Читать книгу The Roman - Caroline Storer - Страница 7

Herculaneum – AD 73- six years earlier…

Justina sighed, stood up and wiped the sand off her hands on the coarse linen of her stola, a frown on her face as she stared down at the sand sculpture. She tilted her head slightly, it wasn’t her best effort she thought, pulling a face of disgust. She had been trying to sculpt a life size figure of a deer in full flight. But she hadn’t quite got the proportions right she decided. The head was too big for the body, and the legs were too long and skinny.

She had got the idea for the sculpture from a fresco she had seen on the wall of the Basilica, and had been itching to sculpt it ever since she had seen it a few days ago. She had memorised the drawing, but obviously not well enough. But then, she realised, perhaps she was being too hard on herself. She had never actually seen a real deer, so maybe she hadn’t done too bad a job after all!

Turning away from the sculpture, she made her way down to the water’s edge and sat down on the damp sand removing her handmade straw hat and sandals before wriggling her toes in the cool water. She leaned her head back, letting the last of the afternoon sunshine wash over her. It would soon be time to leave, and she relished the small amount of freedom she had here.

As she sat there, she was vaguely aware of the stillness of the afternoon air being broken by the sound of splashing water, and her head lolled forward, her eyes searching out the noise. Squinting, she made out a dark shape in the dark blue waters, and for a moment she thought it was a dolphin, but as she focused on the shape she realised that it wasn’t a dolphin but a swimmer, a very powerful swimmer she thought, as she watched him cleave his way through the water, his arms strong and measured as they cut through the waves.

He was a very good. Maybe he was in training for some upcoming games? Perhaps the celebration of the birthday of the late Emperor Augustus which was next week she mused to herself. But her thoughts were cut short abruptly, and she tensed, drawing her knees up to her chest, when she realised that the swimmer had changed direction and was swimming straight towards her!

Not sure what to do, she stood up and watched the approaching swimmer, every sense she possessed on alert. Then, making up her mind she turned abruptly and started to walk away.

“Wait! Please. I won’t hurt you.”

His words, spoken directly behind, sounded as if he was slightly out of breath and Justina stopped short. For a moment she hesitated, undecided what to do. How had he got to the beach so quickly? She thought in amazement. She turned around slowly, and when she saw him she swallowed the lump in her throat as she stared open mouthed at the young man who had called out to her, and who was now walking slowly towards her. The intensity of his eyes on hers was disconcerting, and she quickly looked away. But then, as if he held some sort of hold over her, she looked back up at him.

He looked like a young Neptune, rising from the waves, as he came out of the water towards her. He was naked apart from his subligaculum. The leather loin cloth moulded his hips snugly, and Justina’s eyes looked away from there, quickly shifting to his muscular bronzed torso. His chest was hard and smooth, and she had the strange urge to stroke her hands over it to see if it was as strong and powerful as it looked.

Her artist’s eye took in the perfect proportions of his body. His long muscular legs, narrow hips, his flat stomach, then up once more to his chest, and then finally, her wide eyed gaze settled on his broad shoulders. She had to acknowledge that he was a perfect specimen of manhood, and secretly her hands itched to sculpt him, to feel his muscles, to-

“My name is Marsallas.”

The words were spoken softly, and effectively acted as a splash of cold water to Justina’s wayward thoughts. Instantly, her eyes shot up, and met his twinkling blue ones. Realising that she had been caught staring at him, she blushed bright red when she saw the humour reflected in his gaze. Mortification surged through and she turned away from him.

Oh no, how could she have been so blatant? What must he think of her?

She turned slightly, and looked at him from under her lashes. She could see that he was standing there staring at her, waiting for her to say something. “Justina,” she finally said, aware of the huskiness of her voice. “My name is Justina.”

Marsallas nodded slowly, and smiled at her, his perfect straight teeth a startling white against the bronze of his skin.

“Hello, Justina. Will you sit with me?”

She hesitated, aware of her hands twisting together nervously, “I…I…”

He must had sensed her hesitation, because he said quietly, “You are a very good sculptress by the way,” he said nodding at the sand sculpture next to her. “Please. Stay for a little while,” he begged.

Justina glanced up at him, chewing her bottom lip in indecision. She really should leave. The day was growing late, and her father would expect her back soon. But seeing the earnest expression in his deep blue eyes she made up her mind to stay. So she nodded slightly, and noted in surprise that his shoulders slumped, as a look of relief passed over his face when she accepted his request.

“How old are you?” Marsallas asked, once she had sat back down on the sand, and he had joined her.

Justina was slightly taken aback by the question, “Fifteen,” she answered slowly, and when she saw him frown, she added, “But I’ll be sixteen next month.”

“So young,” Marsallas said, almost to himself.

“And you? How old are you?” She murmured, noticing the husky edge to her voice once more.

“Eighteen.”

“So old!” She said, her tone gently teasing.

Marsallas smiled at her, and grunted softly before he raised a mocking eyebrow at her in recognition of her answer. Justina couldn’t help but smile back, and at that moment they both relaxed, as an understanding flowed between them. For the next hour they talked, tentatively at first, as strangers do when they first get to know each other, but after a while they talked easily, as if they had known each other for years, each of them sharing a little of themselves.

“My father is Aulus Justus Phillipus, he is the town’s baker. Do you know him?”

Marsallas shook his head as a sudden bleakness washed over his face. “No I don’t. Unfortunately, I don’t get out much.”

Justina looked up at him, as she noted the dark undertone in his voice when he said the last sentence.

“Oh. I…I see.”

Marsallas smiled at her, his voice gentle, “I don’t think you do, Justina. But it is of no consequence.”

Not sure of what to say in response to that, she decided to change the subject. “Do you live nearby?”

“Umm. Over there,” he said gesturing to his right, to where the large marble villas stretched along the shoreline of Herculaneum. Justina’s eyes widened in surprise, she knew that the villas along the beach were owned by the patricians, the rich and elite of Herculaneum. Just who was Marsallas, and why was he interested in her? Then before she could stop herself she blurted out, “Are you a slave?”

Marsallas threw back his head and laughed for what seemed the longest time. Justina wondered why he found what she’d asked so amusing, and when he finally stopped, and looked over to where she sat, he must have noticed the small frown of annoyance on her face, because he took pity on her and finally answered her. “No I am not a slave, Justina. Although I might as well be one.”

Justina opened her mouth to ask why, but never had the chance to voice her question as Marsallas leaned forward and placed a finger on her lips. “No more questions, Justina. Please.”

Seeing the pleading look on his face, Justina closed her mouth and turned away, shyness stealing through her.

Marsallas sighed, “Now I have upset you. I’m sorry.”

Justina looked across at him, and shook her head, “No, it is I who should apologise. I had no right to pry.”

She saw his eyes close, and heard his soft groan of remorse, before he shifted closer to her. “You were not prying. It’s…it’s just that I find it so hard to share myself with anyone. I’m not used to having anyone care about me.” Then he leaned forward, and she watched mesmerised as his mouth came towards hers. Then his lips were on hers, and they both gasped in unison as a frisson of awareness surged through them both.

“Sweet. So sweet, as I knew you would be,” Marsallas whispered, his breath mingling with hers as his fingers gently cupped the softness of her jaw, squeezing gently until Justina had no choice but to open her mouth. Her gasp of pleasure was obviously what he wanted to hear, as his tongue probed deeper, teasing and tasting the sweetness within. Then the kiss, gentle at first, changed, deepening in its intensity as Marsallas increased the pressure of his mouth on hers as he felt her passion match his.

Justina didn’t know who pulled away first, but after what seemed like a lifetime their lips parted and they just stared at each other, young lovers caught up in the intensity of their first kiss, their first embrace. She shivered at the expression she saw in his blue eyes. Desire had darkened them to almost black, and she watched entranced unable, and unwilling, to look away.

It was Marsallas who ended their embrace, and Justina inwardly mourned the loss of his arms around her when he finally stood up.

“I have to go. Will you come tomorrow?” he asked quietly, staring down at her intently.

Justina nodded. “I’ll try. It depends on my father and whether he will go to-” She stopped speaking abruptly, unwilling to say anymore, but not before she saw the small frown that creased his brow.

“Like I said earlier, Justina. We all have things we want to keep to ourselves,” he murmured after an awkward silence had fallen between them. His tone was gentle, soothing, as if he understood her plight, her reluctance to tell him everything.

“Yes. I…I…”

“Try to come tomorrow if you can,” he said, interrupting her faltering words as he smiled down at her, in what was an obvious attempt to lighten the tension between them. “It is important that you do, as we have unfinished business.”

Justina looked up at him in surprise. “Unfinished business? What unfinished business?”

Marsallas grinned wickedly, “Why, the business of getting to know each other of course. Farewell my beautiful, Justina.”

Then before she could say another word, he turned and ran back towards the water edge and waded out into the cold water before swimming away, leaving Justina staring after him.

* * *

“Lie still please! I’ve nearly finished.”

“How can I? With a million ants crawling over me. I’m sure one has just crawled up my ar- err - up crevices I never knew I had.”

“Marsallas!” She cried, her tone horrified.

Marsallas laughed. “You are such an innocent!”

“Stop teasing,” she said, smiling at him. “Please Marsallas, just a few minutes more. I promise.”

She heard him grunt, the noise conveying to Justina that he didn’t believe her for one moment, and she couldn’t contain her giggle. But he obeyed her plea, and she saw him assume the position she wanted, his body unnaturally still.

“Is this pose really necessary? My poor legs and arms are killing me. I must look stupid.”

“Yes, the pose is necessary. You are supposed to be Jupiter defending the Empire, about to jump a hurdle. Now be quiet.” Inwardly she laughed, but said nothing more. She saw him move his head slightly, knowing that he was watching her, and a glow of pleasure went through her as she felt the heat of his gaze on her.

But then her work took over, and a frown of concentration settled on her brow as she knelt on the sand, her hands quick and frantic as they moulded and shaped the damp sand. It was over an hour later when she finally stood up. “There, I have finished. You can get up now.”

“At last!” Marsallas said, groaning theatrically, as he rose from where he had been lying, busily brushing the sand off his body.

He walked over to where Justina stood next to the sand sculpture and glanced down at it. He let out a gasp of surprise, and looked up at her, stunned amazement on his face. “It…it is wonderful! Unbelievable.”

She blushed, and glanced away in embarrassment. “Really?” She breathed, as if she could not quite believe what he said, as if she could not see her own genius.

“Yes, really. You have a brilliant talent. It is as if the sand is about to fly off into the air, it is so lifelike.”

Justina smiled up and him, and he smiled back, and their eyes locked. Then Justina pushed him away gently, breaking the spell, “Go and wash yourself, you are covered in sand – and ants!”

Later they sat by the water’s edge, the waves of the sea lapping gently at their feet as they watched the setting sun. They both knew that the time was approaching when they would have to leave.

“Is there no way you can start sculpturing properly? You have such talent it is a waste to see your sculptures washed away by the incoming tide.”

Justina smiled sadly. “My father is only a poor baker. He – we - work incredibly hard, there is not much money left over for luxuries such as letting me train as a sculptress. Besides, it is a male dominated world, I doubt very much whether anyone would take me on as an apprentice.”

“But-”

Marsallas stopped short, but she knew what he was going to say. They’d had this conversation before, on quite a few occasions in fact, during the past few weeks of their acquaintance. He was going to argue the point that surely her father made a decent enough living as the town’s best baker, to afford to let her train as a sculptress.

But thankfully, this time he said nothing. Instead, she saw him lean over and rummage in a small cloth sack he had brought with him.

“I nearly forgot,” he said, taking out a small wooden box and handing it over to her, murmuring softly, “Happy birthday, Justina.”

Her eyes shot to meet his sparkling blue ones, “You remembered!” She exclaimed, as she took the small box, her hands trembling.

“Of course I remembered. It’s not every day a girl has her sixteenth birthday.”

“What is it?” She asked, looking down at the small wooden box she held in her open palm.

Marsallas smiled, “Why don’t you open it and find out.”

Justina looked down at the box, then back up at Marsallas. She smiled, a radiant smile that lit up her face. Then she looked down and carefully opened the box, unable to contain her gasp of shock when she saw the ring inside. Hesitantly she took it out, and stared entranced at the beautiful gold and ruby ring that sparkled in the late afternoon sunshine.

“It was my mother’s. Do you like it?”

She knew how much he had loved his mother, and how he had been devastated when she had died when he was just ten years old. So giving her a ring that must have been so precious to him, seemed to forge the bond between them even closer. Even more so, as Marsallas knew that Justina too, had lost her mother when she was only a baby.

Now as she lifted tear filled eyes to his, she breathed, “Oh Marsallas, it is beautiful. I have never seen anything so lovely.” Then she frowned and shook her head slightly. “But this is too precious to give to me. It was your mother’s. Are you sure? I mean-”

“Justina. It’s yours,” he said interrupting her, his tone firm but gentle. “My mother would have loved you. She would have been proud for you to have it. Truly.”

The tears Justina had been trying to hold back fell, and Marsallas groaned, pulling her into his arms, “Don’t cry. Please.”

“I am crying with happiness, Marsallas.” Justina hiccupped, “Thank you so much, I will treasure this always,” she said placing the ring on her middle finger, before she looked up at him.

Marsallas smiled down at her, but then his smiled faded, as he leaned forward and kissed her passionately. Eventually they pulled away to stare at each other, and Marsallas whispered, “I love you, Justina.”

Justina smiled up at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears, “And I love you as well Marsallas, with all my heart.”

Marsallas groaned again, and pulled her back into his arms. Without conscious thought Justina’s arms wound around his neck, and they kissed with such passion, such longing that neither of them heard the man approaching until it was too late.

“Justina! What in the name of Jupiter are you doing, girl?” The booming voice directly behind her registered immediately, but before she could react, she was wrenched unceremoniously away from Marsallas with such force that she gasped in pain.

“Father!” Justina moaned, staring up in disbelief at the angry man who loomed over her, and Marsallas, his hand clamped like a vice around the softness of her upper arm as he pulled her away from Marsallas.

“But I don’t understand, father? Where are we going?” Justina cried, moments later as her father dragged her away from Marsallas. She saw through pain filled eyes that Marsallas was being restrained by a giant of a man - a slave most probably - as he tried to wrestle free from his grip and come to her defence.

“Marsallas!” Justina cried, seeing the desperation on his face as he struggled ineffectually to get away.

Justina was aware that she was being taken, not to their home in the centre of the town, but along a path to a large marble villa.

“Quiet girl,” her father had growled, shaking her as she struggled once again, and Justina, afraid by the anger that had consumed her father, stopped her struggling and said nothing until eventually they reached the gate of an imposing villa. As if they were expected, the gates swung open, and they were met by a silent slave who led them into the opulent villa, through magnificent high ceiling rooms, until they were finally left alone in the tablinum. Justina turned to her father, begging him for an explanation, but he had remained mute, refusing to answer her questions, his face pale and his hands shaking.

Eventually, after what had seemed like a lifetime, the door had opened, and a man of around fifty entered the room. He was tall and thin, and wore a toga of the finest linen.

Justina knew instantly who it was. Marsallas’s uncle. Quintus.

Even if Marsallas had not described him, she would have known who he was. Quintus was his uncle on his father’s side and she could see the family resemblance. Like Marsallas he had piercing blue eyes – but his were as cold as ice - and she couldn’t control the shiver of fear that went through her as he stared at her.

“Have you told her?” He asked her father, never once taking his eyes off Justina. Justina saw her father shake his head, sweat popping out on his forehead. “No.”

“Good.” Then saying nothing more, Quintus arranged his toga before he sat down on one of the luxuriously covered chairs. Taking some grapes from a golden platter, he waved his hand for them both to sit down.

Justina’s father sat down heavily in another chair, and Justina realising that she didn’t have much choice, slowly sat down next to him.

“I can see why my nephew is besotted with you. You are very beautiful. Come over here and sit beside me.”

Justina blanched at his words, and looked across at her father, “Father, please-”

“Cease!” Quintus shouted at her, before he swivelled his eyes to her father and bit out, “You should keep your daughter under control, man. She has too much freedom, too much tongue in her head. Now I said come over here.”

The colour drained from her face as Justina realised that her father seemed powerless to protect her, and reluctantly she rose and went over to sit next to Quintus. A shiver of revulsion coursed through her when he took her hand in his, his cold, thin fingers, rubbing the softness of her palm. Glancing over to where her father sat, Justina saw his shoulders slump in defeat, totally crushed by whatever hold this man had over him.

Once Quintus was sure that he had the upper hand once more, he continued speaking, his voice matter of fact and totally impersonal. “Your father is in a lot of trouble, Justina. He owes me a tremendous amount of money, his gambling has got out of control I’m afraid.”

At his words, Justina glanced sharply across at her father, desperate for him to deny what the older man was saying. But when she saw her father's face visibly age in front of her, she couldn't help the feeling of sickness that assailed her, “No.” She whispered, her head shaking from side to side, refusing to believe what she was hearing.

Looking up at her, his face as pale as death, her father whispered, “I am sorry child. Truly sorry.”

“But father. We can work it out. We did it before. We can do it again,” desperation edged her voice as she pleaded with him.

Quintus’s fingers dug into the softness of her skin, and Justina winched in pain, as she was forced to look back at him.

“How noble. How brave,” Quintus mocked, “But I’m afraid your father has got in too deep this time. He owes me a lot of money – money that has to be repaid now!”

“But I don’t understand-”

Quintus slammed his other fist down on a table that stood next to him, the action causing both Justina and her father to jump in fright. “I won’t tell you again, girl. You talk too much. As my mistress you will learn your place. You will learn to be seen and not heard!”

Justina took a deep shuddering breath at his words, unable for a moment to take in what he said. “Mistress?” She finally whispered, “I … I don’t understand?”

Quintus sighed dramatically, a bored look on his face. “Do I have to spell it out for you girl? I thought it would be obvious. Your father has bartered you - given you to me - to pay off his debts.”

“No! No it is impossible, I love Marsallas-”

“Marsallas!” Quintus spat, shaking her like one of the straw dolls she used to play with as a child. “I don’t think so my dear. You will be mine, not Marsallas's. And if you tell him anything of this, I will crush you and your father, and I will crush Marsallas. I will make Marsallas’s life a living death, so much so, that he will wish he is in Hades if you say one word to him of this. Do you understand me?”

Justina said nothing, her face deathly pale. She knew in that instant - that moment - as she glanced over to where her father sat, crushed and defeated, his head bent with the weight of his sorrow, that her life was about to change forever.

Looking away from her father, she saw Quintus’s lip’s curl in disgust at her father's weakness, and she shivered in trepidation as she recalled everything that Marsallas had told her about his uncle. His cruelty. His anger. His brutality. The callous way he treated everybody.

Even his only wife hadn’t escaped his tyranny. She had died a broken woman, a mere shadow of the vibrant woman she had once been according to Marsallas. And now it seemed that neither she, nor her father, would escape either.

It was, as if by some cruel twist of fate, that she had just become the main prize in some obscure contest, between uncle and nephew, and now between Quintus and her father.

And then, as if things couldn’t have gotten any worse, the door to the tablinum had flown open, and Marsallas had barged in, a furious look on his face as he took in the scene before him. It was obvious he had managed to escape from the slave, because the slave ran into the room moments later and grabbed him by his arms restraining him once more, when Marsallas had come to an abrupt halt inside the room.

“What in Jupiter’s name is going on?” he shouted, trying to wrestle out of the slave’s clutches, but his fight was futile as the slave's size and strength was so very much greater than his, and after a few moments he stopped in his attempts to free himself.

Quintus, confident now that his nephew was no threat to him, smiled over to him, “Ahh, Marsallas, I am glad you are here. You are just in time to congratulate me,” his tone was sarcastic. Then he raised his hand - the same hand that held Justina's - up in the air.

Marsallas stiffened, and his eyes narrowed when he saw their clasped hands, but refusing to be baited he remained mute.

“Nothing to say, boy? Well I’ll tell you then shall I? Justina has just agreed to be my mistress. She has been a bit remiss in not telling you what’s been going on, so I thought it was about time that you found out.”

A stunned silence fell in the room once Quintus had stopped speaking.

For what seemed like aeons, but in actuality was only seconds, Marsallas glared at his uncle before he finally broke eye contact and looked at Justina.

“Tell me it is not true, Justina?” He whispered, his eyes pleading, begging her to deny what his uncle spoke.

Justina bit back the tears that threatened to fall, when she saw the pained expression on his face, physically swallowing the lump of emotion that threatened to choke the very life out of her. Breaking eye contact with him, she turned slightly to look at Quintus, seeing in that instant the evil radiating out of him, the madness in his eyes, as he seemed to relish the misery he was inflicting on the three people in the room with him.

She knew with a certainty, that Quintus was capable of destroying them all if she didn’t acquiesce to his demands. He would crush each, and every one of them without a moment’s hesitation, if she denied anything he’d said.

So she turned, her face as pale as death, and her heart breaking into a thousand pieces, and said, “I’m sorry Marsallas. I-”

“You said you loved me Justina, only me,” he interjected, his face draining of colour as the enormity of what she was telling him sank in. And when she said nothing in her defence she saw him stiffen.

“All this time you were planning to be my uncle’s mistress?” Disgust replaced shock, and she saw his fists clench and unclench in rage, before he spat, “May you rot in Hades, Justina. I hope you remember me every night, whilst you lie on your back with your legs spread for him!”

And with that, he wrestled out of the slave’s grip, and the slave realising he was no longer a threat, had let him go

* * *

The light touch on her arm jolted her back to the present. Eyes focussing, she looked up at Diogenes, the same slave that had restrained Marsallas all those years ago on that fateful night.

“What?” Then she looked around her, surprised to see that the crowds were rapidly dispersing, the games finally over for the day. She shook her head slightly, “I'm sorry, Diogenes. I was far away.”

Then without another word, she stood up and followed the crowds out of the arena, leaving behind her past once more, her heart heavy and sad.