The Roman

by Caroline Storer

  “Why didn’t he sell all these remaining ones, if he could make money out of them?” He asked, nodding at the remaining bronzes.

  “Once he became ill, he lost interest in everything. I offered to sell them for him, but he refused.” Justina replied before she shrugged her shoulders gently, “I don't know why.”

  Marsallas said nothing, but inwardly he knew the answer. If he was right, then it was because Justina's sculptures would have fetched a good price, and his uncle wouldn’t have wanted her to find out how much they had sold for. They must have made a good price, because Quintus wouldn't have let her carry on. His uncle never did anything unless it profited him somehow, and if he was right, he would probably find some bill of sale, hidden away somewhere detailing the amount they sold for. His uncle wouldn't have wanted his mistress to find out how much money her sculptures made, because that would have shifted the power from him to her. And as Marsallas knew to his cost, everything his uncle did, had been done from a position of power.

  Power over everything, and everyone.

  For a few minutes they walked in a companionable silence, until he stopped next to the sculpture of the Lance Bearer he'd spotted earlier. “This is an excellent one. When did you do this?”

  He saw Justina blush, before she answered hesitantly, “It was my first sculpture. I…I never sold it.”

  He glanced quickly her, but she was looking at the sculpture, a faraway look on her face. Softly, he said, “It looks like me, but when I was younger.”

  For several tense seconds he thought Justina wasn’t going to say anything, but then he saw her nod, “Yes. It was based on you. I didn’t have anyone else to use as a model at the time, so I worked from memory.”

  * * *

  Justina glanced up at Marsallas from under her lashes, watching as he stared down at the sculpture with a frown on his face. For a moment she was tempted to say that she had kept the sculpture because it reminded her of him. That it had been her only link to him, her only memory of him. But she didn’t. She wasn’t prepared to drop the guard she’d built around her bruised and battered heart ever since he’d come back into her life.

  “Why didn't my uncle sell it?” Marsallas asked, breaking into her thoughts. His gaze was penetrating, the blue of his eyes so intense she wanted to look away.

  “I refused to let him sell it, because the proportions were not right. It was my first sculpture, my first experiment, so to speak when I first started using bronze.” Justina shrugged, striving for indifference, unable and unwilling to tell him the truth and the real reasons as to why she had kept it.

  At her words, Marsallas’s face hardened, before he nodded slowly. “Bronze maybe. But I remember you sculpturing me in sand. Hour, after endless hour I posed for you, didn’t I?”

  Justina had no choice but to nod her assent, annoyed with herself for stirring up the past between them once again, and she braced herself for what he would say next. She didn't have long to wait.

  “Ah yes. The folly of youth. Well rest assured, Justina, I am no longer the gullible fool I once was.”

  * * *

  Justina paced the floor of the bedroom, waiting for the appointed hour, a frown of worry on her face.

  “Would you like me to dress you, Mistress?”

  For a few seconds Justina said nothing, only half aware of what Olivia was saying. Then she came out of her reverie, and focussed on what the young girl was asking.

  “What? Oh yes. Please. The cream silk will be fine.” Justina said her voice faraway.

  For the past few hours she had been in a state of flux, ever since she had received a message from Marsallas, requesting that she attend the evening meal. The message had taken her aback. After his terse words earlier, she couldn't think why he'd want to invite her to share the evening meal with him. Surely, she was the last person he'd want at his side?

  Once Olivia had finished dressing her, and tending her hair, she quelled the knot of fear that had pooled in the pit of her stomach, and left her room heading for the triclinium.

  As she approached, she nodded to the slave that stood next to the door, taking a quick calming breath as he opened the door for her to enter. She saw him instantly, reclining on one of the couches, looking totally at ease. He was wearing a tunic of dark blue silk, the colour complimenting his eyes, making them appear lighter, she noted absently. She watched mesmerised, as he lifted his goblet of wine to his lips, the muscles of his arm bunching with the slight movement, and Justina felt her stomach knot, heat pooling there.

  He was a superb specimen of manhood and a spasm of jealousy surged through her at the thought of him with other women. But she knew that she was being irrational. She had no claim over him whatsoever, and it would be pointless for her to ever dream that it could be so. But it still-

  “Ah, Justina. Come in, take some wine.”

  Justina relaxed slightly, when she heard the cordial tone of his voice. Stepping into the room, she took a couch directly across from him, preferring, for some reason to have a table between them.

  If he noticed, he never said anything. Instead, he sat up and poured her a glass of wine from a gold decanter, before leaning forward to pass it over to her. She nearly dropped it when his fingers grazed hers, sending rivulets of pleasure through her. That, and the heady scent of his skin, was doing serious damage to her equilibrium, and striving for normalcy, she took the goblet, hoping he hadn’t noticed her reaction to him as she lay down on the silk covered couch.

  “I have managed to sell the villa.”

  Her thickly lashed eyes widened. “So soon?”

  Marsallas nodded, “Yes. I have done a deal with a prominent merchant in Pompeii. I got a good price, considerably more than I was expecting actually. The sale of this villa, and some of my own money will settle all my uncle’s debts.”

  Justina bit the inside of her bottom lip. Marsallas sounded resigned to the fact that he’d had to bail out his uncle, but Justina simmered with anger at the way his uncle had treated him. Cheated him even, and unable to stop herself she blurted out, “But it isn’t right that you should have to spend your money,” she said heatedly, “Quintus only changed his will at the last minute, I’m sure of it. Cnaeus should have inherited everything, including Quintus’s debts-.”

  “Who in the name of Hades is Cnaeus?” Marsallas demanded.

  Justina realised that she had once again said too much, but having no choice she answered him, her voice soft, “He was Quintus’s adopted son. He was to have inherited everything. It is my guess that Quintus only changed his will when he realised that he didn’t have enough money to pay his debts, that…that they would probably surface when he died and-” She stopped short, unwilling to go on.

  Marsallas frowned, “And?” he demanded

  Justina looked up at him, her eyes full of sympathy, before she said quietly, “And I … I think he saw his debts as an opportunity to punish you – from beyond the grave.”

  Marsallas closed his eyes briefly, before he said bitterly, “Now why am I not surprised to hear that. My uncle ran true to form, even on his deathbed!”

  “Why did your uncle hate you so?” The question popped out before Justina could stop herself.

  She didn’t think he was going to answer her, as the silence lengthened between them. Then, finally, he said, “Because I tried to kill him!”

  Justina's mouth formed an “O” of surprise. “Really?”

  Marsallas’s mouth twisted in remembrance, his voice full of hatred, “I was about ten years old when my aunt died. Up until then she’d had ten miscarriages and ten dead babies. I once heard her begging him no more children. But he didn’t listen, he never listened. She was his wife, he’d say. It was her duty to give him an heir.”

  Marsallas stopped abruptly, his face far away as he remembered the past. Then he carried on, “She fell pregnant again, but died in agony delivering another dead baby. Ten minutes after she died I took a dagger and tried to stab him. I didn’t succeed of cours
e,” Marsallas grunted softly at the memory, “And he beat me with his bare hands. I don’t think I was able to walk for a whole month. But I didn’t care. And the older I got, the more rebellious I became, refusing to obey his endless orders,” he shrugged his shoulders, “Maybe it was because I wanted to do something more with my life, rather than have to follow in his footsteps. A life as a merchant selling Garum did not appeal!" He laughed bitterly, “So there you have it. I was a disobedient nephew, resentful about the way he treated my aunt, and resentful of him.”

  Justina said nothing, for there was nothing to say.

  “Did you know you were one of many mistresses?”

  Shocked Justina breathed, “No!”

  “Umm, it’s true. My aunt was his only wife. After she died the women came thick and fast, until I lost count, or cared, who came to his bed – until you!”

  An ominous silence fell between them, and Justina felt compelled to say something, “Marsallas I-”

  But Marsallas interrupted her saying softly, deadly, “I must admit I expected to see children here though. A fine healthy specimen such as yourself should have produced a child a year. So why are there no bastard children running riot around the place?”

  Indignation flared through her. How dare he?! “I told you once before, Marsallas that I never slept with your uncle. If you choose not to believe me, then that is your problem.” And with that she stood up, unprepared to stay for one more minute in his company. She may have no status in the villa any more, but that didn't mean he could keep insulting her at every turn.

  “I'm sorry. Please sit. I will speak no more of it.”

  Justina hesitated. Should she stay? He hadn’t said anything about believing her. That she hadn’t slept with Quintus. But he had apologised. For a moment she wavered, undecided, but then several slaves entered the room carrying large platters filled with all manner of food, and she relented.

  She sat down once again, and ignored him, taking a selection of food off the platters. The small task gave her something to do, and it went some way in breaking the tension in the room.

  “I found out an interesting fact the other day. About your sculptures,” Marsallas finally said, once they had eaten and the slaves had taken their leave.

  “Really?” she said, keeping her voice cool, level, not prepared to let him bait her again.

  He smiled slightly, “Yes, really. Apparently you are in great demand. Your sculptures are considered great works of art, both here in Herculaneum, and in Pompeii, and Quintus made a handsome profit out of them. As part of the sale of this villa I managed to persuade the new owner to buy all the bronzes left in the garden. Except the Lance Bearer. I thought I might keep that one.”

  “Oh…I…” Her words trailed off, as she couldn’t think of a single thing to say in response to his last remark. A thousand questions burned in her brain, but she seemed incapable of voicing them. Instead she asked, “When will the sale go through?”

  Marsallas shrugged, his mouth flattening, “A week, maybe two.”

  “I will be ready to leave by then.”

  Marsallas frowned. “Ah yes. Your departure,” he said slowly, “I have been thinking about that a lot.”

  Justina shifted on her seat, unsure where he was going with this conversation.

  “You said you will live with friends when you leave here. Correct?” Marsallas finally said.

  Justina nodded, “Yes, with Lydia and her husband Marcus. I hope to stay with them until I get enough money together to buy or rent my own studio.”

  “How much money would you need?”

  “I don’t know,” Justina, said slowly, “Enough for a small house, with outside space for a furnace so I can carry on with my bronzes.”

  Marsallas nodded, crossing his arms over his chest and she watched transfixed as he smiled across at her. “Perhaps I can help. I have a proposition.”

  “Marsallas,” Justina said hotly, “I told you I won’t-”

  “A business proposition, Justina,” he interrupted.

  Justina frowned, her eyes narrowing in suspicion, but she said nothing.

  “The stables I ride for have been trying to get me to pose for a sculpture, which I understand they want to display at the Circus. I have resisted so far, but now maybe the time for me to consider it.”

  Justina gasped at his words sank in. The Circus Maximus! One of her sculptures to be displayed at one of Rome's great buildings! Was he serious? Or was it another of his taunts? If he was telling the truth then it would be an immense honour. The exposure would give her a chance to prove herself, to make something of her life-

  “You will be paid well.” Marsallas said, interrupting her rapid thoughts. He named a sum that made her mouth fall open, “And I imagine it will be enough for you to buy a property, and to set up your business.”

  Justina said nothing, incapable of speech and Marsallas lifted a hand casually, “Think about it for a while. I don't need a decisions just yet, maybe-”

  “No!” Justina exclaimed, finally finding her tongue, “I…I mean yes. Yes, I’ll do it.”

  Marsallas nodded, his eyes hooded, before an unreadable emotion flickered across his face. “There are two conditions though.”

  Her features furrowed in confusion, to be immediately replaced by suspicion. She lifted her chin fractionally, “And they are?”

  “One. You will come to Rome, or more precisely, to my villa to do the sculpture. I've no intention of ever returning to Herculaneum. And two … ” He hesitated before continuing, “And two … I want you to be my lover. But only for one night.”

  Justina’s face drained of all colour. His lover? For one night? Had she heard him correctly? One look at his hard indomitable face told her that she had, and her stomach clenched. She would be lying if she didn't admit to herself that his proposal both shocked and thrilled her.

  She lifted her chin higher, “Why only one-” She couldn't go on, and hot colour suffused her whole body.

  “Why one night?” Marsallas asked, finishing off her question. He rose from his couch and walked over to where she sat, tilting her chin up with his calloused fingers to stare deeply into the grey depths of her eyes. “We have unfinished business you and I. The day of your sixteenth birthday, do you remember it?”

  Justina’s eyes widened in remembrance.

  “I see that you do,” he said softly, “We would have made love on the beach if it had not been for your father finding us. I want that day back. I want what should have been mine before you betrayed me!”

  At his words she couldn’t stop the tears that sprang into her eyes, and she trembled with emotion. But if he felt it, he didn’t relent, as his eyes were as hard as marble. She tried to pull away from his grip, but his fingers tightened on the softness of her jaw holding her immobile, refusing to let her go as he stared at her with such intensity that her whole body quivered.

  “Am I to be your whore, Marsallas?”

  Her words caused him to grit his teeth, and she saw the flush of colour that stained his sharp cheekbones.

  Then he dealt his death blow. “Don’t think for one minute that I want you for more than one night, Justina. You will give me your body, as payment for the turmoil you put me through six years ago.” He leaned forward, his lips brushing against the softness of her neck. “You are the spoils of war, Justina. And I want to find out how sweet revenge can be.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Where was everyone? Justina wondered, looking around the empty compound, a frown of confusion on her face. She was sure Lydia, or another member of her family would be here, after all she had sent a message earlier to tell them that she was coming.

  She was just about to leave, when a door opened to one of the outdoor buildings, and Justina saw with some relief, Lydia emerge holding hands with her husband Marcus, followed by Caratacus, Lydia’s father.

  “Justina! I’m sorry we are late. Come in, come in,” she said gesturing her over.

  “I…I thought you mi
ght have gone somewhere, out for the day.”

  “No. No. We were praying,” the older woman said, interrupting Justina’s faltering words.

  At Justina’s confusion, Lydia smiled and came over to the young woman. Placing a hand on her arm she guided her back to the small building they had just exited.

  As they walked inside, Justina’s eyes adjusted to the dimness within, and she saw that the room was bare except for a small table that had been placed along a back wall. Above the table there was wooden crucifix.

  “I don’t know if you have heard of a religious group known as Christians?” Lydia asked quietly, watching the myriad of expressions crossing Justina’s face.

  Justina frowned, “I think I have. I remember hearing something a long time ago about how the Emperor Nero had persecuted them, blamed them for starting the great fire of Rome. They worship a man called Jesus?”

  Lydia nodded, “Yes, that’s right. We do.”

  At her startled look, Lydia walked into the room and stood next to the crucifix. “We call Jesus our Lord, the one true God. We believe that he died for our sins. We worship him here with this cross.”

  At Justina’s perplexed look, Lydia laughed softly. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  For a long moment Justina said nothing as she collected her thoughts. Then making up her mind, she said with a firm nod of her head, “I might not understand fully, Lydia. But one thing I do know is that, if worshipping your God makes you, and the rest of your family, the wonderful people that I have come to know and love, then that cannot be such a bad thing.”

  Lydia’s shoulders slumped in relief, and she smiled, a radiant smile, “Thank you Justina for not judging me - us.”