Verrix nodded.
“And bring in the kindling for the kitchen stove. It’s stacked by the well out back.”
Verrix nodded again, wondering how many orders the old man was going to fire off in a row before he ran out of ideas. Nestor glanced at him and then left the hall.
Apparently, he had exhausted his repertoire.
Verrix finished scouring the fish baskets with sand and then headed for the trash bins, which he began to transfer to a wagon standing on the cobbles behind the kitchen. He didn’t mind the chores; keeping busy helped to stem the tide of longing which washed over him every time he thought of Larthia.
What would have happened if that harridan had not emerged from her house just as he was about to kiss Larthia? Would Larthia have let him do it? Would she have been outraged and slapped his face? Would she have stormed off in high dudgeon and put him up for auction at her earliest opportunity? Just because she had let him hold her during a moment of weakness did not mean she would allow further liberties. Maybe the inhospitable housewife had actually saved his hide.
He had been thinking seriously of running again. After years of experience he knew how to hide himself in teeming Rome; the search for a runaway slave was perfunctory at best. There were simply too many of them.
But the thought of his emancipation papers stopped him. He would never be free if he let his feelings for Larthia drive him from her house. He would just have to continue with his job and keep his distance from her at the same time. No easy task, but the thought of a lifetime of slavery was worse.
And the thought of a lifetime without Larthia was even worse than that. He sighed.
Verrix shifted the last of the bins into the wagon and then led the horse downhill to the collection point. He glanced back at the house above him, the limestone bits in the stucco sparkling in the sunlight, and wondered how long Larthia would be closeted with the mine manager.
Verrix had seen the man arrive and didn’t like the look of him. Like many expatriate Romans, Marsalius affected to be more native than the natives and was dressed in a dazzlingly bleached, very broad toga of the finest wool with heavy gold jewellery around his neck and on his fingers. A hooded cloak, adopted from the defeated Gauls and currently the rage of fashion, was draped over his arm. Seeing his native clothing appropriated by this company man offended Verrix, and he wondered, as he had before, about the mentality of conquerors who seemed to think that the people they had vanquished were better dressed.
As he returned to the house he saw Marsalius leaving by the front door. The man bent over Larthia’s white hand and kissed it lingeringly.
Verrix felt the rage rising in his throat and he had to look away.
He was a slave, the lowest of the low, hauling garbage like a skivvy. That fawning middle manager could touch Larthia when he, Verrix, never could.
He would not endure it. The New Year’s festival coming up in a few days on the first of March would provide the perfect cover for his escape.
He would have to run.
Chapter 6
It rained the next nundina, and canvas awnings went up over the stalls in the marketplace near the forum. The Campus Martius became a sea of mud, and the apparitor whose job it was to declare the exact time of noon could hardly determine the passage of the sun. The Tiber, gray and roiling, rose toward its banks, and the reeds standing in the Pontine Marsh sank closer to the surface of the water. The citizens, those brave enough to defy the weather, tried to remember if the augurs had predicted early flooding this year, wrapped their clothing closer around their bodies, and stepped over the deepening puddles.
Marcus had the afternoon watch, and he sat in the guardhouse, protected from the rain, watching the calibrated candle melt away to the point where he would be dismissed and the next man take over for him. Septimus sat crosslegged on a storage case next to him, sharpening the point of his pilum with a whetstone. He was not on duty, but keeping Marcus company.
“So you’re seeing her again tonight?” Septimus said, holding the whetstone up to the candlelight.
Marcus nodded.
“What is she like?”
Marcus hesitated, then said, “Sweet.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
Marcus shrugged. “She’s not easy to describe. I’ve never met another woman like her.” He sensed that Septimus was feeling shut out; previously they had discussed their conquests with one another and laughed about them. But Julia was not a barbarian whore whose finer points could become the subject of a ribald conversation.
His relationship with her was private.
“What are you going to do about her?” Septimus asked curiously.
Marcus stared out at the driving rain and sighed. “I don’t know.”
“Could you give her up?”
“Never.”
Septimus’ face became grave. “Then you will have some difficult decisions to make.”
Tiberius Germanicus interrupted this sober exchange by barging into the guardhouse, pulling his cloak from his head and shaking himself like a drenched dog.
“What a torrent!” he said. “The merchants will be losing money this market day, the only creatures abroad are those with webbed feet.”
“Juno’s tears,” Septimus said, harking back to an old Etruscan proverb.
“More like Neptune’s revenge,” Tiberius replied, draping his cloak near the brazier and then holding his hands out to the warmth it gave. “How was the watch?” he asked Marcus.
“Quiet,” Marcus said, standing. Septimus followed suit, storing his pilum in the chest where he had sat and then handing Marcus’ cloak to him before donning his own. Both men wrapped up and headed for the door.
“Stay dry,” Marcus called to Tiberius as they left.
“I’ll try,” he answered, and saluted them.
“Are you going straight to the Sejanus house?” Septimus asked, as they paused outside the wooden shack, squinting into the pelting rain.
“No, I have some time to kill. Julia sees the physician first, it’s her excuse for getting away from the Atrium.”
“Then come over to my house and have a drink. Even I don’t feel like trudging over to the baths today, I’ll be drowned by the time I get there.”
Marcus grinned. “Only a Persian monsoon could keep you away from the baths.”
“So will you join me for a cup?”
Marcus nodded. “Why not?”
The two friends trotted off toward the Palatine, heads bent against the driving rain. When they reached the Gracchus house they were admitted by a servant who took their cloaks and led them into the tablinum, where a fire was burning and the Senator was already enjoying his pre cena libation.
“Well, Marcus, how good of my son to bring you! We don’t see enough of you around here. Sit down and dry off, I’ll get Castor to bring you a drink.” He rang the silver bell at his elbow and a manservant appeared. The slave bowed and retreated as soon as his master had instructed him.
“You two look like survivors of a Cilician pirate raid,” Gracchus observed, laughing. “Did you abandon ship and swim to shore?”
“I didn’t see you venturing forth today,” Septimus said, holding his damp tunic away from his body.
“That’s because you slept until noon. I went to the Senate this morning. And if you used a litter like other civilized people you wouldn’t get wet.”
“Litters are pretentious,” Septimus said.
“Only for those who don’t think they deserve them,” the Senator snapped back.
“How was the Senate session today?” Marcus asked quickly, to defuse the tension between father and son.
“Oh, that old fool Lucius Cotta is still mumbling about the Sibylline Books,” Gracchus replied, “and worse still, some people are listening to him.”
“Caesar is probably paying him to bray about those prophecies,” Septimus observed darkly. “Anything to get what he wants.”
“Caesar wouldn’t do such a thing,”
Marcus said flatly. “He doesn’t want any trouble over the title of ‘rex’, much less the Senate being forced into giving it to him by the babblings of some senile pontifex. ”
“Well, Marcus Brutus and Gaius Cassius believe the prophecy about Parthia to be true,” Gracchus said gloomily.
“How do you know?” Septimus asked.
“They kept quiet and looked worried,” the Senator replied, and both younger men laughed.
“It isn’t funny,” Gracchus said. “Cotta is calling for a vote on the measure to be demanded of the magistrates, and that puts Brutus and Cassius in an impossible position. If they dare to oppose it, they declare themselves open enemies of Caesar, and if they remain silent then he becomes king.”
“No wonder they’re unhappy,” Septimus chortled, and then grinned wider as Castor came into the room with a golden goblet on an inlaid tray.
“Ah, Marcus, here is your drink,” he said.
The talk turned to the upcoming New Year’s celebrations and Marcus passed the time until he was due to meet Julia, declining a dinner invitation from Senator Gracchus. By the time he left the Gracchus house the rain had stopped and the air was filled with a clean swept freshness and the scent of early spring flowers. He walked the short distance to the Sejanus house and brushed the shrubs on the edge of the estate as he climbed the back wall. They flung droplets back at him, splashing his face. He vaulted over the hedge and then dropped back down to the wet ground when he saw a figure silhouetted against a window. He raised his head cautiously and saw the old servant, Nestor, pushing open the shutters. Marcus waited until the slave had walked away and then dropped onto the portico, flattening himself against the outside wall of the house until he could see into the bedroom.
It was empty. Julia was not there.
Marcus drew back, his heart beginning to pound. Had something gone wrong, had something happened to her? It was past time for her to be finished with the doctor. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to be calm, and then heard a slight sound inside. He looked in again and saw her entering the room; he almost sobbed with relief. Someone was standing behind her and she turned for a final word. Marcus could hear the murmur of their voices, but could not understand what they were saying. He waited until Julia had closed the door and then slipped into the room.
She looked up to see him enter and her features were suffused with a tenderness that pierced his heart.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she whispered, as he kissed her.
“Why?”
“Oh, I’m always afraid you won’t come,” she said, half laughing at herself as she slipped her arms around his waist. He closed his eyes and propped his chin on the top of her head, just holding her tightly, inhaling her unique fragrance and wishing that he never had to leave her.
“Did you have any trouble getting here?” he asked, as she led him by the hand to the bed.
“No, Livia has given me permission to see the doctor on a regular basis.”
“For how long?”
She shrugged. “Until she objects, I guess.”
Marcus looked worried.
“Darling, what is it? We’re alone, Larthia’s servants think I have left the house. Let’s not waste the time we have together.” She ran her tongue enticingly over his lips, but he drew back, restraining himself from accepting her invitation. Instead he grasped her hands and held them together inside his own, covering her fingers with kisses.
“Julia, please listen to me. There’s something I have to tell you.
She stared at him, her cheeks draining of color. “You don’t want to see me any more,” she said dully.
“Oh, darling, no,” he said, embracing her again, closing his eyes to blot out the look on her face. “It’s just that I’ve been telling you I’ll take you away, I know it’s the only future for us, but I can’t desert the army.”
She said nothing; he was unable to tell what effect his words were having on her.
“I’ve thought about it,” he went on, “and I want to take you out of Rome more than anything in the world, it’s the only path to provide for your immediate safety, but I can’t desert Caesar right now. I owe everything to him. If he hadn’t picked me for his legion I would still be on the farm in Corsica, cursing my fate. He’s in the midst of a crisis, his test of power is coming, and I’m the pilus prior of the first cohort. If he has to marshal the army for a civil war I’d be almost impossible to replace. And think of the humiliation, the indignitas, for him if someone he raised so high disappeared from his post. Caesar’s enemies would make the most of it. They would say his judgment was poor, to heap honors on a man unworthy of them, an officer who thought so little of his sacramentum that he abandoned his commission and his men just when he was needed most.”
Julia looked up at him and put her finger to his lips. “Don’t explain. I understand.”
“Do you?” Marcus said anxiously, concerned that she would misinterpret his words and think that the army was more important to him than she was.
She nodded. “You have many reasons to be grateful to your commander, to feel loyalty to him and the institution which he represents. You chose your path freely and it has rewarded you richly. My position with the Vestals was forced on me and therefore I feel very differently about it. I will have no regrets about leaving my present life behind.”
Marcus sighed with relief. She did understand.
“When can we go?” she asked.
“After the Parthian campaign,” he replied. “I don’t have to re-enlist this fall as I have every year in the past. The oath I took extends just through this October. Then I will leave the army in good standing and take you away from here. We’ll still have to keep our relationship a secret until then, of course, but it will only be for the summer months, until I come back.”
“And what if you don’t come back?” Julia said softly.
“I’ll come back. I always do.”
He bent his head to kiss her, and Julia submitted with a luxurious sigh. She twined her arms around his neck and kissed him back, then let him undress her, watching his face as he drew the silken garments from her limbs. His eyes moved over her avidly, his lips parted, his breathing harsh; it was clear that he found her exquisitely beautiful, and she was glad.
Marcus touched a smooth tan nipple and it rose into his palm, hardening as he cupped her breast. Her body glowed like a marble statue in the flickering candlelight, slender and white, perfect. He kissed her everywhere he could reach as he lifted her onto the bed, removing her shoes last and then gathering her, naked, into his arms. She hid her face against his shoulder, the rough wool of his garnet tunic caressing her cheek.
“Are you sure?” he said against her ear.
“Sure,” she replied shakily, nudging aside his neckline and rubbing her nose on the satiny surface of his shoulder. She could feel his indrawn breath, the way he reacted to her slightest touch. It gave her a feeling of control she had never experienced before; this powerful man, who commanded a cohort, was now at HER command. When she ran her hands down his lean back she felt the muscles contract under her fingers. She dragged her tongue along the line of his collarbone and he groaned, a soft sound indicative of his helplessness against the wave of desire engulfing him. When he eased her onto her back she wrapped her arms around his neck and accepted his weight.
He lay against her, heavy and ready, pressing her thighs, and the need to feel him inside her was overwhelming. Julia sighed with gratification as he moved his mouth from her lips to her neck, and she urged herself against him, sliding her hands up his arms inside the short sleeves of his tunic. She loved the feel of his skin under her hands; he looked his role, tough, work hardened and war weary, but his skin was smooth and warm, his hair like cornsilk. He was young, and she was young. Desire carried them like the tide.
“Take this off,” she whispered, tugging on the hem of his tunic.
He obeyed, standing, and Julia felt the loss of connection with him like a pain. He str
ipped rapidly, revealing a hard, sculpted torso, brown and crosshatched with scars, sprayed with a thatch of black hair that narrowed to a line bisecting his belly. Julia could not look lower; she focused on his face, his dark features intense with passion, and then closed her eyes as he rejoined her.
“Shh,” he said against her mouth, as she stiffened in his arms at the contact. He kissed her to relax her again. She was soon responding, sinking her fingers into his hair and wrapping her legs around him, unconsciously seeking fulfillment. When he was sure her resistance had passed he left her mouth to kiss her body, his movements growing wilder as he moved from her breasts to her stomach to her thighs. When he was sure she had passed the point of objection he slipped his hand between her legs. She turned her head aside and moaned deeply, her face flushing, her whole body dewed with perspiration.
Marcus lost control and bent to tongue her navel, lifting her to his mouth. He was almost rough, he couldn’t get enough of her as she wound her arms and legs around him, imprisoning him within her limbs. Passion made her reckless; she could not resist him as he did things she had only imagined, and had never imagined, leaving her weak and enervated, desperate for more. She clutched his shoulders and stroked his hair, both now damp with sweat.
“I want...” he said thickly, lifting his head.
“Yes,” she replied. “Yes, yes.”
He poised to position her under him, resisting the urge to drive into her, as he would with a more experienced woman. Instead he entered her slowly, pausing when she gasped and went rigid.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked between clenched teeth, sweat breaking out anew on his forehead.
“No,” she whispered. “Just... wait.”
He waited, his arms trembling as they supported the weight of his body, the need to plunge deeper so strong he had to bite his lip to overcome it.
“Now,” she said softly, stroking his back.
He sank into her a little further, hesitating as she moaned, then continuing as he realized that the sound was one of pleasure. He closed his eyes when he felt her legs come around his hips, her heels digging into him.
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