Читать книгу The Roman - Caroline Storer - Страница 8

“I’m sorry, Justina. There is nothing more I can do. I've made him as comfortable as possible.” Lydia said, as Justina entered the darkened bed chamber.

Justina nodded, as she walked over to where Lydia, her friend and a well respected healer, stood. “I understand, Lydia. Thank you for all your help.”

She spoke the words softly, and Lydia smiled at her, placing a hand on the younger woman’s arm in a gesture of comfort, as Justina looked down at Quintus who lay as still as death on his large bed.

“It is the least I could do. Do you need anything? A sleeping draught or something?”

Justina shook her head, “No, I will be fine. Thank you.”

Lydia said nothing more, but squeezed the younger woman’s arm in understanding before she left the room, closing the door with a soft click behind her. The finality of it caused Justina to shiver, her eyes automatically glancing over to a table along the back wall, seeing the wax death mask displayed so prominently. It had arrived that afternoon, rather appropriately she thought, as it now acted as a constant reminder of Quintus’s imminent death.

Looking away from the mask, she stared down at Quintus. He looked so still, as if he were already dead. The sunken hollows under his razor sharp cheekbones were so pronounced that no flesh remained on his face - or the rest of his body for that matter - and the blue veins on his hands stood out in stark contrast to the whiteness of his parchment thin skin. But she saw his chest move in small shaky movement’s, testament that he still clung to life, refusing to die, refusing to succumb to the disease that had been eating away at him for months now.

Justina sighed, and turned away, looking up at the man who stood silently next to his Master. “You can leave if you want, Diogenes. There is nothing more anyone can do.”

Justina didn’t expect a reply from the slave – he was a man of few words. But he didn’t leave and Justina shivered, ever so slightly in awe of the slave, even after all these years. She remembered the first time she had seen him, the feeling of shock that had assailed her as he loomed over her, black fathomless eyes staring down at her from a body nearly seven feet in height, and this, coupled with his massive strength – his chest alone was the size of three men’s - had rendered her immobile with fright.

His skin was as dark as mahogany, and his bald oiled head complete with earring, made him look like some giant pirate, but Justina knew that he had been captured many years ago as a young boy from Syria. She couldn’t tell how old he was, he seemed ageless somehow, but she knew that he must be at least forty years old by now-

A loud groan interrupted her thoughts, and she looked down at Quintus, surprised to see that he was awake for the first time since she had come back from Rome. Justina leaned over, and laid her hand on the cold skin of his forehead. “Shh, Quintus. Rest now.”

Quintus shook his head, and lifted a finger towards Diogenes, beckoning the slave forward. Once the slave had approached, Quintus rasped, “Lift me.”

“No Quintus, you must lie still,” she implored, a frown of concern on her face.

But Quintus ignored her, waving her away, and Diogenes, as ordered by his Master, lifted the old man until he was upright, placing a silk cushion behind his back. For several moments Quintus gasped for breath, the exertion causing him serious distress.

Eventually Quintus’s breathing steadied, and once he was able to breathe normally he looked over to Diogenes. “Leave,” he ordered.

Justina watched as the slave left the room, then she tensed when she saw his gaze come to rest on hers, a hard look in them eyes. She had seen that look many times over the past six years, and knew that it boded ill. Quintus beckoned her over, and Justina not having much choice, walked over to stand by his bed. He took her hand, his bony fingers gripping the softness of hers. “Did you see him? As I ordered you too?”

Justina stiffened, before she answered, “Yes.”

“And?”

“He won’t come.”

The three words held a wealth of meaning, and Quintus cackled. “Of course he wouldn’t.” He breathed hard, before he rasped, “And how was he?”

Justina frowned, not sure what he wanted her to say. But she spoke the truth anyway. “Hard. Indomitable. Full of hate.”

A cruel smile touched his lips, “Good. It was about time he became a man instead of fawning over you. What else?”

The question was fired rapidly, and Justina flinched slightly, “He said his life in Herculaneum was over, and he had no desire to return.”

“Not even for you?”

The question caused Justina’s heart to race, and she suddenly felt faint. Lifting her chin in defiance she fixed her gaze on his, refusing to be cowed. “No. Not even for me.”

Quintus’s eyes narrowed, the blue of his eyes like shards of ice, “Are you sure of that, Justina? He couldn’t keep his hands off you when he was younger.”

Justina sucked in her breath, refusing to answer his question. Instead she asked her own, “Why are you so full of hatred, Quintus?” Her voice was low, measured, with the depth of the emotion she was feeling, “Can’t you just leave it be? You know what you did tore us apart; can never be repaired. Be content with that as you lay here on your death bed.”

And with that she turned to leave, but his words halted her, causing a trickle of fear to course through her.

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Justina. I’ve sown the seeds of hate once again,” he said cryptically.

Closing the door to Quintus’s bedroom, Justina made her way down the dark corridor, her brow furrowed as she thought of Quintus’s words. He was so bitter. So full of hatred. Even now, with his death imminent, he still festered a hatred for his nephew that defied logic.

Deep in thought, she was unprepared for the shadow that suddenly came to life from behind one of the marble columns. She stiffened, instantly on the defensive, thinking it was Secundus.

But it wasn't Secundus, and Justina she felt her heart lurch in surprise when she saw Marsallas standing there.

Had it been five whole days since she’d seen last seen him? It seemed like a lifetime ago. Her stomach muscles contracted as she took in a deep breath, watching as he came towards her, his eyes burning into hers so intensely that she didn’t know whether to run away from him, or run into his arms such were the myriad of feeling coursing through her.

She did neither. Instead she merely stood her ground. A shiver ran through her, trickling down her spine like ice cold mountain water. Eventually she found her tongue, and silently cursed the husky tone of her voice as she said, “You have come.”

The words once blurted out, now sounded stupid, and she blushed in mortification. It didn’t help when she saw Marsallas’s mouth quirk in a slight smile at her gaucheness.

"So I have.”

Those three words held a wealth of meaning, and Justina looked away as an awkward silence fell between them.

"Is Quintus in there?”

Turning her head back to him, she became aware that he had moved closer to her and her lips were now no more than a whisper away from his. Her stomach plummeted as she fought the urge to fuse her lips with his. To taste him. All of him.

“Yes,” she finally answered.

“Can I see him?”

Justina nodded. “He was still awake when I just left.” For a moment she wondered whether she should mention the conversation that had just taken place. Making up her mind quickly, she blurted out, “He wasn’t in a very good mood, I’m afraid. He was questioning me about you…”

Her words trailed off. For a long moment Marsallas said nothing, just stared down at her, his eyes expressionless. Then he walked past her and stopped in front of the door, before he turned to where Justina was still standing, “Will you come in with me?”

For a moment she hesitated, unsure. But then she saw a glimpse of uncertainty – fleeting – but none the less there – enter his eyes before it was blinked away. “Yes. Of course,” she said, making up her mind.

* * *

“Quintus? Marsallas is here,” Justina whispered, unsure whether he was asleep or not, as his eyes were now closed. For a few moments silence reigned in the room until Quintus’s eyes suddenly shot open, causing Justina to jump slightly with the unexpectedness of it. His eyes bored into hers briefly, before they swivelled to where Marsallas stood on the other side of the bed.

For an indeterminably long time both men stared at each other, each of them taking the others measure.

Considering how ill Quintus was, Justina was surprised to see anger and hatred radiating out of Quintus’s eyes, before his lips, parchment thin, curled in disgust as he looked his nephew up and down.

Eventually Quintus spoke, “Well, what a surprise. My long lost nephew returns at last.”

Justina held her breath, amazed by the vitriol she could hear in Quintus’s voice, and she glanced over to Marsallas awaiting his response.

“Uncle,” Marsallas nodded in greeting, his tone neutral. But the word held a wealth of feeling, and Justina ached with pity for him. Inwardly she was annoyed with Quintus. Hadn’t Marsallas come to see him as ordered? And now that he had, Quintus was still angry with him! It seemed that nothing Marsallas could do would ever please his uncle.