly. “You know I serve you faithfully and have done so for years. You know you entrusted this task to me because I am trustworthy. Perhaps they survive because they are favored by the gods.” There had been a time, long ago, when Flora had been the daughter of the priest. Those early teachings still ran in her blood.
“The gods are dead,” Avaritus spat disdainfully.
Avaritus did not notice the ominously glowering dark clouds huddling over Portus Tarrus. Silver lightening laced through them, a silently flashing filigree. The waves insistently smacked the shore as the wind whistled up and down the beach and through the town, flipping carts and shaking houses with wanton abandon. Avaritus did not know it, but a storm was coming.
