The Roman

by Caroline Storer

  That would be foolish. And she wasn’t a fool.

  Desperate to recover her composure, she looked up at him with what she hoped was a neutral expression on her face. “No thank you. I had something to drink at the inn before I came here.”

  “Do you mind if I do?”

  Justina bit down on her lip in irritation. “Yes,” she wanted to shout, “I do mind.” But she held back her words. She knew he was playing some sort of twisted game. Teasing her, like a cat teased a mouse.

  Shaking her head slightly, she smiled politely, “No, of course not.”

  But when he moved closer to her, to lean across the table to pour some wine into a goblet, she lost all ability to think. Once again the heady scent of his skin brought back memories, and she closed her eyes briefly, remembering everything about him as if the past six years had only been yesterday.

  It was only when she opened her eyes, and saw him watching her, with eyes so fathomless, that she realised he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

  Justina blushed in mortification. How could he have affected her so quickly? She should be immune to him after all these years. She told herself to turn and leave, get out of there as fast as possible, but her body was incapable of moving.

  Eventually Marsallas broke the tension, by raising his goblet in an unspoken mocking salute, before he drowned the contents in one swallow, never once taking his gaze off her.

  Justina watched him, biting the inside her lip. If she needed proof that coming here was a mistake, then his false gesture was the final bit of evidence she needed. He wasn’t interested in anything she had to say. She could see that in every hard line of his body, by the coldness radiating out of his eyes.

  Whatever emotions he had once felt for her had long gone. Wiped out by six years of bitterness.

  She had to leave. Right now. And without a second thought, about the actual reason why she was here, she turned and bolted for the door, and hopefully, her escape.

  She thought she had succeeded. Her hand was on the rounded wooden door knob, and the door had even opened slightly. But then she saw two hands slam above her head banging the door shut, trapping her between his two outstretched arms.

  How had he moved so fast? She thought, panic coursing through her as she tried ineffectually to wrench open the door.

  “Don’t go.” The words were whispered in her ear, so intense, so passionate that she felt her heart break right open.

  Swallowing past the lump of emotion in her throat, she whispered, “I have to go, Marsallas. I shouldn’t have come. It was a mistake. I…I’m sorry.”

  Still desperate to escape, and in what she knew to be a futile effort, she tried to pull open the door. But the door didn’t move, and with mounting desperation she lifted her hands, her nails digging into the hard muscles and tendons of Marsallas's forearms trying to pull them away.

  But the door stayed shut, her strength no match for his, as he leaned his weight against the wood barring her escape. Eventually she stopped, her hands dropping to her sides, her chest rising and falling with exertion as if she had run for miles.

  For several long moments she stood there, her mind racing, desperately wondering what to do next. She needed to be strong, not let him see how much his presence had affected her, how much she still desired him. To show him would be foolish – suicidal – even. Then, a different feeling came over her, and she realised that she was actually frightened of him.

  She didn’t know why he frightened her. Maybe it was because he had changed so much in the intervening years since she had last seen him. Not just physically, but mentally too. The youth she had known had only ever shown her kindness. But now, today, she wasn’t so sure. He looked so hard, indomitable, the coldness of his blue eyes revealing so much more about him than what he’d actually said.

  The man that stood behind her was the product of his uncle’s hatred – and hers – if she were honest. She, and Quintus, had made him the man he was today. But she knew, deep down, that Marsallas wouldn’t hurt her. He might hate her, but he wouldn't harm her. Marsallas wasn't like his uncle, she was sure of that.

  Then thinking of Quintus, and all she had suffered at his hands these past years, she mentally squared her shoulders and turned slightly, as if to convey to Marsallas that she wasn't afraid of him.

  But her rational thoughts disappeared instantly, when by turning, she brought herself even closer to him if that were possible. Her heart skipped a beat when she felt Marsallas’s breath on her neck, moist and hot as he leaned in even closer, a soft sigh escaping him.

  “Yes,” he whispered, as his mouth made contact with the warm skin of her neck. With deliberately slow movements he took hold of her hand, and turned her fully, so she now faced him. He was so close, the heady scent of his skin so intoxicating, that she couldn't stop the shiver of arousal that coursed through her.

  No more than two minutes had passed since she had entered his quarters, and already her body was reacting to him like it had always done. It was as if her emotions, which she had ruthlessly suppressed all these years, had suddenly erupted like some dormant volcano, and her desire for him - her longing for him - burst forth like molten lava, threatening to overwhelm her.

  She heard him laugh softly under his breath, as if he knew exactly what she was feeling, what she was experiencing. And when he moved closer, so his hips made contact with hers, Justina groaned inwardly as she felt the hardness of his arousal nudging her lower belly.

  “Beautiful, beautiful, Justina. I want you.”

  Justina’s eyes widened. Had she heard him correctly? Shaking her head in denial she whispered, “No… I…” But her words trailed off when he bent his head, and felt his tongue stroke the sensitive area of her neck just under her earlobe. Heat curled in the pit of her stomach; warmth spreading through her whole body, as her knees went weak with longing.

  “You say “no”, but your body screams “yes” Justina. You can deny it all you want, but you want me as much as I want you. I felt it earlier when I caressed your neck. Your beating pulse told me everything I needed to know.” The words were soft, a rumbling from deep within his chest as his teeth nipped the soft lobe of her ear, the sensations so intense that she couldn’t stop herself from arching her neck.

  Eventually, reality returned, and instinctively she tried to pull away. “Marsallas no! Stop, please. Please-”

  But he ignored her plea, and his mouth closed over hers, his lips bruising as he kissed her with deliberate passion. Justina tried to turn her head away, to escape the onslaught of his mouth. But his fingers burrowed under her long hair, trapping her, forcing her to stay where she was, as his hand curved around the back of her neck pulling her towards him.

  The kiss intensified, as if he were stamping his presence on her, punishing her for all the years of torment she had put him through.

  She moaned, hating the rough assault of his mouth on hers, her nails digging into the hard muscles of his forearms as she tried to pull away.

  But her resistance was futile, her strength no match against his, as Marsallas pressed his hips into the softness of her stomach, the gesture blatantly sexual. Again Justina moaned, remembering how it had once been between them. How he had kissed her so softly, so gently, that she had wanted the kiss to go on forever-

  Then as quickly as it began, the kiss ended.

  Marsallas pulled away from her, and Justina turned her head in mortification, not daring to look at him. She heard his ragged breathing as he stood there, the sound harsh in the stillness of the room. Once again she felt her chin being lifted, her eyes forced to meet his. Expecting to see hatred reflected there, she was taken aback when, instead, she saw torment and pain in the darkness of his eyes.

  Justina felt her resistance crumble. Had he hated kissing her like that? Did he remember what it had once been like between them?

  The questions flew through her mind. She wanted to ask him, but she was incapable of speech. Instead, she lifted her hand and laid it
along his strong jaw bone, conveying to him without words, what she was thinking, what she was feeling.

  The unspoken gesture was enough, and she closed her eyes as Marsallas’s mouth fused with hers once more.

  “Justina,” he breathed, and this time he kissed her in a way that sent heat searing through her body. This time his lips weren't trying to punish – they were gentle, soft, mobile – seducing her, awakening memories of long ago when they shared such sweet kisses together.

  His hands reached for her once more, gently caressing, skimming over the slimness of her shoulders, downwards, until they rested on the sides of her ribcage. Slowly, they moved inwards, cupping the fullness of her breasts, and Justina jerked, feeling the sensitive flesh swell, her nipples pebbling with desire as he rubbed them through the thinness of her silk gown. Long suppressed sensations flushed into life, as she gloried in the feel of his hands on her body once more.

  “Marsallas,” she groaned against his lips, wanting so much more.

  “You want me don't you?” he whispered.

  “Yes. Oh yes-”

  Then reality hit her, as the full implication of what she was saying, what she was doing, impinged on her passion soaked mind. And this time it was she who pulled away, and as she stared at him, time seemed suspended as Marsallas watched her, his face giving nothing away.

  She felt shaken to the core by what had just happened, both of them caught up in the past and the present. Then, mercifully, the tension was broken by a loud rap on the door, the noise as loud as a thunder-clap in the stillness of the room.

  Diogenes! Of course! She realised belatedly. Her allotted time with Marsallas was up. The interruption broke the tension between them, and she whispered, “I…I have to go. Quintus-”

  She realised her mistake as soon as she uttered Quintus’s name when his face darkened, and his eyes narrowed into dark slits of anger. Then he turned abruptly, and walked away from her, returning to the table to pour another goblet of wine.

  “Yes. Go now while you can, Justina. I'm sure my uncle has need of you.” The words were hissed past tight lips, before he turned to her once again, his face closed, unreadable.

  Justina said nothing. She wanted to run over to him, beg his forgiveness, and explain everything.

  But she didn’t.

  Instead she turned, and wrenched open the door, leaving the room with as much dignity as she could, holding back the tears that threatened to fall.

  It was only when she heard a loud smash come from Marsallas’s quarters that her step faltered. Marsallas must have thrown his wine goblet on the floor in anger or frustration – or both …

  * * *

  Marsallas tapped the table with his index finger, looking up with bloodshot eyes to where Fabius sat opposite him.

  Fabius raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Doing as Marsallas asked, he refilled his goblet with wine once more.

  “You have three races tomorrow, Marsallas. Is it wise to get so drunk?”

  Marsallas pulled a wry smile, and looked up at his friend, “Are you my mother now, Fabius?” he asked, his words slurred, and not waiting for an answer he lifted the goblet and drowned the contents in one giant gulp.

  “No, not your mother,” laughed Fabius, “But maybe your conscience. You, my friend, are going to have a mighty sore head in the morning.” And this time, without being asked, Fabius filled the goblet once more.

  But instead of drinking the wine, Marsallas merely stared down at the rich liquid, his mouth twisting, his mind racing. A long silence fell between the two men, both of them lost in their own thoughts until Marsallas broke it by muttering, “She is as slim and beautiful as I remember. It would have been something if she had gone to fat!”

  Marsallas looked up at Fabius, seeing the slight smile on the younger man's face. He grunted slightly, his own mouth twisting into a smile of sorts. “I’ve said that before haven’t I?”

  “Aye. A few times this evening.”

  Then as quickly as it came, Marsallas’s smile vanished. “I wanted to hate her, Fabius. But instead I kissed her,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He saw Fabius’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at his words. “See, I have shocked you now, eh?”

  Fabius nodded, before he leaned forward, “She told me she is staying at the inn near the Forum. She leaves tomorrow, after the Fifth Hour.”

  Marsallas assimilated that bit of news without responding, and another silence fell between them, both of them oblivious to the raucous laughter behind them as they sat at their table in the drinking den.

  “Was she your lover, Marsallas? In…in Herculaneum? Is that why she came here to see you?” Fabius finally asked, several minutes later.

  For several long seconds Marsallas said nothing. He desperately wanted to say “yes” to Fabius. To tell him that Justina had once been his lover in the true sense of the word. But that would be a lie. All he’d had ever done was kiss her, caress her, nothing more.

  He lifted his head, eventually meeting Fabius’s curious gaze. “You couldn’t be further from the truth if you tried, my friend. Justina was never my lover. She’s my uncle’s mistress!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Justina looked out of the window, and stared down into the crowded Forum for what must have been the hundredth time. Patricians, plebeians, merchants and slaves all going about their daily business, totally oblivious to the woman who watched them all with anxious eyes.

  Would he come? The time was approaching for her and Diogenes to leave, but she wanted to wait until the last possible moment before she returned to Herculaneum, just in case he turned up.

  She worried her bottom lip with small white teeth, thinking about their meeting yesterday. He had looked at her with such hatred, but then he had kissed her with such passion, and then such tenderness, that she had been overwhelmed. And when the kiss had ended, and she'd left his quarters, frustration had eaten away at her, for failing to explain anything to him. But then what had she expected? It was obvious that he still loathed the very sight of her after all these years.

  Justina sighed, and moved away from the window back to the bed. She finished packing the small amount of clothes she had brought with her, the chore taking her mind off the long journey ahead of her, and the conversation she would be required to have with Quintus. She dreaded what his reaction would be, once she told him that she had failed to persuade Marsallas to return. And even though she knew he would be too weak to retaliate, Quintus still managed to cause her stomach to clench in fear. And, of course, he still had Secundus to do his bidding…

  Just thinking of Quintus’s cruel, and hated, overseer caused her to shiver in repulsion. Secundus acted as Quintus's right hand man, effectively running the villa, and had done so ever since Quintus’s gradual decline in health several years ago meant he couldn't control his slaves - and her - as he used too. But Secundus was even crueller than Quintus if that were possible, and he meted out such horrific punishments on any of the slaves that incurred his wrath, that even Quintus, had on occasions, had to intervene and tell him to stop, such were the extent of their injuries.

  He’d also been her nemesis these past two years, ever since he had arrived at the villa. He watched her every movement, his snake-like eyes missing nothing as they stripped her body bare, and he always seemed to be near her, waiting for any excuse to touch her. It had become so unbearable at times that she had even been forced to inform Quintus. Thankfully, Quintus had warned him off, and the touching had stopped for a while, but then slowly, insidiously, it would start all over again. And Justina knew he was only biding his time, waiting for Quintus to die, before he made his final move and took what he wanted. Her. In his bed. Justina’s lips twisted wryly as she thought of the potential danger she was in. How ironic, she thought, that for six years she’d managed to avoid Quintus’s touch, only to find herself at the mercy of his overseer.

  Justina shuddered, and deliberately dismissed him from her thoughts. She needed to finish packing if she were
to be ready to leave at the allotted time, and worrying about Secundus wasn’t going to solve anything. She would just have to deal with him when the time came. And she would. Because once Quintus was dead, she would be a free woman, a woman who would finally be in control of her life…and her destiny.

  A few minutes later she was ready, and when she heard a knock at the door she walked over to it and opened it, assuming it would be Diogenes come to collect her. But her body froze when she saw Marsallas leaning against the door frame watching her, a brooding look on the harsh planes of his face.

  For a moment she remembered the young man of her youth, and mourned his demise, for the man standing across the room from her bore no resemblance to the youth she had know all those years ago. And although he had been muscular as a young man, today, as he stood there in the doorway of her room looking totally at ease, Justina had to acknowledge that he had matured into an outstanding specimen of manhood.

  The life as a charioteer demanded peak physical fitness, and Justina had to acknowledge that he looked every inch the superb athlete that he must be. And he looked totally at ease in his skin, as if he knew exactly what effect he had on women.

  Unbidden, he came slowly into the room, smiling a wolf’s smile, and Justina blushed at having been caught staring at him again. He lifted his arms in a gesture of supplication, the action faintly mocking, as his blue gaze fixed on hers with such intensity that it caused Justina’s stomach to clench partly in fear, and partly in response to the sheer masculinity he exuded.

  "So here I am. What was so important that you had to travel to Rome to see me?”

  Justina swallowed, her nerves on edge, as he came further into the room, his muscular presence instantly shrinking the room. She felt her breath catch as he came closer, standing no more than three feet away from her. The harsh lines of his face had been carved out by his life in the Circus. But he was also ruggedly handsome, and just looking at him caused her heart to beat erratically even after all the years away from him.