She had the urge to move away, to put some distance between them, but didn’t want to appear a coward, so instead she lifted her chin and looked him squarely in the eyes. Her fear dissipated somewhat, when she saw with some surprise, that he looked ill. His skin was a sallow yellow colour, his eyes bloodshot, and she could see sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip. Concern overcame fear, and she ignored his question. Instead she asked, “Are you ill?”
She saw him raise an eyebrow, and a small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"Your concern is touching, Justina. No, I am not ill, just recovering from the excesses of last night, if you know what I mean. Life as one of Rome’s great charioteers, is just one long endless party.”
Justina blushed at the sarcastic tone of his voice, and she turned away, annoyed with herself for showing concern for him. She should have realised that he would turn it against her.
After a tense silence had fallen in the room, she turned back to him and saw him watching her through narrowed eyes. He was obviously still waiting for an answer as to why she had come to see him, so taking a deep breath she said in a measured tone, “Your uncle is dying. I’ve come to Rome to ask you to return to Herculaneum. To…to come home.”
Another long silence descended in the room until Marsallas barked, “Home! Since when has that mausoleum ever been a home? No, I don’t think so Justina. You can tell my uncle that I am far too busy here in Rome!”
Justina said nothing. She didn’t argue with him, or try to persuade him as she knew it would be futile. She had, at least, carried out the order she had been given, and could now return to Herculaneum knowing that she had spoken with him. If she was honest with herself, she agreed with Marsallas. In all the years she had lived in the vast villa, she had never felt comfortable living there, and she had prayed every day for the opportunity to be presented to her so she could leave the cold austere place.
“Tell me one thing though, Justina.” Marsallas asked, breaking into her thoughts, “Did my uncle ask, or order you to come here?”
Justina looked up at him, guilt stealing over her, as hot colour stained her cheeks at his question. The unspoken reaction was answer enough for Marsallas, and he laughed, the sound harsh and guttural in the silence of the room. “Just as I thought,” he said, his mouth twisting in derision. “No, I will not come back to Herculaneum, Justina. My life there is over, you can tell my uncle that. It was over the day he bedded you!”
She stiffened at the harshness of his words, but said nothing, watching as he walked back towards the door, and back out of her life once more. But then he stopped abruptly, as if he had suddenly remembered something, before he turned and walked back to where she stood. She had to resist the urge to flee when she saw the intense look on his face as he came towards her. But she stood her ground, willing her body to remain calm. But when he came to within touching distance of her she was potently aware of his raw sexuality. Her skin prickled in awareness, and she swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. She could well imagine the women of Rome wanting him in their beds.
“I almost forgot,” he murmured softly, lifting up her chin with firm fingers, and Justina not having any choice, looked up into his face. She felt her eyelashes flutter slightly as her eyes clashed with his. His fingers were rough, calloused, with the hard work of his life. Then she felt his thumb skim over the fullness of her bottom lip, and she had to fight the urge to taste his skin with her tongue. She could see resistance in his eyes as he touched her, as if he were fighting his own internal battles as far as she was concerned. Then his eyes darken with suppressed passion, and before she could think, or react, he leaned forward and took her in his arms and kissed her - deeply – his lips firm and unyielding, his tongue demanding, and gaining access to the softness within.
Justina gripped his strong bare forearms, wanting to break away from the kiss, but unable to do so as a surge of desire flowed through her. She closed her eyes, caught up in the headiness of his mouth on hers. Eventually he pulled away, and Justina felt bereft that the kiss had ended so soon. But then the enormity of what had just happened hit her, and her eyes flew open.
For a heartbeat neither of them moved, but then Marsallas broke the spell between them, his lip twisting in derision. He cocked his head and clicked his tongue, in what was obviously a false gesture of regret, before asking in a mocking tone, “Tell me, do I kiss better than Quintus?”
Justina gasped in horror at his words, and before she could think, she slapped him across the face. Hard.
For a moment she couldn’t believe she’d hit him, and she stood open mouthed with shock at her audacity. She watched as a large red mark appeared on his cheek, before stepping backwards in an involuntary movement when she saw his eyes narrow in anger.
“Witch,” Marsallas hissed, a nerve ticking furiously along his clenched jaw line. For a moment Justina thought he might retaliate, but he didn't. Instead, he turned and strode out of the room without a backward glance, the door slamming shut behind him.
* * *
Diogenes came into the room a short while later. Justina was sitting on the bed deep in thought. She looked up at the silent man; reading the question in his eyes, the concern on his face.
“I will be ready in a moment, Diogenes,” she murmured standing up. Then in a sudden surge of rebellion, against Quintus and his orders, she said, “But we are not leaving for Herculaneum just yet. I want to go to the Circus Maximus first.”
* * *
“Mar-sall-as! Mar-sall-as!” The name rang around the vast arena, bouncing off the sides in a cacophony of noise, so deafening that Justina had to put her fingers in her ears to block it out. There must have been nearly one hundred thousand people in the arena, and it seemed that all of them were chanted his name over and over again, shouting and screaming in mass hysteria, as their hero rode his victory lap. Justina, caught up in it all, watched spell-bound as her eyes followed his every move as he rode around the arena acknowledging the approval of the crowd.
He had just won his race – yet again – and had been “crowned” with his palm branch and wreath, whilst the four horses he drove were adorned with palm branches attached to their harnesses. The horses seemed to know that they were being worshipped and pranced and preened as they trotted around the arena absorbing the accolades meted out on both man and beast.
Justina could see that Marsallas was revered with some sort of cult status, and she would have had to be blind not to see the covert looks all the women gave him. It was obvious that he could have any of the women here with a snap of his fingers, but as he waved to the crowd, his stance strong and proud as he stood in his chariot guiding his horses, Justina could see that his face was grim, and she wondered why he wasn’t revelling in his victory…
They had not long arrived, and had just taken their seats so she and Diogenes had missed most of the race, but now as she looked around at the crowds she could tell that they were obviously enjoying themselves. Eventually the crowd quietened as Marsallas finished his victory lap and rode out of the arena and everyone took their seats. The intense rays of the afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, and Justina wiped the sweat from her brow. How on earth did people manage to stay here all day in this heat she wondered?
She leant across and asked a young couple who sat next to them how the races were run, explaining that she was a visitor to Rome, and once they realised she was a novice to the games needed no further invitation, being more than happy to explain the “rules” to her. She was told that there were four teams – factions – the Blues, Greens, Whites and Reds, and obviously, from the colour of his tunic Marsallas rode for the Blues. Apart from his tunic the only other adornments he wore were fasciae – padded bonds that were wrapped around his torso and thighs for protection, a thick leather helmet that protected his head and a falx – a curved knife to cut the reins that were wrapped around his hands in case of an accident if he was dragged around the arena.
Apparently, she had mis
sed the elaborate opening ceremony that consisted of a procession led by the dignitaries who were sponsoring the games, followed by the charioteers and teams, musicians, dancers and priests carrying the statutes of the gods and goddesses who watched over the races. Once the procession had finished the charioteers drew lots for their position in the starting gates, and once the horses were ready, a white cloth – mappa – was dropped by the sponsor of the games. At the signal, the gates were sprung, and up to twelve teams of horses thundered onto the track and the spectators followed the race by watching the bronze dolphin counters being pulled down on the spina – located on the central barrier after each lap passed.
“Is Marsallas competing again?” She asked the young woman.
The woman nodded, “Yes. He rides at least three races a day on average, sometimes up to five.”
“Five!” Justina exclaimed.
“Aye. He is fabulously rich you know, he earns a fortune – some say he has amassed over twenty million sesterces in the last six years or so he has raced! He has never been injured either, it is a miracle really.”
At Justina’s shocked expression, the woman giggled, and leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “Rich, handsome, and unmarried, it is a shame I am a married woman if you know what I mean. He can have any woman he wants, rich or poor, slave or patrician. And frequently does, if the gossips are to be believed!”
Justina felt a surge of jealousy flow through her at the woman's words, but never had the chance to reply, even if she wanted to, as the crowd surged to its feet once more, the trumpeters announcing that another race was about to start. As she craned her neck towards the starting gates she could see that Marsallas was once again racing, as he stood proud and erect in his chariot. He must be exhausted she thought, a worried frown on her face, but the race started, and the thunder of the horse’s hooves, as well as the roar of the crowd took over, cutting off her wayward thoughts.
As she watched entranced, she could see that Marsallas was a master tactician and knew exactly what he was doing as he rode at breakneck speed around the area. He used his body weight, his reins tied around his torso, to lean from side to side to direct his horses’ movements, keeping his hand free for the whip he carried. She could see that there were other chariots sporting the blue colours, and it seemed as if they all worked as a team, the other charioteers using various tactics to break the concentration of their opponents, which then allowed their team mates to gain the coveted inside of the track, maximising their chances of winning.
Marsallas controlled his horses with what seemed to be the minimum amount of effort, almost with an arrogance that bordered on dangerous, as if he didn’t care whether he won or not. Whether he lived or died-
The crowd gasped, as one of the opposing charioteers – a White – was forced against the inside wall of the arena. His chariot broke apart as it smashed into the stone wall and he was thrown from it. Justina could hardly bear to watch, as the poor man was dragged around the ring, still holding onto the horses’ reigns, until, finally he was able to bring the horses to a stop. She let out a sigh of relief when she saw that he seemed to be unharmed as he stood up and ran out of the way of the oncoming chariots that had already raced around the track, and were now on their way to the finishing line.
Her eyes focussed back on Marsallas’s chariot, and she could see that he was once again in the lead, having held his team of horses back until the last minute to keep them from exhaustion, before allowing them full reign, and letting them race as fast as they wanted to. She marvelled at his skill, as he rode around the arena at break neck speed, seemingly totally unconcerned by the danger he must face every time he raced, and Justina was amazed that he had never been injured. She watched, with a sense of relief, when he passed the finishing line, again the winner, before once again acknowledging the adoration of the crowd as he undertook his victory lap.
Once the race finished Justina let out a huge sigh, relieved that he had escaped injury, and sat back down heavily onto the wooden seat feeling totally exhausted. She smiled wryly to herself, thinking that if Marsallas knew of her concern for him, he would have reacted with scorn, no doubt throwing it back in her face.
She recalled how different it had once been between them. There had been no bitterness, no hatred, no anger between them.
And then, as if the past had suddenly come right back to haunt her, she remembered how it had all started…
CHAPTER THREE
Herculaneum – AD 73- six years earlier…
Justina sighed, stood up and wiped the sand off her hands on the coarse linen of her stola, a frown on her face as she stared down at the sand sculpture. She tilted her head slightly, it wasn’t her best effort she thought, pulling a face of disgust. She had been trying to sculpt a life size figure of a deer in full flight. But she hadn’t quite got the proportions right she decided. The head was too big for the body, and the legs were too long and skinny.
She had got the idea for the sculpture from a fresco she had seen on the wall of the Basilica, and had been itching to sculpt it ever since she had seen it a few days ago. She had memorised the drawing, but obviously not well enough. But then, she realised, perhaps she was being too hard on herself. She had never actually seen a real deer, so maybe she hadn’t done too bad a job after all!
Turning away from the sculpture, she made her way down to the water’s edge and sat down on the damp sand removing her handmade straw hat and sandals before wriggling her toes in the cool water. She leaned her head back, letting the last of the afternoon sunshine wash over her. It would soon be time to leave, and she relished the small amount of freedom she had here.
As she sat there, she was vaguely aware of the stillness of the afternoon air being broken by the sound of splashing water, and her head lolled forward, her eyes searching out the noise. Squinting, she made out a dark shape in the dark blue waters, and for a moment she thought it was a dolphin, but as she focused on the shape she realised that it wasn’t a dolphin but a swimmer, a very powerful swimmer she thought, as she watched him cleave his way through the water, his arms strong and measured as they cut through the waves.
He was a very good. Maybe he was in training for some upcoming games? Perhaps the celebration of the birthday of the late Emperor Augustus which was next week she mused to herself. But her thoughts were cut short abruptly, and she tensed, drawing her knees up to her chest, when she realised that the swimmer had changed direction and was swimming straight towards her!
Not sure what to do, she stood up and watched the approaching swimmer, every sense she possessed on alert. Then, making up her mind she turned abruptly and started to walk away.
“Wait! Please. I won’t hurt you.”
His words, spoken directly behind, sounded as if he was slightly out of breath and Justina stopped short. For a moment she hesitated, undecided what to do. How had he got to the beach so quickly? She thought in amazement. She turned around slowly, and when she saw him she swallowed the lump in her throat as she stared open mouthed at the young man who had called out to her, and who was now walking slowly towards her. The intensity of his eyes on hers was disconcerting, and she quickly looked away. But then, as if he held some sort of hold over her, she looked back up at him.
He looked like a young Neptune, rising from the waves, as he came out of the water towards her. He was naked apart from his subligaculum. The leather loin cloth moulded his hips snugly, and Justina’s eyes looked away from there, quickly shifting to his muscular bronzed torso. His chest was hard and smooth, and she had the strange urge to stroke her hands over it to see if it was as strong and powerful as it looked.
Her artist’s eye took in the perfect proportions of his body. His long muscular legs, narrow hips, his flat stomach, then up once more to his chest, and then finally, her wide eyed gaze settled on his broad shoulders. She had to acknowledge that he was a perfect specimen of manhood, and secretly her hands itched to sculpt him, to feel his muscles, to-
“My name
is Marsallas.”
The words were spoken softly, and effectively acted as a splash of cold water to Justina’s wayward thoughts. Instantly, her eyes shot up, and met his twinkling blue ones. Realising that she had been caught staring at him, she blushed bright red when she saw the humour reflected in his gaze. Mortification surged through and she turned away from him.
Oh no, how could she have been so blatant? What must he think of her?
She turned slightly, and looked at him from under her lashes. She could see that he was standing there staring at her, waiting for her to say something. “Justina,” she finally said, aware of the huskiness of her voice. “My name is Justina.”
Marsallas nodded slowly, and smiled at her, his perfect straight teeth a startling white against the bronze of his skin.
“Hello, Justina. Will you sit with me?”
She hesitated, aware of her hands twisting together nervously, “I…I…”
He must had sensed her hesitation, because he said quietly, “You are a very good sculptress by the way,” he said nodding at the sand sculpture next to her. “Please. Stay for a little while,” he begged.
Justina glanced up at him, chewing her bottom lip in indecision. She really should leave. The day was growing late, and her father would expect her back soon. But seeing the earnest expression in his deep blue eyes she made up her mind to stay. So she nodded slightly, and noted in surprise that his shoulders slumped, as a look of relief passed over his face when she accepted his request.
“How old are you?” Marsallas asked, once she had sat back down on the sand, and he had joined her.
Justina was slightly taken aback by the question, “Fifteen,” she answered slowly, and when she saw him frown, she added, “But I’ll be sixteen next month.”
“So young,” Marsallas said, almost to himself.
“And you? How old are you?” She murmured, noticing the husky edge to her voice once more.
The Roman Page 3
