The Roman

by Caroline Storer

  Marsallas stiffened, and his eyes narrowed when he saw their clasped hands, but refusing to be baited he remained mute.

  “Nothing to say, boy? Well I’ll tell you then shall I? Justina has just agreed to be my mistress. She has been a bit remiss in not telling you what’s been going on, so I thought it was about time that you found out.”

  A stunned silence fell in the room once Quintus had stopped speaking.

  For what seemed like aeons, but in actuality was only seconds, Marsallas glared at his uncle before he finally broke eye contact and looked at Justina.

  “Tell me it is not true, Justina?” He whispered, his eyes pleading, begging her to deny what his uncle spoke.

  Justina bit back the tears that threatened to fall, when she saw the pained expression on his face, physically swallowing the lump of emotion that threatened to choke the very life out of her. Breaking eye contact with him, she turned slightly to look at Quintus, seeing in that instant the evil radiating out of him, the madness in his eyes, as he seemed to relish the misery he was inflicting on the three people in the room with him.

  She knew with a certainty, that Quintus was capable of destroying them all if she didn’t acquiesce to his demands. He would crush each, and every one of them without a moment’s hesitation, if she denied anything he’d said.

  So she turned, her face as pale as death, and her heart breaking into a thousand pieces, and said, “I’m sorry Marsallas. I-”

  “You said you loved me Justina, only me,” he interjected, his face draining of colour as the enormity of what she was telling him sank in. And when she said nothing in her defence she saw him stiffen.

  “All this time you were planning to be my uncle’s mistress?” Disgust replaced shock, and she saw his fists clench and unclench in rage, before he spat, “May you rot in Hades, Justina. I hope you remember me every night, whilst you lie on your back with your legs spread for him!”

  And with that, he wrestled out of the slave’s grip, and the slave realising he was no longer a threat, had let him go

  * * *

  The light touch on her arm jolted her back to the present. Eyes focussing, she looked up at Diogenes, the same slave that had restrained Marsallas all those years ago on that fateful night.

  “What?” Then she looked around her, surprised to see that the crowds were rapidly dispersing, the games finally over for the day. She shook her head slightly, “I'm sorry, Diogenes. I was far away.”

  Then without another word, she stood up and followed the crowds out of the arena, leaving behind her past once more, her heart heavy and sad.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “I’m sorry, Justina. There is nothing more I can do. I've made him as comfortable as possible.” Lydia said, as Justina entered the darkened bed chamber.

  Justina nodded, as she walked over to where Lydia, her friend and a well respected healer, stood. “I understand, Lydia. Thank you for all your help.”

  She spoke the words softly, and Lydia smiled at her, placing a hand on the younger woman’s arm in a gesture of comfort, as Justina looked down at Quintus who lay as still as death on his large bed.

  “It is the least I could do. Do you need anything? A sleeping draught or something?”

  Justina shook her head, “No, I will be fine. Thank you.”

  Lydia said nothing more, but squeezed the younger woman’s arm in understanding before she left the room, closing the door with a soft click behind her. The finality of it caused Justina to shiver, her eyes automatically glancing over to a table along the back wall, seeing the wax death mask displayed so prominently. It had arrived that afternoon, rather appropriately she thought, as it now acted as a constant reminder of Quintus’s imminent death.

  Looking away from the mask, she stared down at Quintus. He looked so still, as if he were already dead. The sunken hollows under his razor sharp cheekbones were so pronounced that no flesh remained on his face - or the rest of his body for that matter - and the blue veins on his hands stood out in stark contrast to the whiteness of his parchment thin skin. But she saw his chest move in small shaky movement’s, testament that he still clung to life, refusing to die, refusing to succumb to the disease that had been eating away at him for months now.

  Justina sighed, and turned away, looking up at the man who stood silently next to his Master. “You can leave if you want, Diogenes. There is nothing more anyone can do.”

  Justina didn’t expect a reply from the slave – he was a man of few words. But he didn’t leave and Justina shivered, ever so slightly in awe of the slave, even after all these years. She remembered the first time she had seen him, the feeling of shock that had assailed her as he loomed over her, black fathomless eyes staring down at her from a body nearly seven feet in height, and this, coupled with his massive strength – his chest alone was the size of three men’s - had rendered her immobile with fright.

  His skin was as dark as mahogany, and his bald oiled head complete with earring, made him look like some giant pirate, but Justina knew that he had been captured many years ago as a young boy from Syria. She couldn’t tell how old he was, he seemed ageless somehow, but she knew that he must be at least forty years old by now-

  A loud groan interrupted her thoughts, and she looked down at Quintus, surprised to see that he was awake for the first time since she had come back from Rome. Justina leaned over, and laid her hand on the cold skin of his forehead. “Shh, Quintus. Rest now.”

  Quintus shook his head, and lifted a finger towards Diogenes, beckoning the slave forward. Once the slave had approached, Quintus rasped, “Lift me.”

  “No Quintus, you must lie still,” she implored, a frown of concern on her face.

  But Quintus ignored her, waving her away, and Diogenes, as ordered by his Master, lifted the old man until he was upright, placing a silk cushion behind his back. For several moments Quintus gasped for breath, the exertion causing him serious distress.

  Eventually Quintus’s breathing steadied, and once he was able to breathe normally he looked over to Diogenes. “Leave,” he ordered.

  Justina watched as the slave left the room, then she tensed when she saw his gaze come to rest on hers, a hard look in them eyes. She had seen that look many times over the past six years, and knew that it boded ill. Quintus beckoned her over, and Justina not having much choice, walked over to stand by his bed. He took her hand, his bony fingers gripping the softness of hers. “Did you see him? As I ordered you too?”

  Justina stiffened, before she answered, “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “He won’t come.”

  The three words held a wealth of meaning, and Quintus cackled. “Of course he wouldn’t.” He breathed hard, before he rasped, “And how was he?”

  Justina frowned, not sure what he wanted her to say. But she spoke the truth anyway. “Hard. Indomitable. Full of hate.”

  A cruel smile touched his lips, “Good. It was about time he became a man instead of fawning over you. What else?”

  The question was fired rapidly, and Justina flinched slightly, “He said his life in Herculaneum was over, and he had no desire to return.”

  “Not even for you?”

  The question caused Justina’s heart to race, and she suddenly felt faint. Lifting her chin in defiance she fixed her gaze on his, refusing to be cowed. “No. Not even for me.”

  Quintus’s eyes narrowed, the blue of his eyes like shards of ice, “Are you sure of that, Justina? He couldn’t keep his hands off you when he was younger.”

  Justina sucked in her breath, refusing to answer his question. Instead she asked her own, “Why are you so full of hatred, Quintus?” Her voice was low, measured, with the depth of the emotion she was feeling, “Can’t you just leave it be? You know what you did tore us apart; can never be repaired. Be content with that as you lay here on your death bed.”

  And with that she turned to leave, but his words halted her, causing a trickle of fear to course through her.

  “I wouldn’t be t
oo sure of that, Justina. I’ve sown the seeds of hate once again,” he said cryptically.

  Closing the door to Quintus’s bedroom, Justina made her way down the dark corridor, her brow furrowed as she thought of Quintus’s words. He was so bitter. So full of hatred. Even now, with his death imminent, he still festered a hatred for his nephew that defied logic.

  Deep in thought, she was unprepared for the shadow that suddenly came to life from behind one of the marble columns. She stiffened, instantly on the defensive, thinking it was Secundus.

  But it wasn't Secundus, and Justina she felt her heart lurch in surprise when she saw Marsallas standing there.

  Had it been five whole days since she’d seen last seen him? It seemed like a lifetime ago. Her stomach muscles contracted as she took in a deep breath, watching as he came towards her, his eyes burning into hers so intensely that she didn’t know whether to run away from him, or run into his arms such were the myriad of feeling coursing through her.

  She did neither. Instead she merely stood her ground. A shiver ran through her, trickling down her spine like ice cold mountain water. Eventually she found her tongue, and silently cursed the husky tone of her voice as she said, “You have come.”

  The words once blurted out, now sounded stupid, and she blushed in mortification. It didn’t help when she saw Marsallas’s mouth quirk in a slight smile at her gaucheness.

  "So I have.”

  Those three words held a wealth of meaning, and Justina looked away as an awkward silence fell between them.

  "Is Quintus in there?”

  Turning her head back to him, she became aware that he had moved closer to her and her lips were now no more than a whisper away from his. Her stomach plummeted as she fought the urge to fuse her lips with his. To taste him. All of him.

  “Yes,” she finally answered.

  “Can I see him?”

  Justina nodded. “He was still awake when I just left.” For a moment she wondered whether she should mention the conversation that had just taken place. Making up her mind quickly, she blurted out, “He wasn’t in a very good mood, I’m afraid. He was questioning me about you…”

  Her words trailed off. For a long moment Marsallas said nothing, just stared down at her, his eyes expressionless. Then he walked past her and stopped in front of the door, before he turned to where Justina was still standing, “Will you come in with me?”

  For a moment she hesitated, unsure. But then she saw a glimpse of uncertainty – fleeting – but none the less there – enter his eyes before it was blinked away. “Yes. Of course,” she said, making up her mind.

  * * *

  “Quintus? Marsallas is here,” Justina whispered, unsure whether he was asleep or not, as his eyes were now closed. For a few moments silence reigned in the room until Quintus’s eyes suddenly shot open, causing Justina to jump slightly with the unexpectedness of it. His eyes bored into hers briefly, before they swivelled to where Marsallas stood on the other side of the bed.

  For an indeterminably long time both men stared at each other, each of them taking the others measure.

  Considering how ill Quintus was, Justina was surprised to see anger and hatred radiating out of Quintus’s eyes, before his lips, parchment thin, curled in disgust as he looked his nephew up and down.

  Eventually Quintus spoke, “Well, what a surprise. My long lost nephew returns at last.”

  Justina held her breath, amazed by the vitriol she could hear in Quintus’s voice, and she glanced over to Marsallas awaiting his response.

  “Uncle,” Marsallas nodded in greeting, his tone neutral. But the word held a wealth of feeling, and Justina ached with pity for him. Inwardly she was annoyed with Quintus. Hadn’t Marsallas come to see him as ordered? And now that he had, Quintus was still angry with him! It seemed that nothing Marsallas could do would ever please his uncle.

  “She’s still beautiful isn’t she? I can see why you lusted over her.”

  The words made Justina stiffen in shock, totally unprepared by Quintus’s line of attack. What on earth was he playing at? Looking down at him, she saw a twisted smile on the old man’s face, as he stared intently at his nephew.

  Marsallas said nothing, but Justina could feel the tension flowing between the two of them, like two adversaries about to commence battle in the gladiatorial arena. Nerves pooled in her stomach as she glanced at Marsallas from under her lashes. If Marsallas was of a mind, he could quite easily mention that he kissed her when she had seen him in Rome. That would be enough to rile his uncle’s anger she was sure of it!

  Thankfully, Marsallas never responded to his uncle’s jibe, but Justina could tell that the words had affected him, as a nerve ticked furiously along his clenched jaw line.

  “Take her if you want. I’ve no use for her anymore!”

  Justina gasped, suddenly feeling faint, her hand reaching out to wall to steady herself. “Why Quintus?” she cried out, unable to look at Marsallas because of the shame that filled her. And when Quintus didn’t even bother to look at her, never mind answer her, she turned and fled the room, unable to stop the tears that fell.

  * * *

  The silence in the room was deafening once the door had slammed shut behind Justina, and unable to control his temper, Marsallas leaned forward, his lips curling with disgust.

  “Once a bastard, always a bastard, eh uncle?” Marsallas’s lips curled in disgust, “And for a moment I thought you might have changed, shown some compassion as you lay here on your death bed.”

  Quintus stared up at his nephew, his eyes full of hatred, and with a huge effort he raised a bony finger pointing it at him, “Why should I change, Marsallas? I’ve no need to change. You’ll do well to remember that, especially when you take Justina to your bed. And you will-” he said, pausing, spittle dribbling down his chin, as he saw confusion flit across Marsallas’s face. Then, slowly, deliberately, and for maximum effect he added, “But don’t forget, I had her first!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Justina woke up with a start, wondering what had woke her. Then her ears attuned to the strange sounds coming from outside the villa, and she sat up, swinging her legs out of the bed before walking over to the window.

  As she looked down into the courtyard she saw a myriad of musicians testing their instruments, and paid wailer’s warming up their vocal cords to the requisite pitch of grief. Her eyes took in the macabre sight of dancers practising their moves, and actors running through their last rehearsals of the tricks and idiosyncrasies of the family ancestors whom they were to impersonate.

  Normally, the villa was quiet in the mornings, Quintus had demanded that there should be no noise whatsoever until he had awoken.

  But Quintus was dead, and for five days now there had been a surreal atmosphere in the villa. The death of such a prominent man as Quintus demanded a high-profile funeral, and ever since the morning of his death, when the funeral director had arrived and promptly closed the heavy doors of the villa before nailing bushy sprigs of pine to it, to declare the presence of the dead within, there had been a flurry of activity within it.

  As if by magic, musicians had arrived soon after, and mournful music filled the scented gloom of the atrium, where the floor was piled with baskets of fruit and wreathes of flowers in homage. The funeral director had then ordered his men to arrange the decorative tributes around the couch on which the dead man rested, before opening a series of cupboards to reveal the yellow skinned wax death masks.

  Today was the day of the funeral, and hopefully, afterwards, everything would return to some sort of normality – whatever that would be! Nothing seemed real anymore. She felt as if she were suspended in time. Waiting for something to happen.

  Sighing, she turned away from the chaos outside and started to dress, not bothering to wait for her tire-woman to attend to her. In truth, she wanted to crawl back under the silk covers and hide forever, avoid the funeral and everything that came with it. But she couldn’t. Duty called. Everyone expected the former
lover of one of Herculaneum’s richest men, to be present at his funeral…

  * * *

  Later that morning, as the funeral cortège left the villa, the first thing the people of Herculaneum saw, as the huge gates of the villa were opened, was an actor wearing the wax death mask, and accompanying Quintus’s corpse as it was carried on a large litter on his last journey. Custom dictated that the body be exposed to view for the duration of the procession, formally dressed and arranged by the undertaker, and Justina watched in morbid fascination as Quintus’s body swayed almost lifelike in the cart in front of her, as she and Lydia followed behind it.

  Justina knew no expense had been spared for Quintus’s funeral. Two thousand sesterces had been donated towards the perfumes alone, almost all of which would go up to the heavens in sweet smoke by the time the ninth day of mourning was over.

  Tearing her eyes away from the dead body, Justina looked ahead of her, hearing the muted whispers of the crowds that lined the cobbled, narrow streets as they slowly made their way into the centre of Herculaneum. As she sidestepped puddles of rain that had fallen the night before, she could see that they were approaching the Forum, noticing that it was freshly festooned with garlands of flowers for a forthcoming festival.

  The Forum was an almost exact copy of the Forum found in Rome, albeit smaller, and for a heartbeat she remembered the brief time she had spent there. Remembered Marsallas’s kisses, his hands on her body, and the heat in his eyes when he looked at her, before hate had replaced desire-

  “Are you all right Justina?”

  Justina started, her memories disappearing in an instant as she turned to look at Lydia who walked next to her. She smiled to herself at the concern she could hear in her friend’s voice, before giving the older woman a brief nod, “Yes, I think so. But I’m attracting a lot of attention though,” she said quietly, as she saw that the crowd were either watching her, or whispering about her. Justina knew it wouldn’t be until the wax masks had been returned to their cupboards, the family had been purged with fire and water, and the house finally swept and purified with roasted salt and spelt, that she would finally be free of the covert looks and judgement that had followed her the moment she had left the confines of the villa.