Читать книгу The Roman - Caroline Storer - Страница 5

Circus Maximus – Rome AD 79

Marsallas closed his eyes, letting the stillness inside the stables act as a balm to his ravaged senses. He could still hear the crowd in the arena chanting his name, even though he’d ridden his last race of the day.

For a full five minutes he stood there, before he opened his eyes once more, and watched as his four horses, magnificent greys, were rubbed down by four slaves. Like him, the horses were quiet and still, allowing the slaves to tend them without any trouble. He walked over to them and stroked the muzzle of each of them in turn, his touch gentle and soothing. Lampon, the most forward of his horses, nudged him.

“Hah. You know me too well, Lampon,” he said softly, taking a pear from a small cloth sack that he carried. The horse whinnied as he took the fruit, and Marsallas patted his flank before moving onto the other horses. When they had all been given their pears, Marsallas stood back, letting the slaves finish their tasks.

They were magnificent animals – he had chosen well – and they had not let him down once in the four years he’d had them. They had raced over two hundred races together, winning over one hundred and fifty of them in that time. A phenomenal feat, considering it was one of the most dangerous sports in the Circus Maximus. His quadrigae were considered the best, and when he raced his four horse chariot he was always the favourite to win.

Once the slaves had finished tending to the horses, Marsallas dismissed them with a nod of his head, leaving him alone with his animals. He walked into each of the stalls and stroked his hands over the horses’ flesh, feeling their muscles and ligaments to make sure there were no sprains or bruises. The sheer brutality of the races took its toll, on both man and beast, and it was Marsallas’s duty to make sure that his horses were always kept in the best condition. Eventually he finished his rounds, and was closing the last of the doors to the stalls when he saw his team member, and close friend, Fabius Rufus coming towards him.

“Fabius,” he said in greeting, a small smile on his face as his protégé approached. He was secretly proud of the young man; the man he had trained to be as good as him in the Circus. But then he frowned, when he saw the preoccupied look on his face. “All is well, Fabius?”

“There is a woman here,” Fabius said, by way of explanation, ignoring Marsallas's question. “She wants to see you. She has a slave with her-”

“Fabius,” Marsallas interrupted, “I am not interested in entertaining the rich patricians of Rome tonight. I am tired, hungry, and I stink. I'm going to bathe, eat and sleep in that order. Besides, even I have standards, and an orgy is just a little too debauched for my tastes!”

Fabius shook his head. “You’re wrong Marsallas. The slave is male, and as large as a tree, and the woman just wants to talk to you, not seduce you.”

“They always “just want to talk”, Fabius,” Marsallas grunted, shaking his head in vexation, “You should know that by now! We are nothing but studs to these women,” then he turned towards the rear door of the stables. “By the gods, I’m sure the women of Rome are getting more and more forward these days.”

“I agree with you Marsallas, they are,” Fabius reasoned, raising his voice slightly as Marsallas walked away. “But this time I think the woman is genuine. She says she has news-”

“Enough Fabius,” Marsallas shouted, cutting off his friend’s words without a backward glance. “Like I said, you have her. All the women love your blonde hair and green eyes. You will have her eating out of your hand in next to no time!”

* * *

“You were quick. Didn’t she live up to your expectations?” Marsallas asked a short while later, as he finished off a small meal of meat, bread, and olives in his quarters.

Fabius’s face suffused with colour, as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “No! I mean…I never…” Fabius stammered, his voice trailing off.

Marsallas raised an eyebrow in surprise. It was unusual for Fabius to be so nervous. Normally he was supremely confident when it came to women … and sex. “What ails you Fabius? You seem out of sorts this evening.”

“The woman. She just wants to see you. To talk to you.”

“Fabius, how many times-”

“Justina.” Fabius interjected, cutting off Marsallas. “She says her name is Justina, and she has come from Herculaneum.”

The knife Marsallas had been using to slice some meat was stabbed into the wooden table with such force that the handle wobbled violently. His eyes narrowed in anger, as his brain assimilated the full implication of Fabius’s words. An ominous silence fell between the two men until, finally, Marsallas stood, the scraping of his chair sounding as loud as a thunderbolt.

“Where is she?” he hissed, the words forced past tight lips, his face pinched with anger.

“Outside.”

Marsallas said nothing for a moment as his mind raced frantically. He stared at the wooden door, as if he could actually see through it. Justina was here. Outside and waiting for him. He felt his stomach clench, and he forced down the wave of nausea that threatened at the thought of meeting her again. Conflicting emotions surged though him. Anger vied with despair. Rage battled hope. But it was fear that took precedence. Because fear was a double edged sword…

Fear could make him lose what little control he had over his emotions when it came to Justina; emotions he had ruthlessly tried to suppress for years now. Fear could make him lash out, to try and hurt her as much as she had hurt him, or equally, it could make him do something totally out of character, like pull her into his arms and kiss her. Because when it came to Justina, she made him think and feel things he’d never felt for any woman.

For six years long years he’d desperately tried to wipe her from his memory. Sometimes he succeeded, often going weeks without thinking about her. But then something would happen, a jolt to his memory, and he would find himself once more wondering about her…remembering her …

Justina. The only woman he’d ever loved…and the only woman he’d ever hated. She’d taken his love and thrown it back in his face, and in the space of one day she had systematically destroyed him. Her betrayal had turned the young, untried man he’d once been, and made him into the cold, hard, bastard he was today.

And now she was here, waiting outside his quarters, wanting an audience with him. He couldn’t help but wonder if the six years since he’d last seen her had wrought many changes in her. She would be twenty two now, a far cry from the sixteen year old girl he’d known back then.

But that girl had been so beautiful, and he closed his eyes briefly as he remembered what she had looked like. He could picture her as clearly now, as if it had only been yesterday since he’d last seen her, instead of all those years ago. Tall and slim, she’d had the palest of skin that had been so soft to the touch. Skin that had been in stark contrast to her jet black hair, and he remembered teasing her about her heritage, saying she must be descended from a warrior woman enslaved from the wild north lands. Her features had been perfection too, from her wide grey eyes, down over her small straight nose to the fullest lips he’d ever seen. Lips that he’d had the urge to kiss, from the first moment he’d seen them …

Marsallas re-opened his eyes, focusing on the present once more as he weighed up the situation he was now faced with. The rational side of him said that he should just send her away, refuse her request. But the irrational side of him wanted to see her again. It would be a test of sorts he decided. If she elicited no response in him other than distain then he would know for certain that he had finally managed to purge her from his mind once and for all.

The irrational won…

So he sat down, pulled out the knife that was embedded in the wood, and carried on slicing another piece of meat. Deliberately, he kept his posture relaxed, giving nothing away of the inner turmoil he was experiencing, before finally saying to Fabius, “Tell her to come in. I will see her.”

* * *

"If I am not out in five minutes knock on the door. It will be my signal to leave.”

Diogenes frowned, but said nothing, just stared down at her.

Justina smiled slightly, interpreting his look, well used to the slave’s silence. “I will be fine. I promise.”

Diogenes stood aside, and Justina tapped on the door. Without waiting for an answer she pushed it open and entered the dark room.

At first she thought there was no-one there, Fabius having played her false by sending her into an empty room. With only one wall sconce illuminating the room, most of the space was in darkness. But then she saw a slight movement, and as she let her eyes adjust to the dimness, she was able to make out the shadow of a man standing as still as marble to the rear of the room.

Then the shadow spoke. “Justina.”

The emotionless tone of the voice caused Justina to shiver, and her heart to beat faster. There was no mistaking who had said her name. His voice was indelibly printed on her mind. But the tone was deeper than it had once been, rough almost. Yet it had a pleasing quality she couldn’t explain.

Uninvited, she walked further into the room, his presence drawing her to him like an invisible bond, only stopping when she approached the edge of a small table. She glanced down at the remains of a meal, then back up to where the shadow stood. Lifting her head towards him, she said as calmly as she could, “Greetings, Marsallas.”

Then the shadow stepped forward suddenly becoming human flesh, and Justina gasped, her face losing all colour as she took in the man standing in front of her.

There was no doubting it was Marsallas. But at the same time she couldn’t believe how much he’d changed. Virtually unrecognisable from the carefree youth she had once known. Now, in his place stood a virtual stranger, one who looked at her with total indifference on his face.

He looked even taller than she remembered, if that were possible. Broad shoulders tapered down to bare arms, tanned a golden brown. Arms that were crossed over each other, showing off his powerfully bunched muscles. Of their own free will her eyes tracked down his body. Over the impressive width of his chest that couldn't be disguised by the short green tunic he wore, down past the tautness of his flat stomach, to his long, tanned muscular legs.

Justina felt a quiver of awareness slither down her spine, and like a starving woman she feasted on him. The hard sculpted face, the piercing blue eyes she remembered so well. She drank him in, absorbed him, and her fingers actually itched to caress the hard planes of his face, to trace the shape of his eyebrows and the angled hardness of his jaw.

She felt his power. Not just his physical power, but the sheer presence of him. Although he had only said one word, his bearing said it all, and it made her stomach clench. Even now, after all these years, he still had the power to affect her, and without warning a sudden surge of longing, long suppressed, assailed her.

She saw his eyes lower to her mouth. She hadn’t been kissed in years, and she felt desire flare deep inside of her, rising to such an intensity it fairly took her breath away. She ached for him to draw her nearer, to kiss her, to stroke her body to life once more.

Then she saw his eyes narrow, harden, and Justina felt a rush of panic hit her. She was stupid to have come here.

She should have gone back to Herculaneum and lied to Quintus. Said she’d tried to gain an audience with Marsallas, but he had refused to see her. But she hadn’t, and instead she was standing no more than ten feet from him.

Totally at his mercy.

She wanted to flee, but she held her ground. Instead, she straightened her spine, and prepared herself for the ordeal that was to come.

And it would be an ordeal.

She forced a polite smile, desperate to keep to the plan she had mentally prepared whilst standing outside his quarter’s, waiting for Fabius to introduce her. Just go in. She had said, over and over again, like a mantra. Be cordial, say what you have to say, and then get out of there as quickly as you can.

“Thank…thank you for letting me see you. What…what I have to say won’t take long. I-”

“You have come a long way to see me, Justina, considering I said I never wanted to see you again,” Marsallas drawled, his mouth twisting in derision as he interrupted her faltering words. “And if my memory serves me right, I cursed you to Hades too.”

Justina felt a sudden chilling panic pierce her, but she kept her face impassive, refused to let him see how much he disturbed her. So she kept her hands loosely clasped in front of her, and made herself relax. She lifted her chin, hoping he wouldn’t notice the faint trembling of her body that she couldn’t quite control, “I do remember, Marsallas,” she said, keeping her voice steady, “But I am not here to see you, I have come because I have a message from your uncle. Quintus is-”

She heard his breath hiss, before he cut off her well rehearsed speech with a violent slash of his hand. “Stop!”

She froze. Helpless. Unable to think, or do anything, she watched as he lowered his hand, her eyes taking in his long narrow fingers, fingers that Justina remembered so well…

“I do not want to hear about him – ever.”

His words were harsh, but Justina felt a surge of pity for him. She knew how much he hated his uncle, and secretly she couldn’t blame him. His uncle had never shown his nephew any love.

The words hung heavily between them, and wisely she said nothing, as she could see that he was holding onto his anger by a thin thread. His face was an implacable mask, devoid of emotion, and for several long moments he stared at her, his eyes unfathomable as he watched her. Then he stepped forward, and this time she couldn’t control her bodily reaction.

She shivered inwardly, when the warmth of his fingers cupped her chin, exerting enough pressure that she had no choice but to lift her face up to his. For years she dreamt of feeling his touch again, and now he was so close that she could feel the heat of his breath on her face, see the flecks of blue colour that made up his magnificent eyes. She had to fight the urge to close her eyes when the warm scent of his skin, a mixture of sandalwood and musk, floated over her, enveloping her like a cloak, bringing back memories long suppressed. Heat pooled in the pit of her stomach, as delicious sensations curled through her.

Then his fingers splayed out, and she had to bite back a groan of desire. Two of his fingers still cupped her chin, but the others feathered softly down the slim column of her throat, before they came to rest on the pulse that beat rapidly at the base of her throat.

This time the heat within her spread to every pore of her skin, making her hot and dewy, feverish almost, and when she saw the pupils of his eyes dilate, she could tell he was very much aware of her reaction to him.

The moment was broken when he casually dropped his hand, and stood back from her, breaking off all bodily contact. Inwardly she mourned the loss of his touch. A touch that brought back so many memories.

“You must be fatigued after your long journey. Would you like some refreshment?”

The sudden change of tone in his voice unnerved her. Gone was the anger, now there was a mocking edge to it, and Justina had to press her lips together to prevent her from saying anything. Deliberately she lowered her eyes, in case they showed any hint of defiance. She didn’t want to antagonise him, couldn’t afford to bait him in any way, she knew that.

That would be foolish. And she wasn’t a fool.

Desperate to recover her composure, she looked up at him with what she hoped was a neutral expression on her face. “No thank you. I had something to drink at the inn before I came here.”

“Do you mind if I do?”

Justina bit down on her lip in irritation. “Yes,” she wanted to shout, “I do mind.” But she held back her words. She knew he was playing some sort of twisted game. Teasing her, like a cat teased a mouse.

Shaking her head slightly, she smiled politely, “No, of course not.”

But when he moved closer to her, to lean across the table to pour some wine into a goblet, she lost all ability to think. Once again the heady scent of his skin brought back memories, and she closed her eyes briefly, remembering everything about him as if the past six years had only been yesterday.

It was only when she opened her eyes, and saw him watching her, with eyes so fathomless, that she realised he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

Justina blushed in mortification. How could he have affected her so quickly? She should be immune to him after all these years. She told herself to turn and leave, get out of there as fast as possible, but her body was incapable of moving.

Eventually Marsallas broke the tension, by raising his goblet in an unspoken mocking salute, before he drowned the contents in one swallow, never once taking his gaze off her.

Justina watched him, biting the inside her lip. If she needed proof that coming here was a mistake, then his false gesture was the final bit of evidence she needed. He wasn’t interested in anything she had to say. She could see that in every hard line of his body, by the coldness radiating out of his eyes.

Whatever emotions he had once felt for her had long gone. Wiped out by six years of bitterness.

She had to leave. Right now. And without a second thought, about the actual reason why she was here, she turned and bolted for the door, and hopefully, her escape.

She thought she had succeeded. Her hand was on the rounded wooden door knob, and the door had even opened slightly. But then she saw two hands slam above her head banging the door shut, trapping her between his two outstretched arms.

How had he moved so fast? She thought, panic coursing through her as she tried ineffectually to wrench open the door.

“Don’t go.” The words were whispered in her ear, so intense, so passionate that she felt her heart break right open.

Swallowing past the lump of emotion in her throat, she whispered, “I have to go, Marsallas. I shouldn’t have come. It was a mistake. I…I’m sorry.”

Still desperate to escape, and in what she knew to be a futile effort, she tried to pull open the door. But the door didn’t move, and with mounting desperation she lifted her hands, her nails digging into the hard muscles and tendons of Marsallas's forearms trying to pull them away.

But the door stayed shut, her strength no match for his, as he leaned his weight against the wood barring her escape. Eventually she stopped, her hands dropping to her sides, her chest rising and falling with exertion as if she had run for miles.

For several long moments she stood there, her mind racing, desperately wondering what to do next. She needed to be strong, not let him see how much his presence had affected her, how much she still desired him. To show him would be foolish – suicidal – even. Then, a different feeling came over her, and she realised that she was actually frightened of him.

She didn’t know why he frightened her. Maybe it was because he had changed so much in the intervening years since she had last seen him. Not just physically, but mentally too. The youth she had known had only ever shown her kindness. But now, today, she wasn’t so sure. He looked so hard, indomitable, the coldness of his blue eyes revealing so much more about him than what he’d actually said.

The man that stood behind her was the product of his uncle’s hatred – and hers – if she were honest. She, and Quintus, had made him the man he was today. But she knew, deep down, that Marsallas wouldn’t hurt her. He might hate her, but he wouldn't harm her. Marsallas wasn't like his uncle, she was sure of that.

Then thinking of Quintus, and all she had suffered at his hands these past years, she mentally squared her shoulders and turned slightly, as if to convey to Marsallas that she wasn't afraid of him.

But her rational thoughts disappeared instantly, when by turning, she brought herself even closer to him if that were possible. Her heart skipped a beat when she felt Marsallas’s breath on her neck, moist and hot as he leaned in even closer, a soft sigh escaping him.

“Yes,” he whispered, as his mouth made contact with the warm skin of her neck. With deliberately slow movements he took hold of her hand, and turned her fully, so she now faced him. He was so close, the heady scent of his skin so intoxicating, that she couldn't stop the shiver of arousal that coursed through her.

No more than two minutes had passed since she had entered his quarters, and already her body was reacting to him like it had always done. It was as if her emotions, which she had ruthlessly suppressed all these years, had suddenly erupted like some dormant volcano, and her desire for him - her longing for him - burst forth like molten lava, threatening to overwhelm her.

She heard him laugh softly under his breath, as if he knew exactly what she was feeling, what she was experiencing. And when he moved closer, so his hips made contact with hers, Justina groaned inwardly as she felt the hardness of his arousal nudging her lower belly.

“Beautiful, beautiful, Justina. I want you.”

Justina’s eyes widened. Had she heard him correctly? Shaking her head in denial she whispered, “No… I…” But her words trailed off when he bent his head, and felt his tongue stroke the sensitive area of her neck just under her earlobe. Heat curled in the pit of her stomach; warmth spreading through her whole body, as her knees went weak with longing.

“You say “no”, but your body screams “yes” Justina. You can deny it all you want, but you want me as much as I want you. I felt it earlier when I caressed your neck. Your beating pulse told me everything I needed to know.” The words were soft, a rumbling from deep within his chest as his teeth nipped the soft lobe of her ear, the sensations so intense that she couldn’t stop herself from arching her neck.

Eventually, reality returned, and instinctively she tried to pull away. “Marsallas no! Stop, please. Please-”

But he ignored her plea, and his mouth closed over hers, his lips bruising as he kissed her with deliberate passion. Justina tried to turn her head away, to escape the onslaught of his mouth. But his fingers burrowed under her long hair, trapping her, forcing her to stay where she was, as his hand curved around the back of her neck pulling her towards him.

The kiss intensified, as if he were stamping his presence on her, punishing her for all the years of torment she had put him through.

She moaned, hating the rough assault of his mouth on hers, her nails digging into the hard muscles of his forearms as she tried to pull away.

But her resistance was futile, her strength no match against his, as Marsallas pressed his hips into the softness of her stomach, the gesture blatantly sexual. Again Justina moaned, remembering how it had once been between them. How he had kissed her so softly, so gently, that she had wanted the kiss to go on forever-

Then as quickly as it began, the kiss ended.

Marsallas pulled away from her, and Justina turned her head in mortification, not daring to look at him. She heard his ragged breathing as he stood there, the sound harsh in the stillness of the room. Once again she felt her chin being lifted, her eyes forced to meet his. Expecting to see hatred reflected there, she was taken aback when, instead, she saw torment and pain in the darkness of his eyes.

Justina felt her resistance crumble. Had he hated kissing her like that? Did he remember what it had once been like between them?

The questions flew through her mind. She wanted to ask him, but she was incapable of speech. Instead, she lifted her hand and laid it along his strong jaw bone, conveying to him without words, what she was thinking, what she was feeling.

The unspoken gesture was enough, and she closed her eyes as Marsallas’s mouth fused with hers once more.

“Justina,” he breathed, and this time he kissed her in a way that sent heat searing through her body. This time his lips weren't trying to punish – they were gentle, soft, mobile – seducing her, awakening memories of long ago when they shared such sweet kisses together.

His hands reached for her once more, gently caressing, skimming over the slimness of her shoulders, downwards, until they rested on the sides of her ribcage. Slowly, they moved inwards, cupping the fullness of her breasts, and Justina jerked, feeling the sensitive flesh swell, her nipples pebbling with desire as he rubbed them through the thinness of her silk gown. Long suppressed sensations flushed into life, as she gloried in the feel of his hands on her body once more.

“Marsallas,” she groaned against his lips, wanting so much more.

“You want me don't you?” he whispered.

“Yes. Oh yes-”

Then reality hit her, as the full implication of what she was saying, what she was doing, impinged on her passion soaked mind. And this time it was she who pulled away, and as she stared at him, time seemed suspended as Marsallas watched her, his face giving nothing away.

She felt shaken to the core by what had just happened, both of them caught up in the past and the present. Then, mercifully, the tension was broken by a loud rap on the door, the noise as loud as a thunder-clap in the stillness of the room.

Diogenes! Of course! She realised belatedly. Her allotted time with Marsallas was up. The interruption broke the tension between them, and she whispered, “I…I have to go. Quintus-”

She realised her mistake as soon as she uttered Quintus’s name when his face darkened, and his eyes narrowed into dark slits of anger. Then he turned abruptly, and walked away from her, returning to the table to pour another goblet of wine.

“Yes. Go now while you can, Justina. I'm sure my uncle has need of you.” The words were hissed past tight lips, before he turned to her once again, his face closed, unreadable.

Justina said nothing. She wanted to run over to him, beg his forgiveness, and explain everything.

But she didn’t.

Instead she turned, and wrenched open the door, leaving the room with as much dignity as she could, holding back the tears that threatened to fall.

It was only when she heard a loud smash come from Marsallas’s quarters that her step faltered. Marsallas must have thrown his wine goblet on the floor in anger or frustration – or both …

* * *

Marsallas tapped the table with his index finger, looking up with bloodshot eyes to where Fabius sat opposite him.

Fabius raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Doing as Marsallas asked, he refilled his goblet with wine once more.

“You have three races tomorrow, Marsallas. Is it wise to get so drunk?”

Marsallas pulled a wry smile, and looked up at his friend, “Are you my mother now, Fabius?” he asked, his words slurred, and not waiting for an answer he lifted the goblet and drowned the contents in one giant gulp.

“No, not your mother,” laughed Fabius, “But maybe your conscience. You, my friend, are going to have a mighty sore head in the morning.” And this time, without being asked, Fabius filled the goblet once more.

But instead of drinking the wine, Marsallas merely stared down at the rich liquid, his mouth twisting, his mind racing. A long silence fell between the two men, both of them lost in their own thoughts until Marsallas broke it by muttering, “She is as slim and beautiful as I remember. It would have been something if she had gone to fat!”

Marsallas looked up at Fabius, seeing the slight smile on the younger man's face. He grunted slightly, his own mouth twisting into a smile of sorts. “I’ve said that before haven’t I?”

“Aye. A few times this evening.”

Then as quickly as it came, Marsallas’s smile vanished. “I wanted to hate her, Fabius. But instead I kissed her,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He saw Fabius’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at his words. “See, I have shocked you now, eh?”

Fabius nodded, before he leaned forward, “She told me she is staying at the inn near the Forum. She leaves tomorrow, after the Fifth Hour.”

Marsallas assimilated that bit of news without responding, and another silence fell between them, both of them oblivious to the raucous laughter behind them as they sat at their table in the drinking den.

“Was she your lover, Marsallas? In…in Herculaneum? Is that why she came here to see you?” Fabius finally asked, several minutes later.

For several long seconds Marsallas said nothing. He desperately wanted to say “yes” to Fabius. To tell him that Justina had once been his lover in the true sense of the word. But that would be a lie. All he’d had ever done was kiss her, caress her, nothing more.

He lifted his head, eventually meeting Fabius’s curious gaze. “You couldn’t be further from the truth if you tried, my friend. Justina was never my lover. She’s my uncle’s mistress!”