Greta Gilbert Read online

  Then the woman leaned down and took the strigil gently from his hands. “Gratitude,” she whispered. “That is all.”

  She motioned to the attendant to finish her arms and back. Meanwhile, Artair stood with his back to the pool, pretending to busy himself with the bath kit.

  When the woman was dried and dressed, she approached him. “Escort me home,” she commanded, in a voice loud enough for the other women to hear. Then she whispered in his ear, “My name is Clodia, and I am not your domina. We must speak in private.”

  Chapter Eight

  Her pace was just as clipped as they made their way back across the Forum, but once on the other side, it slowed. She was taking a different route home. She appeared to be searching for something, though Artair could not divine what it was.

  The route was not his only source of confusion. The woman—Clodia, she had called herself—had proven a greater enigma than even he could solve. First she had spurned him, then she had tortured him, now, it appeared, she had promoted him to the status of equal.

  She turned down what appeared to be a street with no outlet. The tall insulae dwellings surrounded them on both sides, but on closer examination appeared as hollow shells, their insides black with soot. She walked toward a narrow brick archway that appeared to have once led to a door. She stepped under the arch and into the deep shadows, motioning him to join her.

  Inside the shadowy archway, she leaned against the bricks. He pushed himself against the opposite wall. There was but an arm’s reach of space separating them.

  “This was once one of the busiest parts of Rome,” she said with caution. “But Nero burned it in his fire.”

  “They whispered of the deed at the brick factory,” Artair ventured. “A great tragedy.”

  “Scarcely remembered in the minds of Romans,” said Clodia, her voice heavy with irony. “A new fire burned just this spring. Thousands dead, yet at the baths they speak only of the loss of Jupiter’s Temple...and the price of wheat.”

  Artair searched his mind for the right response. “It is the will of the gods,” he offered feebly.

  “It is the flip of a coin!” Clodia countered, shaking her head in frustration. “And now there is Titus. Who knows what woes he might bring? Do you understand? Who knows when the next fire will burn...?”

  Artair remained silent. Of course he understood. For the past nine years, he had labored in the brick factory, beneath the shadow of Rome. He had fed the empire’s insatiable appetites with each day of his life. Her words rang clearer than any orator’s, truer than any priest’s.

  “These bricks, you see?” she cried. “Made by your aching hands, real hands, bleeding hands...”

  “Scarcely remembered in the minds of Romans,” he finished, nodding. She looked up at him in a flush of joy.

  “You understand,” she gasped.

  He reached out and took her hand in his. “Of course I do. I understand, dear lady. There is nothing I understand better.”

  Air rushed from Clodia’s lungs. “Like you, I wish to be free.”

  Artair considered her words. “You would leave, then? Your household? Your husband?”

  “My husband is dead—killed in battle.”

  “Your husband is dead?”

  “Yes. Two nundinas past now, though I knew him poorly. They called him a great general. Gaius Suetonius Paulinus was his name.”

  “Paulinus was your husband?” The name exploded into Artair’s mind.

  “Yes. Why? Did you know of him?”

  “Paulinus’s legion destroyed my village.”

  Clodia gasped in horror.

  “When our queen rose against Rome, his men plundered our lands and then burned them. They killed women and children. They slaughtered my family, my mother, my father, and thousands of others. Your husband was a murderer.”

  A single tear traced a path down her cheek. “I’m...so...sorry.”

  He wished at once to rescind his words. She had been so hopeful just a moment ago, so full of life. Now it appeared that the breath had gone out of her. She pressed her back against the brick wall and began to sob into her hands.

  “It is history now,” Artair whispered. “Do not weep.” He reached forward and set his hand upon her cheek, wiping away her tears with his thumb. She looked up at him.

  “I am so sorry for your family,” she said. Her lips were parted and trembling, her eyes full of regret.

  This is your moment, Artair thought. You can walk away right now, just disappear into the streets. She will let you go.

  Artair had lasted nine years at the brick factory. Nine long, bitter years feeding the furnace, waiting in chains for his opportunity to escape. Then the mountain—the great, terrible mountain—had given it to him. In the chaos of Vesuvius’s rain of ash, Artair had freed himself and the other slaves.

  They ran and ran, believing they were running toward a better life, a free life. But without weapons, he and the other fugitives stood little chance. There was money to be made off of a group of escaped slaves, and they were soon captured by slave hunters and marched along the Via Appia all the way to Rome.

  If he left the city now, however, he would be alone, less conspicuous. He could avoid the slave hunters that lurked along the roads. He could keep to the wooded areas, surviving on wild plants and animals, just like he had done so long ago. He could survive.

  But he realized suddenly that he did not wish to survive, not without her. Artair reached down and took her hands, weaving his fingers with hers and pulling her toward him. Her body collided gently against his. Her soft curves pressed into him. “Clodia,” he whispered, and when she lifted her head he was there to meet her lips.

  He pressed his lips onto hers, and every inch of his being seemed to explode with desire. It was entirely forbidden, yet he could not stop. His tongue plunged into her mouth with an urgency he scarcely understood. She tasted like apple wine, like the mountain air, like the kind of medicine that with every drop offered a new wave of healing.

  He kissed her neck. He plastered a fresco of roses all down its length, breathing in her rosy scent. His hands found her waist, and he pushed against her and braced himself between her legs. His manhood throbbed.

  It was as if a lifetime of need were suddenly exploding forth—a Vesuvius inside him. He released her waist and gripped her shoulders, trying to steady himself against his own violent desire. Then he realized that she was shaking beneath him, her breaths coming in shallow, quick succession.

  Artair wrenched himself backward. “Forgive me! I lost myself.” What lunacy had overcome him? He was frightening the woman he intended to protect.

  “It is I who am sorry,” she said. “I have never—” She buried her face in her hands.

  “By the gods, dear woman,” he said. “Do not apologize. The fault is mine, not yours. I overstep.” Artair stepped back. He feared himself now, the precipice he had just found himself upon. Her arms were already red with the beginnings of bruises. “I swear by the gods I shall never touch you again like that.”

  He shook his head and let out a rush of breath. “It is your beauty. It unsettles me.”

  Clodia wiped the tears from her eyes and looked at him wearily. “That is kind of you to say, but you needn’t pour honey on spoiled bread.” Then she grinned slightly and touched her own chest. “Cold fish.”

  Artair could not believe her words. What had Paulinus said? What had he done to her? No man would spurn such a woman. Unless...

  A flood of memories overtook him. The rumors of Paulinus’ proclivities. His orders to spare the boys in Artair’s village, but to kill the rest.

  “Your husband, when he went on campaigns, he took a retinue of slaves, did he not?”

  “Always.”

  “Any women?”

  “No. They were all men. Very young men. Boys, really.”

  “Clodia, your husband did not want you because he did not want any woman, or man.”

  She tilted her body back against the bricks. “
Boys?” she asked, incredulous. Then her eyes moved past his and became clouded with some distant memory. “Boys,” she said finally, shaking her head and placing her face in her palms. “Why did I not see it?”

  “You had already blamed yourself.”

  “I could have stopped him. They were only children,” she gasped.

  “Shh,” Artair said, holding her arms.

  “He used us,” she cried. “We were just stones he tread on his way to power!”

  “Shh. You must not despair. You cannot go back. You cannot save them. I cannot save my family. We can only move forward, knowing what we know.”

  He opened his arms and she came into them, pressing her face against his chest. He thrust his face into the silken twist of hair atop her head and breathed deeply. The two loose pins that held her bun slackened. Soon her long black locks, still moist from the baths, were cascading in thick ropes around her shoulders.

  There seemed no escaping his lust for her. She wrapped her arms around his waist. “By the gods, woman, why do you tempt me?”

  “What? Did I do something wrong?” she said, her expression wrinkled with hurt.

  He leaned back, trying to regain his ability to think. “No, it is I who do wrongly.” Gently, he ran his fingers through her locks. Then he leaned toward her ear. “I am Artair, of the Iceni of Briton. I am an honorable man, and I will help you escape.”

  “Artair,” she said, pausing to listen to the sound his name made upon her lips. “You would help me?”

  “I would, my lady, and by Neptune’s trident we shall cross the Tiber and be free of this wicked city,” he whispered, knowing how he tempted the Fates. He had seen the bloodstained crucifixes outside the city. By majestas law, treason against Rome was punishable by beheading, or worse.

  “I have kin in a Roman town in Further Gaul,” she said. “If you will accompany me that far, I am certain they would arrange transport for you across the sea. To rejoin your people.”

  Her words should have filled him with joy, but instead an odd melancholy descended upon him. The divide between them could never be bridged, then. At least not in her mind. They came from different worlds, and to different worlds they would eventually return.

  He chose his next words delicately. “Once we begin our escape, there will be no turning back.”

  “I know well the crime and the punishment,” she said gravely.

  He studied her face. Then, softly, he met her lips, sealing his promise. This time, she kissed back, moving her lips hesitantly with the rhythm of his.

  Her faltering movements seemed only to fuel his desire. “It is beyond reason,” he muttered, “how much you please me.” He cradled her head in one hand and continued kissing down her neck.

  “You also please me,” she uttered.

  With his other hand he caressed her arm, trying to erase the bruises. Gently, he discovered her breast—a perfect apple. He tugged lightly on her stiffening nipple.

  They began to kiss more deeply, and he moved his hand downwards.

  “Artair,” she mouthed breathlessly. He searched with his fingers until he could feel the contours of her tender entrance through the fabric. “Artair,” she said. He wanted her so profoundly that his hand trembled with need.

  “Artair!”

  The attacker was hurling toward them, his sword unsheathed. Artair pushed Clodia to safety and crouched low, avoiding the blow. Then he stood, scanning the ground for an object to use as a weapon. Finding nothing, Artair lunged forward, unleashing a series of blows that left the man stumbling, and gave Airtair an opportunity to wrestle the sword from the man’s hand. Then Artair noticed in his own palm the two pins he had moments ago pulled from Clodia’s hair.

  He took one pin in each hand and, straddling the man’s defenseless body, he raised them above his head.

  “Cease!” shrieked Clodia. “Do not!” She rushed to Artair’s side. “If we kill him then we are no better than him.” She pulled the pins from Artair’s hands. “Nor those whom he serves.” The assassin lay breathless and bloodied upon the ground.

  “I know whence you came,” Clodia told him, “and your purpose. But if I shall die, then it shall be Maevia herself who shall kill me. For you, we grant the very thing you would take from us.”

  Hearing Clodia’s words, Artair felt a swelling within his chest. It was as if he could march into the depths of the underworld, if only he had this black-eyed woman by his side.

  Chapter Nine

  Time passed with a chariot’s velocity. No sooner had they abandoned their alleyway assassin than they were home preparing for an emperor’s feast. With the concentration of an artist, Tira painted Clodia’s face. She dabbed ochre paste onto Clodia’s lips and red wine sediment onto her cheeks. She lined her eyelids with ash paste, and on her eyes brushed a mixture of saffron and soot. “You are a picture of Venus, Domina,” she pronounced proudly.

  She dressed Clodia in a yellow silk tunic and green stola, and arranged her hair into a tall bun, to which she attached small, false curls to frame Clodia’s face. She selected four rings, one emerald, one ruby, one beryl and one amethyst, for every other of Clodia’s fingers. “This will help the gods recognize you tonight.” Finally, she placed five gold necklaces, one by one, around Clodia’s neck. But Clodia would not allow the fifth necklace. Instead, she grasped it and placed it around Tira’s own neck. “Gratitude, Tira, For all you have done.” Then Clodia whispered into Tira’s ear.

  By the second evening hour, Clodia was arriving at the emperor’s palace, Artair by her side.

  Their plan was as simple as it was dangerous. The next day, Clodia would attend the inaugural games with her father, while Artair waited outside the arena. After the midday executions, Clodia would feign sickness, and excuse herself.

  Outside the arena, the two would meet. Artair would dispatch a messenger to notify Clodia’s father that she was ill and returning directly home with her bodyguard. Then they would head straight for the Aemilius bridge.

  It was as beautiful as it was simple, and, as her father approached, Clodia let her mind fill with visions of the lands across the Tiber.

  “I expected more of a fight from you,” he said, surveying Clodia approvingly.

  “You misjudge me, then, Father,” replied Clodia, holding up her fingers to display her jewel-studded rings. “Why would I not embrace any opportunity to advance my father’s position and my family’s name?” She bowed deeply, flashing her most biddable smile.

  “Then the gods smile upon both of us, daughter.”

  “Is he here, then?” Clodia asked. “I am anxious to meet the man whom you have deemed fit to sire your grandson.”

  They crossed into a great atrium where crowds of senators and their wives mingled around a large marble fountain surrounded by a rectangular pool. At the far end of the pool the emperor himself sat upon a throne, while men in purple-trimmed togas crowded around him and a group of dancers moved in rhythm with to the airy tones of flautists.

  Clodia’s father led her through the crowd, to the other side of the pool, where a tall, thin man with black eyes and hair as white as snow leaned upon a cane. “Senator Lucius Bruttius Silanus, I present to you my daughter, Clodia.”

  Clodia bowed low. “I am honored, Senator.” The man’s wrinkled mouth curled into a yellow grin.

  “A beauty indeed, Magistrate,” the man said, addressing Clodia’s father. “And you say she brings Paulinus’s estate, including the slaves?” The man gulped greedily from his wine goblet, the red stain clinging to his thin lips.

  “Some forty of them. Yes, it passes to Clodia’s next husband. Unless Paulinus’s sister Maevia should conceive a boy before Clodia remarries. Then it would pass to Maevia’s husband.”

  Now Clodia understood her father’s haste. He wished to solidify Clodia’s hold on her inheritance—and his own.

  “So time really is of the essence, isn’t it?” Silanus mused.

  “Indeed it is, Senator.”

  “And I
am sure you would like to become Aedile sooner rather than later?” he muttered, taking another gulp of wine. He then turned to Clodia and commanded, “Well, turn around, woman. Let me have a look at you.”

  Clodia turned slowly, feeling her whole body grow cold beneath the old man’s gaze. She remembered what Artair’s eyes had felt like upon her, just hours before. How different that had been.

  “She is healthy and obedient, and is capable of running a large household,” her father added.

  Silanus let out a loud, guttural laugh. “It will take more than a housekeeper to arouse this old wolf!”

  Then Silanus pulled Clodia close to him. The stink of his breath made her cringe. Clodia glanced desperately at Artair, who stood just paces away, his face reddening.

  When she looked back at Silanus, the old man was eyeing her suspiciously. “You look to your bodyguard?” he growled. “Why, do you seek protection? Comfort, perhaps?” He ran his hand across her cheek. Then he put his hand upon her breast and squeezed hard. “Ah, yes,” he said. “This one will make an excellent bed-warmer.”

  In an instant, Artair was beside Clodia, his hand on Silanus’s wrist. “Do not touch her.”

  Silanus wrenched his hand free and growled. “And what is this? A slave presumes to command me?” The old man let out a long, howling laugh, then slapped Artair hard across the face. “What hubris possesses you, slave? I should slay you right now.” Silanus motioned to one of his guards.

  Several groups conversing nearby now turned and eyed Clodia, as she choked out an explanation.

  “My deepest apologies, Senator,” Clodia said, trying not to look at Artair. “The slave is only recently purchased and untrained. He mistook your gestures as danger to my person. I shall have him properly punished.” Clodia tried to sound commanding, but her words rang hollow.

  Silanus’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps it is I, as your future husband, who should decide this man’s punishment.”

  “Indeed it is,” Clodia’s father interrupted, staring intensely at Clodia.

  The dancers ceased, and the room grew silent. Sensing his audience, Silanus’s demeanor changed. “Then I command that this slave be sent to our new arena. Let him fight for the glory of Emperor Titus. Let him fight for the glory of Rome!”