He was proud of the fact that he had invested wisely, never squandering his money like some of the other charioteers did. He knew that his riding days wouldn’t last forever, and early on in his career he had channelled all of his spare money into land. Once he had left his uncle’s villa, he’d made for the Circus Maximus. He’d heard stories of men earning riches beyond their wildest dreams. If he could get in, make a name for himself, he was guaranteed to make money. And he’d wanted to do that with a passion that bordered on obsessive. Money was the way he would claw his way out of his miserable childhood. And he had succeeded. Way beyond his imagination. He was as rich – if not richer – than many of the powerful men who inhabited the Senate.
It was just as well that not everyone knew that of course. He didn’t aspire to a life of politics in the Forum, merely content with his lot here. His thoughts were broken when they entered the atrium, and Marsallas called one of his female slaves over and told her to take Justina to her room.
“I will see you later, at the evening meal, as I have work to do now.” And with that he turned, leaving Justina alone once more.
* * *
He is a complicated man she thought, as she stared at his retreating back. One minute cordial, the next abrupt and terse. She sighed, not understanding him in the slightest, and eventually she turned to where the young slave girl stood patiently waiting for her. With a small smile of acquiescence, she followed the slave, who took her off in the opposite direction to where Marsallas had gone.
* * *
"More wine, Justina?” Marsallas asked later, as they ate their meal in the triclinium.
Not wanting to break the cordial ambiance of what had been a very pleasant evening so far, Justina nodded, “Yes please. Another would be nice.”
She watched as Marsallas went over to a cabinet and poured her a goblet of wine from a gold decanter. She had been slightly taken aback when she had noticed all the gold platters and goblets on display. It was obvious that Marsallas must be a very rich man, but he didn’t seem to flaunt it as some did, and she admired him for that.
As he poured the wine, she could not help but watch him, her eyes drawn to his handsome profile. Tonight he wore a tunic of rich claret that complimented the tanned dark skin of his legs and arms; arms that were bare apart from a gold band that encircled his upper arm. The band was unusual, not the normal attire of Roman men she was sure of that, and Justina wondered where he had got it from. But where ever it came from it suited him, made him appear virile, strong-
“So, when will you be able to start my sculpture?” Marsallas asked, coming to stand next to her before handing over the goblet of wine.
Justina blushed – a habit she seemed to be doing a lot lately – at having once again been caught daydreaming! Slightly flustered, she answered, “I can start straight away with the drawings. I will need to draw you from all angles, and once that is done I can start making wax casts.”
“Wax. Ah yes, I forgot to mention that I have asked a neighbouring farmer to provide you with all the wax you need. He has a lot of hives, so should be able to provide enough for your needs.”
“Thank you.” Justina said, pleased that he seemed to have thought of everything. “That is all I will need for now, until the time comes to make the clay casts … ” Her voice trailed off, when she saw the intense brooding look on Marsallas’s face as he watched her, suddenly becoming nervous.
For a few moments Marsallas said nothing, then he murmured, “Good.”
Not sure what to do, Justina took a sip of her wine, looking away to stare at the flames that were burning brightly in a nearby bronze brazier.
“I didn’t think you would come. What made you?”
The question caused a shiver of apprehension to run through her. He was so very, very dangerous. Like a lion stalking its prey he stood next to her. She had the urge to turn tail and run away. But she stood her ground, and shrugged slightly, “I don’t know really. If I am honest, maybe it is the chance to show others my work. If your statute is to be displayed in the Circus, it will hopefully bring in a lot of work.”
Marsallas nodded, “It will be. As I said before, I have resisted my stables request to cast me in bronze up until now. Apparently, they want to display me above one of the gates leading into the arena,” he said, before he murmured, “So it was for money, that you came here for, in the end?”
His voice was soft, dangerous. “You should have taken a gamble on me six years ago, Justina. I had money, granted not as much as Quintus, but look at me now. Now I have a thousand times more than he ever did!”
Justina stepped back, her eyes flashing in anger. “It was never about money, Marsallas.”
“Then what was it, Justina?” he asked, before his face twisted in disgust, “Don't tell me you preferred him. I won't believe it. I can't believe it. Your kisses, the way your body reacts to mine tells me otherwise.”
Justina balled her fists, frustration and pain boiling over, “Is it to be like this all the time, Marsallas? You insulting me at every opportunity? If it is, then I'm leaving first thing tomorrow. I told you the truth. It isn't about money. It's about the chance to finally do something with my life.”
For several moments Marsallas stared at her, saying nothing. Then he raked a hand through his hair in frustration, “I apologise,” he finally said, his voice resigned, “It has been a long day and I need to return to Rome tomorrow. I plan to come back here as often as possible, but I have commitments at the Circus. I may only get back here once a week, if I am lucky. I hope that won’t interfere with your work too much.”
As an apology it wasn't much - but it was a start, and buoyed by it she said softly, “No…no that will be fine. T…thank you. And as you say, it has been a long day and I would like to retire.”
He never said anything else, but his small nod of acquiescence was enough.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“You are out of sorts this evening, Marsallas. Is there anything wrong?”
Marsallas turned to look at the beautiful young woman who spoke to him, noticing with wry amusement the frown of annoyance on her immaculately made up face, and the way she just about held onto her anger, as she drummed her fingers on the arm of the richly brocaded couch she was laying on.
And although the words had been said sweetly, he didn't for one moment believe that she meant them. Claudetta couldn’t care less if there was anything wrong with him. The only reason she said them, was because she was angry with him for being such poor company tonight. And being poor company, at one of her highly sought after gatherings was, in Claudetta's eyes, a major sin, and one that would not be tolerated at any cost! And now, as the last of the guests had just left, she finally got the chance to vent her frustration on him.
“Am I?” He replied at last, his tone laconic, as he bit back the smile that threatened, when he saw her face suffuse with colour, as her anger finally got the better of her.
Claudetta's lips thinned, her irritation coming to the fore, as she snapped, “Yes you are. And you know it.”
Marsallas said nothing, but instead reached over to pick up his wine goblet where is sat on a low table. Raising the goblet to the woman in a silent salute, he took a deep swallow of the rich liquid.
Although he never said anything out loud, he acknowledged that in all honesty Claudetta was right. He was out of sorts, and had been ever since he'd left his villa -and Justina - and had returned to Rome. And as he mentally bowed to the truth, the wine he had just swallowed settled in the pit of his stomach, like some bitter potion, a punishment of sorts for the way he had treated her …
Justina – who at this very moment was currently residing at his villa fifty miles away, and who, from the first moment he had seen her when she had turned up at his quarters in the Circus, had dominated his every waking – and sleeping – thoughts. To such an extent that he felt he was going mad with it. The only thing he could think of to restore his sanity was to leave, which was why he'd left his villa la
st week at the crack of dawn, and had ridden at breakneck speed back to Rome.
Back to Rome. Back to some kind of normality, that had been his plan. Only his plan hadn’t worked out quite how he had wanted it too. She made him lose the upper hand, and like a coward, he’d retreated back to the relative sanctuary of the Circus. He needed to think long and carefully. He’d long since learned that it was foolish to base his decisions on immediate reactions. He’d always planned his strategies, right down to the last detail.
But she still dominated his thoughts, and he was still acting like some love sick youth! And he didn’t like it. Not one bit. But frustratingly, he couldn't seem to do anything about it.
What in the name of Hades was wrong with him? He should just forget about her. Just have sex, nothing more. Slate his hunger for her and be done with her. He’d done it with every other woman he’d slept with. Satisfy his physical urges and then move on with his life. Be like the other charioteers. They had women throwing themselves at them, day in day out. But he’d been more particular. He’d taken a lover, on average, once a year. He used the distraction of endless racing, and his heavy work commitments on his farm, as a substitute for bedding women. The last had been Claudetta. A mistake. She had been far too controlling. And once he had wised up to her ways he’d finished their sexual relationship. She’d still wanted him of course, and had insisted that they remain friends. Which was why he was here this evening…
Claudetta must have seen the myriad of expressions that crossed his face, because she said in a deceptively soft voice, “Perhaps it has something to do with the visitors that arrived at your villa recently?”
Marsallas’s frowned in annoyance, but that didn’t stop Claudetta, “I have been told that you are having a sculpture done - a bronze, and I understand it is being done by a woman – your dead uncle’s mistress!”
Marsallas looked up at Claudetta, an incredulous expression on his face, seeing in an instant the hardness of her green eyes as they stared back at him defiantly.
She made a moue with her full pouting mouth, the gesture designed to entice him with her beauty, “Now darling, don’t look at me so. Of course I know what you are up to. You should know that as the daughter of a Senator – a very powerful Senator – I have access to people”.
“'People!' Spies you mean.” Marsallas shouted, anger evident in every line of his body as he stood up. “You have no right to set your spies on me, Claudetta. No right at all!”
Claudetta sat up slowly, annoyance etched on her immaculately made-up face, “I have every right Marsallas. As your lover-”
“Former lover, Claudetta. We haven’t been lovers for months now.” Marsallas growled, cutting off her words mid flow.
“But…I still want you. You know that.” Claudetta stuttered, for a moment caught off guard, as she saw his thunderous expression. “I assumed-”
“You assume too much, Claudetta,” Marsallas said, cutting off her words. Seeing the crestfallen expression on her face, Marsallas’s anger dissipated a little, and he sighed in frustration, his voice less harsh as he continued, “I have always been honest with you, right from the very start of our relationship. We enjoyed each other’s company – we had mutually enjoyable sex – and now it is over there are no hard feelings between us. Those were my terms and you took me knowing what they would be.”
He saw Claudetta turn away from him, anger in every line of her slim body as she absorbed his words. Raking a hand of annoyance through his dark hair as he watched her, Marsallas realised that there was nothing more he could say in his – or even her – defence. Sighing he said quietly, “I’m sorry if you thought differently, but-”
“Leave me, Marsallas,” Claudetta said, cutting off his words, dismissing him with a wave of her arm – as if he were nothing but one of her many slaves.
Marsallas stiffened, his mouth thinning in anger, annoyed with her once again for her supercilious attitude. But wisely held his tongue. He had seen Claudetta’s anger first hand on many occasions over the last year, and now was not the time to inflame it further!
Saying nothing more, he turned on his heel and made to leave the expensively furnished triclinium of the villa that belonged to her father. But just as he was about to open the door, Claudetta shouted, her voice full of bitterness, “I had thought that you, of all people Marsallas, would be too proud to take your uncle’s leftovers, but obviously I was wrong.”
Seething with anger, Marsallas resisted the urge to turn back and retaliate. Instead he flung open the door and stormed out. Obviously realising that she had lost her battle, Claudetta was determined to have the final word, “I hope your lack of commitment keeps you warm in bed at night, Marsallas,” she shouted at his retreating back, “And I pity any woman who falls in love with you.”
* * *
“Uncle’s leftovers.”
Once again the words cut through him like a knife. The two words had been playing around in Marsallas's head for the past week ever since he had left the ugly scene at Claudetta's father's villa. Sighing, he shook his head, trying to dismiss the words but they refused to go, refused to be appeased.
He had been furious with her for spying on him. But then, knowing Claudetta as well as he did, he wasn't really that surprised. Nothing, and nobody, ever got in her way when she wanted something.
And she had wanted him. Right from the very first moment he had been introduced to her, at some gathering or another, she had practically chased him, refusing to leave his side all night and making it as plain as possible that she wanted him. At first he had been flattered, that the daughter of a powerful Senator had wanted him so much, and it had been inevitable that they had gone to bed on the first night of their acquaintance.
But as their relationship – if you could call it that – had continued, it had become more and more obvious to Marsallas that he was just some sort of pet project, her latest lover, her stud, who just happened to be the best in the Circus, and as such was to be paraded around her friends like some sort of trophy.
Marsallas has soon tired of it all, and he had stopped having sex with her. Claudetta had been furious. But because she still wanted him, she had been content to let him be a friend for now. Obviously, she had been biding her time, thinking that he would come around and be her lover again.
But that was never going to happen. He wanted Justina. But Claudetta’s words had left a sour taste in his mouth. And he didn’t know what to do about it-
“Ouch!” The pain that lanced through Marsallas's arm cut off his dark thoughts, “I said stitch Fabius, not amputate!”
Fabius Rufus stopped his ministrations and looked up, smiling apologetically, “Sorry.”
Marsallas grunted, saying nothing more as he looked down at the deep wound. At Fabius’s raised eyebrows Marsallas nodded, and the younger man carried on tending to the deep cut near his elbow, his brow creased in concentration as he sewed the flesh together.
Marsallas sat stiffly, sweat pouring off his brow as he endured the pain waiting impatiently whilst Fabius tended to the wound.
“That is the best I can do I’m afraid.” Fabius said a few minutes later, once he had finished bandaging the arm. “You should see one of the surgeons-”
“No surgeons, Fabius. They are nothing but glorified butchers,” Marsallas interrupted.
“But the wound may turn septic.”
“It will be fine. Thank you.”
“Is there anything wrong, Marsallas?” The words were spoken quietly.
Marsallas stiffened, eyes narrowing as he turned to look at the younger man who was watching him, a frown of concern on his face.
“Wrong?” The words were spoken quietly, so quietly, that anyone who knew Marsallas would have known in an instant that he was angry. Very angry.
“I…I mean you no offence, Marsallas. But…but you have not been yourself recently. I know that your relationship with Claudetta has ended-”
Marsallas laughed harshly, interrupting Fabius stumbling
words, “By the gods the gossips - no make that Claudetta - have been hard at work.”
Seeing the flush of embarrassment on Fabius’s face, he took pity on the man. Sighing he continued, “I ended my relationship with Claudetta months ago. Believe me when I say that my ill humour has nothing to do with Claudetta.”
“But you have been out of control recently.”
Eyes narrowing in anger once more, Marsallas’s asked, his voice deadly, “Out of control? I don’t think so Fabius Rufus. Perhaps you would like to expand on what you mean exactly?”
Fabius swallowed hard, but took the challenge thrown down by Marsallas. “You have been pushing yourself too hard, Marsallas. Ten races today. Ten yesterday, and every day before that for that matter. It…it is too much - for you - and your horses.” Fabius looked up to stare at his mentor, and friend, encouraged when there was no further retort. At Marsallas’s silence he continued his voice earnest. “In all the years I have known you - raced with you - this is the first time I have ever had to stitch you.”
Marsallas’s anger evaporated, and he sighed, turning away to gaze sightlessly out of the window of his small quarters at the Circus Maximus. “Aye. Maybe you are right, Fabius,” he said eventually, “I have been pushing myself too hard. But as I said earlier, it has nothing to do with Claudetta.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
As Marsallas entered the room, he immediately spotted her, sitting on a small stool at the end of the room. A large piece of papyrus paper was balanced on her lap, and she was sketching furiously, the charcoal stick in her right hand flying across the paper.
She was so caught up in her work that she was oblivious to him standing there. She’d been at his villa for nearly three weeks now, and this was the first time he had visited her since the night Claudetta had thrown her hateful words at him.
He watched as she lifted a hand to sweep a wayward lock of her dark hair away from her face, unaware that as she did so she smudged her cheek with charcoal. She looked tired, dark smudges under her eyes. But dishevelled or not, she was still beautiful, her thick black hair, loosely tied behind her with a thin strip of leather, the pale flawless skin, and the slender curvaceous body, all of which inflamed his senses like no woman had ever done. He’d never felt anything for the women he bedded. He knew he was known to be cold. Hard. But that was the way of it. He felt nothing beyond the physical. He was incapable of feeling anything more. He’d kept his emotions firmly in check. Always. His entire life since he’d left Herculaneum had never involved emotion. Never. Until now.
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