Greta Gilbert Read online

  Clodia summoned Tira, her ornatrix. The lithe, beautiful young woman was her best hope for softening the man.

  “Please see that he eats. Discover his name. Then groom him for duty. And find someone who speaks his tongue. I cannot own a bodyguard who is deaf to urgent times and matters.”

  “Yes, Domina,” Tira said, her face brightening.

  As Tira led the man up the stairs, he glanced back at Clodia briefly, perhaps in gratitude for granting him the company of a woman as lovely as Tira.

  Good, Clodia thought. The man deserved a bit of pleasure, and perhaps some necessary goodwill would come of it.

  Still, as she watched his bare feet ascend the stairs, she remembered that fleeting moment at the fountain. With his eyes upon her, she had felt for a moment as a bird diving high above the city, dizzy with the fall.

  The menacing clank-clank of the knocker brought Clodia instantly back to earth. Two guards were pushing their way past the doorman and into the atrium.

  “We bring an invitation from the house of Flavius. And a message from your father.” One guard stepped forward and began reading from a tablet. He read that she and her father were invited to a banquet at the home of Emperor Titus himself, to be held in honor of the new amphitheater.

  Clodia bowed low. “I am deeply honored,” she said. “Please send word to the noble house of Flavius that I most certainly will attend. Then tell my father that I will meet him outside the palace when the second evening hour sounds.”

  “There is more,” the guard said, shifting nervously. “Your father sends special word. He wishes you to wear your finest jewelry and to look your best.”

  Clodia stiffened. “And why would I not look my best? It is an invitation from the house of Flavius—the emperor himself. Of course I will look my best.”

  The guard hesitated, as if trying to choose the right words. “Your father said that he would like you to display your best jewelry.”

  Clodia shook her head in confusion. The guard continued. “He wishes to show you to Senator Lucius Bruttius Silanus. You are to be evaluated for marriage.”

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, Clodia awoke before the calls of the roosters. Her head ached and her stomach growled. She realized that she had not taken food or drink since the previous sunrise.

  But still she did not eat. Instead, she rose quietly, careful not to wake the servants. Clearly, she had misjudged her father. He knew that she had been married cum manu. He had negotiated the marriage to Paulinus himself. So her father certainly knew that by the laws Clodia was no longer beholden to him. Yet he was commanding her as if she were still his bargaining piece.

  Clodia uncorked the top of the large amphora she kept by her bedside. Carefully, she poured its clanking golden contents—her original dowry, the sum of her worth—into a leather bag.

  She had decided, then. She would escape tomorrow, on the day of the inauguration of the new amphitheater. Her father, in his rush to negotiate her second marriage, had given her no choice. The timing, she assured herself, was auspicious. Even citizens who did not have tickets would fill the piazza outside the great arena, hoping for a hint of the grand spectacle inside its high walls.

  It would be a mob of Herculean proportions—a kind of human sea in which one could become totally lost. There remained only one part of her plan unsettled.

  She hid her leather bag in her bed linens, then quickly dressed and hurried down the stairs.

  When she arrived in the atrium, he was standing with Tira beside the pool. She scarcely recognized the man. His hair had been cut and his beard shorn, revealing a clean, firm jaw.

  As quickly as he caught her eye, he returned his gaze to the floor. He was clothed in a gray tunic and dark leather sandals whose straps squeezed his large, muscular calves. A sheathed pugio blade hung from a belt around his waist. He rested his palm on the top of the blade comfortably, as if he had fought with it for years.

  The effect was unnerving.

  “He looks perfectly fearsome, Tira. Gratitude.”

  Clodia lit the candle at the altar of the Lares, placed an offering of bread and said a silent prayer to the household gods. Then she joined Tira beside the man. “Was it enjoyable, Tira? I mean, outfitting him.”

  Tira smiled tightly, but remained silent.

  “Where did he say he was from?”

  “He did not, Domina.”

  “Well, did you discover his language, then? Gallic? Dacian, perhaps?”

  “No, Domina. He does not speak.”

  “Does he eat?”

  “No,” Tira said sourly. “He refuses to partake of even the most delicious fruits laid before him.” Then Tira glanced at the man, shook her head and studied the floor.

  Clodia ushered Tira to the base of the stairs. “You do fancy him, do you not? I had hoped...”

  “Yes, Domina,” Tira admitted, “but it seems that his desire is known only by the gods.” Tira stared briefly into Clodia’s eyes, then looked away. “Will you require me at the baths today, Domina?”

  “No, stay here and see to your duties,” said Clodia, puzzled. “You may leave the bathing kit with him.” The young woman nodded, placed a wooden box beside the man, then bounded back up the stairs.

  As Clodia turned to face the man, she noticed his eyes moving off of her. Was it possible that it was Clodia herself he desired?

  It was a ridiculous notion. She was not so naive as to believe herself attractive in that way to men. Her husband had all but announced it on their wedding night, when he had thrown her from their wedding bed. “Cold fish,” he had said in disgust, then left for Rome’s finest brothel.

  From that day on, Clodia had let go any illusion of her desirability. And now, at almost twenty-five, she was long past her prime.

  Clodia took a deep breath. “We are not so different, you know,” she ventured, but the man remained silent.

  “Heed me now, for I have little time—”

  She stopped herself. It would not be safe to allude to her plan inside the house. The walls had ears, and she could not risk an unscrupulous slave funneling information to her father.

  “The morning is nearly past,” Clodia announced finally. “Escort me to the baths. I must prepare for the emperor’s banquet.” The man stood stone-faced. “You didn’t understand a word I just said, did you?” The man kept his gaze fixed forward.

  Clodia bit her lip. It was just her ill fortune. She had found the perfect accomplice for her escape. Strong. Imposing. Hungry for freedom. There was only one problem. He could not understand a word she spoke.

  “Will you not look at me? Try to understand me?” In a rush of frustration, Clodia stepped upon the platform surrounding the pool. Then she felt the room begin to spin....

  Moments later, as consciousness returned, she found herself lying on the cold marble of the platform. The man hovered above her, his lips just inches from hers.

  “Awaken!” he gasped. His words were muddled with a thick, rolling accent, but the concern behind them was clear and true.

  “You speak,” Clodia murmured, her eyes focusing. The man’s eyes darted worriedly around her face. “You lied to me,” she whispered. “You pretended you did not understand me.”

  “Apologies,” the man said. He sprang up and retrieved the bread from the Lares’ altar. Then he lifted her head and held it close to her lips. “Here, you must eat.”

  “But I will displease the gods.”

  “You will displease them if you do not eat.”

  Clodia obediently consumed the bread, feeling her strength return. The man braced her head gently, but looked away as she chewed.

  He had finally spoken to her, that was true. But how could she trust this man with her life—and their escape—if he would not even now look her in the eye? “Look at me now,” she stated firmly. “As your domina, I command it.”

  Clodia shrank from the words even as they left her mouth. But before she could look away, he was looking at her. Or rather,
he was looking into her. Deep into her. His blue-gray eyes smoldered.

  She felt herself disintegrating in the clutch of his gaze. It was as if he were challenging her, or testing her in some way. She knew not his intention, only that she could not free herself.

  And she did not want to free herself. Without thinking, she spoke again. “Kiss me. Now. I command it.”

  The man placed his lips obediently upon hers and coaxed them apart. Then he whispered into her mouth, “Your will, Domina.”

  But it was he who was in control now. His lips moved softly against hers, their slow, hungry rhythm bidding her to follow. His hand wandered to her waist, where he squeezed tightly and pressed himself against her. Slowly, she lifted her hand and touched it to his.

  Suddenly, he pulled away, bracing himself above her with his arms. His breathing was heavy. He appeared to be trying to control something deep within himself.

  She had done something wrong. She could tell. There was an angry trembling upon his lips.

  She had witnessed such trembling before. Paulinus’s lips had trembled on their wedding night. Just before he had thrown her to the floor.

  “Rufus!” Clodia shouted. “Rufus, your assistance. In the atrium.” In a moment, the doorman was near them, and the man was standing beside Clodia, frozen.

  Rufus eyed him suspiciously then looked down at Clodia, still supine on the tile. “A problem, Domina?”

  “I felt faint, that is all. I must have panicked. So silly of me!” Clodia lifted her hand. Dutifully, the man helped her up and ushered her through the portico and into the street. “You may leave us now, Rufus. Gratitude.”

  Rufus pulled the door closed, and Clodia and the man were once again alone. Clodia looked around. The second-floor window had been opened to the morning air. It was still not safe to speak, yet the man seemed intent on communicating something.

  “Apologies. Domina,” he said haltingly. “I would never...I do not...You are...”

  Clodia felt each of his clumsy words as a dagger into her heart. It was as if she were in her marriage bed all over again. The only difference was that, unlike Paulinus, this man wished to describe in detail his repugnance for her.

  “You would never touch me? You do not see me in that way?” Clodia finished his thoughts. “Do not think me such a fool that I do not realize it, that I do not see myself as I am. I know you will do what you think you must to gain freedom. There is no need for words.”

  “Domina—”

  “Enough,” Clodia interrupted, her insides twisting in shame. He did not need to explain why he would never want her, to make excuses for what he did not feel. It was she who was the fool. She had, for a moment, believed herself wanted, had mistaken the urgency of his kiss for real desire.

  It was a mistake she would not make again.

  Chapter Five

  Her gait was too swift; he labored to match her pace. All along Tiburtina Way, people nodded at her, greeted her, even saluted her, yet she marched as if lions were at her heels.

  She was obviously upset with him, and rightly so. His actions were inexcusable, and put his life at needless risk. What had compelled him to breach his station, to kiss her like some grandiose fool? And why did he think for a moment that he could somehow recant such an act?

  She was worlds beyond him—a married woman, the property of a powerful man. He had no right to impose himself upon her in such a way. It did not matter that he had seen the truth in her eyes, the unmistakable yearning.

  The buildings passed in a dizzying blur. She would surely deliver some kind of punishment. Perhaps her husband would make him sleep in the street, or cut off one of his fingers. Or perhaps they would simply sell him to the ludus for use in the games after all.

  They entered the largest piazza Artair had ever seen, a vast marble space flanked on all sides by massive basilicas and great, columned halls. Slaves labored around many of the buildings, their tattered tunics covered in dust. In one corner of the piazza, a group of men and women jostled beneath a man shouting news from a podium. In another corner, a cluster of men in togas conversed in low voices.

  Artair knew of this place. He had heard about it in the brick factory. It was called the Forum of Augustus, the center of the Roman Empire. It had been destroyed in a fire set by the Emperor Nero when Artair was still a boy. Now, it seemed, it was being rebuilt. He was passing through the very heart of the great beast of Rome, yet all he could think about was this coal-eyed woman.

  “What did you say?” She turned to him.

  “I said nothing. Nothing, Domina.” What madness embraced him now—was he really uttering his thoughts aloud?

  They marched across the piazza to a large edifice from which pillars of black smoke emerged.

  At the entrance, the woman dropped two sestertii into a slave boy’s strongbox. Artair followed her into an anteroom where a colorful fresco of Neptune presided over slaves assisting women in various stages of undress.

  Artair knew of this place, as well. It was a Roman bath. A place where Romans came to bathe and converse and make themselves pretty.

  The woman handed Artair her long palla shawl and pivoted on her heel. “Untie me,” she said crisply, showing him her back.

  Artair stood frozen for several moments. “What are you waiting for, slave?” she asked. Finally, his hands found the knot in the belt that surrounded her waist.

  “And the other.”

  Slowly, he untied the belt that had wrapped beneath her breasts. Then she pulled up her long stola, lifted it over her head and handed him the garment.

  His throat felt dry. His eyes found a torch that flickered on the wall just behind her as she unhooked the strophium that supported her small, round breasts. Then she draped the leather garment casually over his arm.

  “Meet me in the calidarium presently,” she said, placing her hairpins in his hand and letting her long black hair fall around her shoulders.

  “Yes, Domina,” he managed to utter as she turned and joined other naked women filing down a narrow marble hallway.

  As she exited, Artair let out a rush of air.

  What exquisite torture was she planning to inflict on him now? Would she not employ the usual attendants, then? A capsarii to watch her clothes, and a slave girl to clean her with oil? Was she planning that he would attend her? He braced himself for a moment against the marble wall. Then he turned to a boy folding clothes beside him.

  “Tell me, boy, where is the calidarium?”

  Chapter Six

  The natatio was a welcome sight. Light showered in through the glass dome, and a clear pool spread before her like a mirror, not a single soul upsetting its waters. She had deliberately chosen the baths of Etrusci for their exclusivity, and now thanked the gods for the small measure of privacy.

  She dove downward, moving through the water in long, energetic strokes. She had taught herself to swim as a girl, and had always felt proud of an ability few Romans could boast.

  Yet no matter how vigorous her strokes, she could not purge the memory of Artair’s stinging words from her mind. What had he said, exactly? She struggled to remember.

  When she arrived in the hot calidarium, Artair was waiting obediently, a perfect soldier in his visage, his eyes fixed on the mosaic of Venus behind the small pool. Steam rose up all around, threatening to engulf him.

  Good, Clodia thought. Let him sweat a little.

  She reminded herself that her humiliation was of no consequence. Clearly, he wished for freedom, just as she did. That was what mattered. His spirit was strong, and his eyes flickered with restlessness. She would find a way to explain her plan to him, and they would begin their association anew.

  Now Clodia wanted only to prepare herself for the banquet. It would be important to be presentable, to appear fresh and well tended: a willing bride.

  In the hot pool, there were only two other women. They regarded her politely, then resumed their conversation. Clodia immersed herself in the hot bath, letting her whole body
relax. Her limbs loosened, and her cares for a moment seemed far away. It was delicious, this feeling of voluptus.

  When Clodia emerged, she motioned to the man to retrieve her coin purse. As he handed it to her, he rightly kept his eyes on the walls, but he seemed tense, his motions stiff and abrupt. She purchased a vial of rose oil from a bath girl, who quickly and efficiently rubbed the oil into her skin.

  Then Clodia retrieved a strigil from her bathing kit and held it out to the man. “Scrape me down.”

  Chapter Seven

  Artair took the instrument in his hands, feeling himself tremble like a boy. He kneeled humbly before the woman, as if preparing for a Druid rite. Then he positioned the strigil around her thigh and began moving the instrument downward, stopping at the level of her knee.

  “Continue,” she said coolly.

  He moved the strigil slowly past her knee and down the front of her calf, careful to keep his breathing even. The fragrant, oily water dripped onto the marble floor.

  “Again.”

  He kept his eyes on his work, but when he moved to position the strigil on her inner thigh, he noticed her stomach moving up and down more rapidly with her breaths.

  It was the most divinely cruel kind of punishment he could have imagined. He moved the blade down her inner thigh, his lips close, so very close, to her womanhood, that he could feel its mystical pull.

  He longed to discover her, to push his lips and tongue inside her. He wished to make her cry out in ecstasy and beg him for release.

  He arrived at her calf, slowing to trace the contours of her taut muscles. She stepped forward with her other leg. This time, her words were full of breath. “Again. Continue.”

  He obeyed, repeating the process, trying to remember...what was it that he was trying to remember? He had grown so hard with lust that his manhood had begun to throb, and when the oil from her second leg was finally dripping on the floor, he noticed that the room had gone silent. The women in the pool had ceased their chatter, and were staring at him.