He was hoping to speak to Corinna alone, and he was not disappointed. When her hulking ‘master’ disappeared from the inadequate receiving room for some reason, he spotted the girl hovering just outside.
‘Mary.’ He called the wretched girl by her baptismal name, knowing she would feel compelled to put her head around the door-curtain.
Predictably, she did. ‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Do not stand on the threshold, girl—’
‘My master does not wish me to be alone with any man.’
At her impudence, words failed Silvinus Cato. He sat up straight on his hard, uncomfortable chair and glowered at her properly. She was decked out in a pale linen far too fine for any slave, with her hair tied with a pink ribbon and her feet shod in be-jeweled sandals. She looked glossy and yes, pretty, and more.
It came to Silvinus Cato that she was happy.
What right had a slave to be happy?
Inwardly raging, Silvinus Cato tried to compose his austere features into an expression resembling sorrow.
‘I have bad news. Our priest was seized and executed in the arena yesterday afternoon.’
There. That had knocked the silly joy from her face. She paled, leaning against the door jamb, looking for all the world as if she were about to faint.
‘Dead? My holy man?’ she faltered.
Quickly, Silvinus Cato followed up his advantage. ‘The rest of our group is meeting tomorrow night, in our usual place. You must come to worship. And Mary—’
He paused while the girl’s shoulders shook in a self-indulgent, slavish display of grief—‘You must do more. You must be our Judith.’
She gawped at him, the tears still falling down her foolish, shocked face.
‘It was Decimus who killed the priest. Your new master cut down an elderly, unarmed man to the cheers of the mob. You should know your duty. Be like Judith. Slay your master in his sleep.’
She said nothing, but then, what was there to say? Silvinus Cato rose from the ghastly chair and walked towards her, determined to press his point. ‘You must do this, Mary. When you come tomorrow night at sunset you must bring a token to prove that Decimus the killer is dead. Then I will take you back into my household and the priest will be avenged.’
She was too stunned or stupid to speak, but Silvinus Cato was sure he had said enough. He prepared to take his leave as swiftly as possible, anticipating a satisfactory resolution to the Decimus problem.
Numb, Corinna wandered out into the small garden. She began to water the herbs and dead-head the roses, her fingers working nimbly enough even as her mind replayed the recent scene in the ante-room, over and over.
The holy man is dead. Joseph, son of Peter, is dead. But I wanted to tell him I am happy.
She was appalled at her own selfishness. She tried to think of Joseph: his eyes, his smile, the sound of his voice. Decimus filled her thoughts, instead.
‘Pray for him, then,’ she told herself, under her breath, but she could not remember the words. Yesterday, when she had been busy in the kitchen, learning how to bake bread, Decimus, her lord, the man she loved to call master, had been executing Christians. Decimus had killed Joseph.
I do not believe it. I cannot.
Decimus found her crouching by the pots of rosemary and lavender. He took her gently by the shoulders and raised her. ‘What is it?’ His voice roughened. ‘Do you miss your old master?’
The ridiculousness of that idea almost made Corinna laugh. ‘Never!’ she said.
‘So why—’ He waved his arms, inviting her to continue.
‘What happened in the arena yesterday?’ Corinna forced herself to take a step back, away from his shielding warmth and comfort. She had to try to keep her wits about her, and that was impossible when she and Decimus were close.
He stared down at her, folding his arms across his chest. ‘Why do you ask? You’ve never questioned me before.’
‘I know you do not like to speak of it.’
‘True.’ He sighed. ‘It is enough to live it once, and survive it.’
‘So you wonder why I am curious now.’ Staring at the cracks in the paving stones, Corinna wet her dry lips with her tongue. ‘This is hard,’ she admitted.
‘Come into the shade, take wine with me, and tell.’
Sharing a cup of sweet wine with him, Corinna began to speak. She was hesitant, but as Decimus listened and did not interrupt, she explained more. About meeting Joseph in the winter, when she had been ordered by her first master Piso to go out into the sleeting rain to entice customers into his bath house. Her feet had been aching and the smallest finger of her right hand crooked and swollen, because a customer had dislocated it for a bet. Joseph had healed her hand and offered to wash her feet.
‘I was astonished and suspicious,’ Corinna went on. ‘I cursed him. Joseph simply shook his head. The next day he came to the baths and paid for my time. He talked to me. He didn’t want anything else.’
‘Was he blind?’ Decimus grunted.
‘He said he was married, and faithful to his wife. He talked. We talked. After a month, he—’
‘—told you he was a Christian,’ Decimus finished for her. ‘Or a priest of Isis. Not of Mithras—they don’t admit women.’ He grinned, draining the rest of the wine. ‘That wasn’t so astonishing, Corinna, such men target slaves for converts. One or two have spoken to me.’
‘And what about yesterday?’ Corinna asked sharply. ‘Amongst those executed for the pleasure of the crowd was there a small, thin man, missing his right ear?’
Decimus grimaced. ‘There was such a man. They said he was a criminal.’
Without asking who ‘They’ were, Corinna said bitterly, ‘We Christians are always suspected as criminals in Rome, ever since the great fire.’
‘Not by me.’
‘But did you kill him?’
Her master’s face grew grim. ‘The executioners were short-handed yesterday. I went into the arena without my usual helmet or armor, so none recognized me. Better me, and a swift, clean death, than him being left for another to finish off. I made a show so the mob would be fooled but he went quickly. That fool Julius Tertellus would not have been as efficient.’
Efficient! The word sickened her.
Decimus rose to his feet. ‘I must go practice. If I fail, I die. You might remember that, in your righteous indignation.’
He left for the barracks, leaving her ashamed.
That evening, long after dark, he returned, swaying a little on his feet and smelling of cheap wine. Relieved he had come back to her, Corinna scurried about, fetching water for him to wash, and tid-bits of food. She was careful to ask him no questions beyond those concerned with his comfort.
Soon he tottered to their single bedroom and retired, blowing out the oil lamp, leaving her to undress in the dark. When she climbed into bed he rolled onto her, gave her a sleepy kiss, then turned away. She heard his long, sleeping breaths.
Stark awake, she lay beside him, still unable to pray for Joseph, son of Peter, who had given her hope and purpose when no one else had treated her as a living human being.
What can I do? A tear ran down into her hair, then another.
Her master, whom she loved, had killed her priest, whom she also loved.
Whatever Silvinus Cato urged, there was no question of revenge. It was against the deepest tenants of her faith. It was wrong.
So why did her former master want her to slay Decimus in his sleep?
Such a tidy word, ‘slay,’ conveying none of the horror and anguish and blood. People like Silvinus Cato, who had never truly faced death, were glib in their descriptions of killing. She understood why Decimus never spoke of it, why he wanted to shield her from the arena and had never wanted her there, watching. He understood she was no Roman, baying for blood.
Silvinus Cato was Roman, right enough. He was cold and ambitious and keen to rise in politics. When Joseph had first brought him to their secret Christian meetings, she had disliked it, distrusting
Silvinus. Joseph had exhorted her to be tolerant, show forgiveness of a Roman and his upbringing. The priest had always believed Silvinus Cato would become more Christian than Roman. Joseph had been pleased when Silvinus had bought her from Piso. ‘He will be a decent master,’ he’d told her.
But not a kind one, Corinna had thought, and she had been right.
Decimus was kind. Kind to her, kind to street urchins and beggars, unfailingly kind to women and children. But put a sword in his hand in the arena and a man against him, armed the same or similar—
Corinna shivered and Decimus came awake beside her.
‘This has gone on for long enough,’ he growled, spinning her onto her front and giving her buttocks a sharp, disciplinary slap. ‘You talk to me now, and properly.’
She told him. With Decimus pinning her down at the shoulders, his palm across her back feeling as heavy as an iron bar, she told him everything, beginning with the question, ‘Why does Silvinus Cato want you dead, Master?’
Decimus listened intently, a looming, silent shadow sitting up in bed beside her. After her explanation he remarked, ‘That Cato’s an ambitious fellow. I should have expected something like this.’
Corinna silently agreed, although she did not quite understand her master’s cryptic comment. Mostly, she was simply relieved that he was not angry with her. About to ask if he might let her up, she heard his deep, warm voice in the darkness. ‘How would you have done it? A kitchen knife?’
Scandalized, she actually forgot to speak for an instant. Blood singing in her ears, she could not believe the crassness of what he was asking. ‘How can you even think such a vile thing of me? I never considered it! Let me go!’
Furious, she began kicking and hitting, lashing out wildly with her hands and feet, angry beyond all sense and hurt that he should even pose the question. ‘You should trust me!’ She was shouting. ‘Ooof!’
Suddenly, she could no longer move. She was over Decimus’ knee, her legs trapped by one of his, her arms locked behind her with both wrists held tight in his left hand, the breath knocked completely from her.
CRACK!
His stiff open palm descended on her wriggling rump. She cursed, an oath she had often heard in the bath-house, and was rewarded with another hard slap. CRACK!
She shrieked. He tightened his grip and began to spank her harder than ever.
CRACK, CRACK, CRACK, CRACK, CRACK, CRACK…
The noise and pain were incredible. Worse, she felt exposed in a way that she had never felt in any of their love games. The cold, hard silence of Decimus’ anger was like a wall between them. He did not scold, or explain, he simply punished.
She was crying after the fifth spank and wailing soon after. Never had she been struck with such force. Never had she realized how much her master’s hand could hurt. This was not the glowing, smarting tingle of love-spanks. Her bottom ached and felt bruised and raw. The only mercy was that he had not lit the lamp. She raised her keening sobs in darkness.
As quickly as the punishment had started, it was over. Decimus dragged her off his knee and dropped her onto the bed, flinging a sheet over her. She heard him slam from the room and storm through their tiny villa.
He returned a short time later and lit the lamp.
‘You do not fight me again,’ he said. ‘I am what I am, a trained fighter and killer. It is dangerous for you to fight me. Understand?’
She nodded wanly, fresh tears spilling from her eyes. He sighed and sat on the bed beside her, taking her hand in his. When she did not twist it free he cleared his throat. ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ he said. ‘I know what it is to lose someone you love.’
‘Yes,’ Corinna quietly agreed. Why did you have to be the one to kill Joseph? she thought, but she knew the answer. It was what he did. Her master was a gladiator.
Moving with unnatural slowness Decimus stretched out beside her, lying on top of the sheet. ‘Can you forgive me? For the priest?’
‘Yes,’ she said a second time, and meaning it. Exhausted, she tucked her head into the crook of her master’s arm and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Decimus watched her. He wished now he had not chastised her, but she had startled him, attacking in that way. He had done to her what he had done once to a gladiatrix in the arena—better that than killing a woman. The mob had loved it and the woman fighter had been sold on to a Senator who promised her a life of being spanked. He had seen her six months ago, pregnant, well-fed, happy. And alive.
As for Corinna….He smiled, recalling her indignation at the idea that she would strike him in his sleep. Hot as her hair, she was. Passionate, but forgiving. She was all he had expected and hoped she would be, and more. Already he knew he would never let her go. In bed, the depth of her submission pleased him greatly. She was, as he had guessed, a natural. He cheerfully admitted that he loved women, especially their bottoms, and smacking their bottoms. He loved to play-spank and she loved being spanked, that much was obvious from the first time he‘d pulled her over his lap. Now, recalling a dozen happy sessions with her over his knee, her wriggling and excited, relishing each smack, he thanked Venus for their match.
More, and, as a nice contrast, she was subtle and feisty out of bed, teasing without being quarrelsome. She had a thousand different expressions he longed to learn. Every day he discovered a new talent and delight in her. She would make a wonderful mother.
Her queer beliefs troubled him not at all. Rome was filled by strange cults. Christianity seemed harmless enough, a woman’s indulgence. There could even be something in it. He had followed the gladiator code of bravery and loyalty for years, but lately even that had not seemed enough. In truth he was weary of killing.
Silvinus Cato’s beliefs were another matter. Decimus breathed in deeply, his mind becoming cold and focused as he considered the Roman. Silvinus Cato had wanted him dead, or at least injured or distracted. The question was, why?
I fight in the great Flavian amphitheatre in two weeks.
I am the favorite.
If I am hurt or off-form, my opponents may win. Whoever bets on them will make a great deal of money.
The more he dwelled on it, the more likely it seemed. Ambitious Silvinus Cato wanted a career in politics and for that he needed money. What better way than to rig the outcome and bet on the outsiders to win?
Cato would assume he had won twice: first by selling Corinna to him for a large sum of gold and then by using her in his twisted plot.
But Silvinus Cato had over-reached himself. Corinna was everything a man could want but not in the least distracting—if anything, she made him more determined to stay alive.
Cato assumed I would lose myself in rutting, not practice, become sloppy. When he learned from his spy Julius Tertellus that I was unchanged, he tried to take more drastic action.
How had the man ever thought that Corinna would kill anyone? Not that she wasn’t capable, but it was clear that Silvinus Cato had never understood her. She would never deliberately hurt anyone. She was too sympathetic. And—this was a strange word to use for a slave but it fit—she was too queenly. To kill in secret would never be her style.
But Silvinus Cato had underestimated her intelligence, assumed he could wind her up tight like a catapult and set her against him, to let her make her own, doubtless blundering, attempt at murder. Cato had gambled that her feelings for Joseph would overwhelm her scruples, and even, so far as Decimus understood it, her faith.
She must have really loved the priest.
Futile to be jealous. Decimus bunched his hands into fists, striving to be rational. Tactics were needed here, not temper.
Think of Corinna. What will happen to her if you get yourself killed?
He closed his eyes, thinking of her, and now he slept.
Corinna woke at daybreak. A cup of watered wine and a plate of figs and bread were on the tiles by the bed, left for her by Decimus. He was nowhere to be seen, but she could hear between the distant tinkling of the fountain, and the rh
ythmic, relentless swish of a moving blade. He was training in the garden.
Knowing he disliked being interrupted or watched when he practiced—an odd quirk in a gladiator who ‘performed’ before thousands—Corinna ate her breakfast and tried to dress. Her long tunics now were of linen or even the rare and costly silk instead of the rough wool she wore in the service of Silvinus Cato, but she quickly discovered she could almost bear no cloth against her swollen hindquarters. She was twisting around in front of her wash-basin water, trying to see her rear-reflection and assess the damage, when Decimus prowled into the room.
She let down her saffron-colored tunic and nodded a greeting. ‘Master.’
He strode across the room and took her in his arms. ‘A new start?’ he asked softly, hugging her across her waist and shoulders.
‘I would be happy with that.’
‘As would I.’ Decimus kissed her, running a strand of her hair through his fingers. ‘Will you come with me to the catacombs?’ he asked.
‘Not a suggestion the goddess Venus would admire, master,’ Corinna quipped, although in truth his sudden question alarmed her. Most Romans feared ghosts and spirits and avoided the catacombs, where the dead were laid to rest, but she and other Christians worshipped in that maze of underground passages—the Romans’ superstition made it a safe place for them to meet. ‘You wish to visit the dead?’
He smiled. ‘You cannot hope to frighten me, Corinna. I do not dread the dead.’
She blushed, realizing her attempt at dissuading her master had been clumsy. ‘There is…there is nothing to see.’ She tried again.
‘Only a few bones and some live Christians? Hey! Don’t look so startled. You did say that your group is meeting this evening and I already knew where.’
Silk and Steel (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 3
