Torrent

by Lisa T. Bergren

  I hadn’t found an escape route.

  I’d entered a circus-like, posh prison.

  A Roman version of a harem. Something for Vivaro to showcase.

  That was what he was. The ringmaster in a new kind of circus.

  And I was his prize tiger.

  She-Wolf, I corrected myself. And somehow I still had to sniff out a way to escape.

  Chapter Twelve

  The girls surrounded me, shielding me from view of the guards—who, from what I glimpsed, gazed at us in boredom—and assisted me with undressing, as quickly and methodically as a mother with a toddler. In seconds they were down to my underclothes. I held my breath, freaked that they’d find my dagger. But thankfully they allowed me to keep my remaining clothing for a bit, ushering me forward while still retaining my human shield. It was then that I realized why the room was so warm with no fires blazing, how they all were surviving without shoes on their feet. Beneath the floor was radiant heat, warm to my toes.

  Radiant heat. Tubes of hot water coursing underneath the tiles so the heat would filter upward. My rich friends in Boulder with the big houses and wide-planked floors had it too. And if I remembered right, such luxury in this time period demanded that somewhere in the belly of this palace there had to be a sweltering furnace room, with servants sweating like pigs, feeding massive flames to heat the water that was coming through here.

  The hostess opened another set of doors, and I left the giggling mass behind me. Only Main Girl and a second, as well as the original guard, came with me. I gasped again. Before me was an enclosed pool, intricately tiled, with a wide fall of steaming water pouring in one end and exiting through a doorway on the other end. On all sides were more elegant columns holding up the ceiling. Candles along either wall gave the massive room a spa-like feel and filled the air with the scent of beeswax.

  “It is quite beautiful, no?” asked Main Girl.

  Uh, yeah. “Quite,” I mused.

  “Please,” she said, gesturing toward the pool. “Take your ease.”

  I hesitated. How was I to take a swim and hold on to my knife? They clearly assumed I’d finish my undressing and enter naked. After all, this was a Roman bath. Once, when I was traveling in Turkey with the fam, Lia, Mom, and I had ventured into a bathhouse—and then rushed out when we discovered that women were hanging out in the nude. My eyes traveled to the end of the pool, where I saw piles of cloth—towels?—a table, and jars filled with salts and oils. A massage-type of arrangement, probably my next stop.

  “May I…may I have a moment?”

  Main Girl’s pretty eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “You wish for us to go?”

  “Please. There is much on my mind.” I smiled at her like I would to Lia, when I wanted her to understand something, wordlessly. “In hours I shall become a married woman. Might I have a few minutes alone?”

  “Of course,” she said with a knowing smile. She made a chit-chit sound, and the others immediately followed her out. The guard closed the two, tall doors, both at once, giving me a look that said, Don’t try anything—I’m right outside.

  I was alone in the bathhouse. I turned and rushed along one edge, noting that, as suspected, there were no windows. But there was another set of doors on the far end. I ran across the tiled floor, warm in here, too, past the massage table, and grabbed hold of the handle. Cautiously I turned it and peeked out.

  Another guard stood in front of it, burly arms crossed. Two others stood behind him. The guy in front frowned at me and shook his head back and forth in warning, then he lifted his chin as if to say, Get on back in there where you belong.

  Dang it, I thought, pulling the door shut in frustration. Those guys are everywhere. Now I knew why Main Girl wasn’t concerned in giving me a little Alone Time. She was confident I couldn’t escape. I blew the air out of my cheeks, racking my brain, trying to think of a way I could hold on to the dagger. Without it…I shuddered. My eyes went back to the first set of doors. When Main Girl and Guard Number One came through, they needed to see me in the pool, not standing there looking guilty.

  Quickly I ditched the rest of my underclothes and unstrapped the dagger. I wrapped it in the center of my lace-trimmed pantaloon thingies, leaving the valuable trim in view. I’d plead for them to allow me to keep them, a gift. It was really my only option. Because from what I remembered of Roman bathhouses, I was likely to be buck-naked for a little while.

  I sighed and slipped into the warm water, frustrated that precious minutes were slipping by. At this rate my three hours would evaporate like the steam all around me. I dived under and swam the length of the blue-and-green-tiled pool in a fanciful mosaic of dolphins and whales and fish. I let the hot waterfall at one end pour over my shoulders and hair, praying that God would show me some way out of this place. And fast.

  Main Girl appeared in my line of vision again, to one side, and she gestured for me to swim to the far end. Two more servants appeared, standing on either side of the table. They picked up a lush cloth, holding it from each side, waiting for me.

  I did as she bid and swam to the other end, hoping the guards had the decency to look away, eunuchs or not. But the servants stepped down into the pool, ignoring the water seeping up their skirts, and shielded me as I rose, quickly wrapping the rough towel around me while I was still in the water. I was led to a submerged chair to one side.

  One girl set to work on my hair, rubbing it with lavender-scented soap, allowing me to rinse and then carefully, elaborately working orange-scented oil into the ends. The other took her turn, scrubbing my shoulders and arms with coarse sea salt, washing them off, and then rubbing more of the orange oil into my skin. Hair Girl had me rinse, worked in a milder orange soap, and had me rinse again.

  They left to retrieve two new towels, and after a brief turn on the massage table—appropriately private from any male eyes—I was wrapped and led into the next room.

  I almost forgot. How could you forget, Gabi? Man, talk about your epic failures…

  I turned and glanced to where I’d left my dagger and underclothes. But they were gone. I froze, my eyes shifting to Main Girl. Did she wonder why I was looking for the disgustingly dirty, road-worn items? They’d definitely seen better days. Had they been set aside? Or had my sad plan merely failed, the dagger discovered and disposed of?

  I turned away, hoping she wouldn’t see any of those questions in my eyes.

  The three guards separated, one entering the massive bathhouse room, the other two going through the next set of doors. This was a much smaller room, with water that was just barely warm. I stepped down into the small pool—about the size of a deep Jacuzzi—and, after rinsing the salts and soaps and oils, out the other side.

  The next set of doors opened, and I gasped at the dancing tendrils of steam and water dripping down the solid marble walls. My hostess hurriedly closed the doors behind me, and I moved to a marble perch. The atmosphere was horrible in the room, like a tomb lit only by red-hot stones. Main Girl took a ladle and dipped it in an urn, then spread the water across a line of lava stones, which immediately sizzled, releasing more steam into the air. We were in there for about ten minutes, choking on the hot, thick air before she looked at me. “Exit once the steam ceases.” She nodded once and disappeared through the next set of doors, leaving me behind.

  It took about three minutes for the steam to almost clear. But that was close enough for me. I had to get out of there before I collapsed. Suddenly I was feeling the distance between me and my lunch. How many hours ago had that been?

  The next room was a frigidarium, exactly as I had feared. Just get it over with, Gabi, I told myself, eyeing Main Girl, with my prize again tucked beneath her arm. How does she not feel the dagger? I’d done my best to hide it, but the fabric was thin, and the dagger was no dainty little thing.

  I plunged into the cold, deep pool, which was deeper than I was tall, and hurried to the other side, just three feet away, and up the steps, shivering. Main Girl wrapped me in ye
t another rough towel, and I was led into the last room, a larger pool room that was about the same temperature as the original bath house. I dipped into the shallow pool, letting my chattering teeth come to a rest as I swam to the end, about ten feet away.

  “It is done?” I asked her as the servant girls wrapped me in still more towels and led me into a small dressing room with a fire at one corner and a window at the other. I could see that the sun was getting low in the sky. I licked my lips and eyed my precious bundle under her arm. No guards were present in the room. Would I have to make my escape in nothing but a towel? That wouldn’t work out so hot.

  “Your baths are done,” she said, following my gaze to the pantaloons under her arm.

  But then more troops arrived, and my hair was combed out, woven, and wrapped around my head, creating a sort of twisty, Roman-inspired updo, somehow miraculously secured with pins. Good luck with that, I mused, knowing how difficult my hair could be and how likely it was that it’d start sprouting, busting loose as soon as it could. Apparently Roman brides didn’t wear their hair down, like the Tuscans. But when the girls were done and a delicate gold band was set across my forehead like a crown, it seemed reasonably secure.

  My skin was rubbed with more oil, and dots of intense orange oil were dabbed at the base of my throat and my ears, on the insides of my elbows, and behind my knees, making me smell like I was in the middle of a flowering orange grove. My nails were buffed and oiled. My teeth brushed with a stick that tasted like coal and then another that tasted of mint. I rinsed and spit into a bowl and wondered where I could get more if I was to stay in this time. There was hardly a lineup of options at the local Walgreen’s, and my mouth hadn’t felt this good in a long time.…

  When they wrapped me in a long toga, I almost laughed. This really was Lord Vivaro’s show in every measure, regardless of what Barbato might’ve thought. But the toga wasn’t of simple white cloth; it was of a soft, thick silk with a very fine weave. Bridal toga, I mused with a smile, fingering the material. Out of all the places I thought I might land in Italia and all the scenarios I might encounter, this nod to ancient Rome definitely had not been on the list.

  A servant bent and slipped a ring on one toe, then sandals on my feet, wrapping the straps up and over my ankles. She tied them at my calf and then scurried away. The others melted away too, leaving only me, Main Girl, and the first guard.

  Main Girl came behind me and secured behind my neck an elegant, ancient necklace with amber stones set in copper that had turned an oxidized green. She then handed me a set of matching amber earrings, with three orbs in progressively larger sizes.

  She smiled as I paused to admire them. “They are a gift from Lord Greco,” she said. “Procured by Lord Vivaro, of course. They once belonged to a very fine Roman lady. And amber is good luck for a marriage. Often you can find the stones with a ladybug or beetle stuck inside, for all eternity.”

  I glanced at her. Bug jewelry was not my idea of cool, but whatever…

  “It symbolizes the eternal nature of love,” she explained with a small, quizzical nod. “When two lives are fused into one.”

  I thought of Rodolfo, of exchanging such vows with him. And then I thought of Marcello. I shook my head. No, it was Marcello, definitely Marcello; he’d had my heart from the start. Any other thought of any other man just felt wrong, no matter how intriguing and handsome Rodolfo might be.

  Marcello was my man. If I was to get hitched, the only one that felt right.

  “You have an hour,” Main Girl said. “Please, eat. Rest. For tonight there shall be little of that.” She had a knowing look in her eye. She turned to go but paused at the table that held my bundle and looked back at me, as if she knew exactly what was inside. Maybe she’d even peeked. But then she turned and left the room, with Guard Boy following her.

  I didn’t bother to look. I knew he was right outside.

  Hurriedly I stuffed three black olives in my mouth and went to my bundle. As soon as I lifted it, I knew. She’d outsmarted me. Kept me calm by bringing it along. But the dagger was long gone.

  Feeling kind of nauseated, I forced myself to gnaw on some hard cheese, thinking, thinking, thinking of how I might escape in the next hour.

  My eyes moved to the window on the far side of the room. I hurried over to it and opened the shutters wider, shivering as the cold air moved into the warm room. I leaned out and saw that the covered portico was beneath me, facing the Forum, and judging by what I could see at the corner, I was three stories above the ground. But what interested me most was the six-inch ledge at the base of my window. I leaned farther out.

  If I could get out there and scoot along to an empty room, could I get away?

  I hurried over to the doors and casually opened one. “I will attempt to sleep for a time,” I said regally. “See that I am not disturbed.”

  The big, black man blinked and then nodded once, as if I was by far the most aggravating chick he’d ever had to deal with. I closed the doors and leaned my forehead against them for a moment. Please, Lord. Please make a way for me.

  I took a small cloth and wrapped a round of unleavened bread, cheese, and olives up in it and tied it to the belt of my toga. I glanced around, looking for anything more I might keep warm in, but there was nothing. Maybe I’ll find something in another room, I decided.

  I had to hurry.

  I went to the window again and looked out, deciding I’d head to the nearest corner to my right, with just three windows between me and my goal. I didn’t know what was around that corner, how exposed I might be, but if I could make it all the way around the face of that wall of the palazzo, it’d be good. The more distance I could put between me and this room before it was discovered I was gone, the better.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The knock at my door made me jump in surprise. Hurriedly, I closed the shutters and went to the door and cautiously opened it a crack. Rodolfo. With the guard behind him.

  His lips parted, and his eyes widened in wonder. He shook his head a little. “M’lady…you are exquisite.”

  I fought the urge to stare back at him. Because he appeared more the Roman god than ever, all six feet of him, his olive skin glistening with oils beneath his white toga, tied at the waist. A ring of greenery around his hair. And the smell of him—perfumes of sandalwood and spice…

  I let out a scoffing sound and turned, forcing myself to walk away, flipping my hand in the air. “It appears as if Vivaro has dressed us both for this performance—you as the triumphant hero and me, your conquest.” I paused at the fruit bowl and lifted a tiny apple to take a bite, hearing the door shut behind him and feeling his approach more than hearing it. He was silent. Stealthy. How did he do that?

  He put his broad hands on my shoulders and then dragged them downward, terribly, beautifully, painfully slowly, across several inches until they rested on my upper arms, skin against skin. I could feel the warmth of his chest behind me, and I closed my eyes, trying to summon the strength to move away, to break this trance I seemed to be in. But he was pulling me closer, silently asking my permission. Letting his left hand run down the length of my arm, entwining his fingers with mine, wrapping both our arms in front of my waist. I could feel his breath past my ear. Felt him hold it a moment, then pick up speed, full of desire. His lips, soft and warm, pressed into my temple, then moved down toward my jaw. Each kiss sent delicious shivers down my spine, down my arms. “Gabriella,” he moaned, each word a warm huff upon my skin. He leaned his face against mine, heavy, as if weak. “Forgive me, I cannot help myself. I want you. Want you for my own. Be my wife. Be mine.”

  I closed my eyes in pain at his words and then turned, half wanting to break away, half wanting to reach up and invite him in for a kiss, an unbridled kiss. To give in to the madness, the desire, forget what was behind me. To stop fighting. I was so tired. So very tired of fighting, fighting, fighting. Would it not be easier in some way? To give in to this marriage? Maybe they were right. Maybe it’d force
Siena to establish peace again with Firenze. Bring peace to the land…

  And then what? Where did that leave my family? And Marcello? Marcello.

  I leaned in to him, resting my face against his chest, feeling the ba-dump of his heartbeat, thinking. And he wrapped his arms around me and remained still, waiting, giving me time to think, stroking my back, my arms, holding his breath as if he wanted to say more and then thought better of it.

  To be held by him felt good. Undeniably good. I’d have to be an ice queen to deny it. But it wasn’t the feeling of utter peace, total centeredness that I felt when Marcello held me. Slowly I drew away and looked up into his eyes. And within a second he knew. I saw flashes of pain, regret, guilt, sorrow in quick succession beneath his thick lashes. He lifted his finger to his lips, and then he touched mine and shook his head. Don’t say anything.

  He lifted my chin and softly kissed me, lightly. There was no demand in it, only invitation. Just one more try, I thought. To see if I’d lean in. Kiss him back. But I gently pulled away. As our lips parted, I looked into his eyes, knowing the sorrow in my own. “If Marcello had not claimed my heart first, it might have worked,” I said regretfully.

  “Might we not leave it to God?” He gestured around the room, the muscles in his cheeks tightening and a hint of bitterness entering his tone. “After all, we are here. And there is little chance for me to help you escape.”

  “Nay,” I said quietly, understanding more and more. “Those opportunities are well past us.” Had he really wanted to help me—really and truly—he would’ve done it by now. Before we reached Rome. But deep down, if he was honest with himself, he really hadn’t wanted it. I knew that now.

  “He’ll come for you,” Rodolfo said nonchalantly, lifting an orange and pulling a dagger from the rope at his waist to cut off a portion of peel, then slice out some flesh and place it in his mouth. “Before our vows are exchanged,” he said with derision, pointing at me with the knife, “Marcello will arrive.”