V.
THIS DAY WAS MY birthday.
Gazing into the polished bronze of the mirror, I pulled a comb through my hair. As of this day, I had eighteen winters. Tonight, ostensibly for me, my father would hold spectacle and celebration, a gathering of the society my father and mother courted and sought to rule. The event would provide exotic food and decadent wine to quench hunger and thirst, entertain the masses with fire-dancers and sword-swallowers, and displayed would be the gladiators of my father's ludus, with focus on the most prized of his possessions, the god-like Crassus. Amongst this marvel of celebration, I would be lost and for that, I felt much gratitude. I was not at ease in social gatherings.
The blurry image of Rachael appeared in the bronze, holding a new tunic my mother insisted I wear. “Hold your arms, domina.”
Obedient, I held my arms for her to fashion the tunic around me. The passing of the year also added a year to my tutelage of Marcus. Still we met, though it curious we yet did. My father on occasion asked of the lessons but he did not check weekly as he used to. My mother had not again raised her views on my tutelage, had not again taunted me with my interest in a slave. Though it odd we still met, I counted myself blessed and did not question. I should not like it if Marcus was taken from me.
Rachael fussed about, securing the brooch at my shoulder, smoothing the lines of the tunic. I watched her at her work, this other slave in my affections. “Rachael, how long have you been with me?”
She exhaled. “Forever and a day it feels like. On this, the eighteenth anniversary of your birth, I find it time to reflect back upon all the years in service to you, and the hardships and trials you have caused me. Why, what was I but a young girl, not much older than a babe herself, when I was handed this red, squalling thing and told to attend it.” She shuddered.
Amusement took me. Rachael was a queen at over-exaggeration. “You poor creature. However did you cope?”
“Not well, domina, although it is of much pride to me I did not drop you on your head above seven times in those first few days.”
I nodded. “That does explain the double vision I sometimes suffer.”
She grinned. “And the hardness of your head.” Making a final adjustment to my tunic, she nodded to herself and stepped back. “Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity, I suppose. I can not remember a time without you.”
“And I cannot without you.” She smiled, rueful this time. “In truth, I cannot imagine a better mistress. Or one more lax.”
“Yes. This should be brought to remedy.” I pretended to consider the notion.
Rachael laughed and enveloped me in her embrace.
Squeaking, I fought for breath. Rachael's affection was on occasion too exuberant but then, Rachael had been expending her emotion on another of late.
“How is your market man?”
“Jacob?” His name brought luminescence to Rachael's features. “He is well. Very well. Just yesterday he gave demonstration of how well he is.”
“Rachael!” A furious heat filled my cheeks. “Do not say you…”
Rachael watched me, a grin on her face. “Yes?”
My face heated. “You will not make me say it, will you?”
“Well, as it is your birthday, I shall not.” She moved to stand behind me and, appropriating the comb, took to styling my hair. “I enjoy his company, and that is all I shall say.”
“It has never stopped you before,” I mumbled and then shrieked when she tugged on my hair.
“Apologies, domina. A tangle.” She set to combing. “And what of you? How is your gladiator?”
My brow creased. “Surely you see him, Rachael. You can observe for yourself how he is. And did he not fight yesterday afternoon? Most certain you would have more knowledge of him than me.”
The comb stopped. “Why is it your father does not allow you at the games? It makes no sense. You are a woman grown, and should be allowed such things.”
I shrugged. “Do you see your Jacob this day?”
Rachael fastened my hair back. “Not today. Maybe tomorrow, if we both can arrange it.”
“And will you not marry with your Jacob?”
Her smile dimmed. “Domina, you know I will not. You must know why.”
My breath exploded. “It is ridiculous, these distinctions. You should not be kept from marriage just because you are enslaved. I shall petition my father and he will allow you to marry.”
Alarm drew Rachael's features. “Do not, domina. It is not you who will be punished.”
I stared at her helplessly. “I wish I could help you.”
“I know. It is why I cannot imagine a better mistress.” Running her hand over my hair, I felt both her sorrow and her affection. Clearing her throat, she offered a smile. “Do you meet your gladiator today?”
Changing the subject was most probable wise. “I do. Soon.”
Her expression turned sly. “Maybe you should kiss him.”
Shock rendered me mute. I…he…how could Rachael suggest such a thing? Finally, I managed to say, “I could not.”
“Of a certain you could. He would offer good practice, and all fine ladies seek their practice. You do not wish to go to marriage ignorant. Grab him, and lay your lips upon his. It is easy. Only see.” She grabbed me.
“Do not!” I said, laughing as I batted her pretend efforts away and glad the shocking suggestion had such a humorous outcome.
She laid a loud, smacking kiss on my temple. “There. Now you have your birthday kiss.” She let me go and stepped back, casting me with a critical eye. “And now you are garbed as befits a domina. I feel safe to send you to the world.”
I bowed low in curtsey. “I thank you, kind lady.”
Rachael snorted. “And now I must be about my duties. I have other tasks to attend and cannot fritter my time away.”
I flashed her a grin and Rachael flounced from the room.
With her leave-taking, my smile died. A kiss. So easy and free Rachael had suggested it and in truth it was such a small thing, bestowed often between family, friends.
I could not stop the desire for it to be more.
Making my way to my desk, I seated myself and stared at the scrolls. Long had I harboured these feelings and they had grown worse over time. Marcus now came to my chamber twice weekly instead of every day and I found myself impatient for the time when I would see him again, when again he would gift me his almost-smile and his consideration.
But I should not feel such things. He was not mine.
As I promised, Marcus again saw his love. Enslaved as he had said in the domus of the Praetor, no one noticed the movements of an inconsequential kitchen slave and thus I arranged her passage to my domus. To Marcus. It had been easy, when all was said and done. Much can be achieved with a forthright manner and a sense of imperiousness and so for Marcus I obscured and confused, deceived and misdirected. Thus, once weekly Rachael collected Marcus's love from the Praetor's kitchens and brought her to my chamber. There, Marcus and she revelled in their reunion and the subterfuge was worth my effort when I saw them together, when Marcus's joy at the reunion was clearly displayed.
Beside the joy it brought him, I had another reason to join him with his love. Though it shamed me, I watched their tender reunions, their tears of joy in the other.
I watched as they fucked.
It was wrong and it was bad but I could not stop myself. Each time, I brought truth to my mother's words but I could not turn my head, could not force myself away.
Always he would begin with his hand against her cheek, with smoothing her hair from her face. Watching, miserably aware I should not, I felt that tender touch as if it were against my own skin, and with the feel of this phantom my flesh yearned to be his. He would then take her to the bed and lay her down, her naked body spread as if a feast and with no concern for the passing of their stolen time, he would kiss every part of her, making her moan and sigh and breathe his name.
When he entered her, they would both gasp and I would too, hidden by shadow and cloth, more than aware of the wrongness of my actions but unable to look away. Gentle he would move in her, sliding in, gliding out, until they both cried their pleasure.
Sometimes, it was less gentle. Sometimes, he would fuck her against a wall, his large form dwarfing her as he slammed into her from behind. Magnificent and fierce, their passion held desperation and despair, the pain of separation. I hated it and I loved it and I could not tear from them my gaze, my breath strangled as I watched.
His buttocks would flex and his back would twist with the force of his thrusts, a beautiful male animal intent on his mate. I ached to feel him pressed against me, those long, lean muscles flexing against my back as he moved inside me, making me moan and sigh and breathe his name.
I made myself spend watching them, my lip caught between my teeth to prevent the call of his name. Each time I told myself it would be the last. Never again would I invade their love, never again would I soil it with my eyes.
And yet, every time, I watched.
I envied her so much, his love, but never would it be me. He loved her, not me. He pined for her. Never me.
I was a noble’s daughter. He was a slave. And yet, I could not help myself. I watched...and I wanted.
“What are you thinking of so hard?”
Marcus. Marcus! Frantic, I sat straighter and hoped none of my thoughts showed in my expression.
Amusement shaped his features as he looked down at me. “It must be deep thought, for you did not hear me enter, did you?”
Shuffling parchment on my desk, I avoided his direct gaze. “Maybe not, but that could be because you have grown too light on your feet.”
“Ah. Yes, that is certain what has happened.” A shadow crossed his face and, bringing his hand to the bandage slung across his chest, he winced.
“Marcus?” Concern turned my emotion. Often Marcus came with the marks of his profession but he never had he swayed on his feet, never had he been quite as pale.
“It is nothing, domina.” He had not yet completed the appellation when he collapsed.
Bolting from my seat, I caught him before he fell and under his weight I staggered but concern gave me strength to force him to his chair.
As if to right himself, he pushed against my shoulder. “Lucia, you should not have to do this—”
“Quiet.” Easily I dismissed his words. “Do not be a fool, Marcus. You are hurt.”
Half-hearted he twisted from my hands as I examined his wound. “It is not bad, Lucia.”
Grabbing his shoulders, I forced him still. “Let me see.” I refused to cow before his pale gaze and finally he relented, his arms returning lax to his side. Allowed to proceed in peace, I peeled back the bandage.
Oh. Oh, Marcus.
A long, deep gash marred his chest, encrusted both with fresh and dried blood. Bruising mottled the gash, turning purple and yellow and green in places. It looked angry and raw and I could not begin to imagine the pain it surely caused him.
“Marcus, what have you—” My voice broke.
Setting his jaw, Marcus shrugged. “Do not fear so, domina. Worse has been dealt me.”
Biting my lip, I nodded, though it did not escape my notice that his nonchalant shrug had caused him to wince. “Did not the medicus attend you?”
Marcus shrugged again and this time he did not wince, though his lips whitened. “You see before you his work.”
Staring at his wound, I steeled myself. This concern did not help his pain. Gathering clean cloth I found in a drawer and the bowl of water always left in my chamber to wash the ink from my hands, I resettled before him and set to my task.
Gently, I cleaned his wound. “Did you do this at the games?”
“It was the Gaul. Fortune gifted him an unlikely strike.” He hissed.
“Apologies,” I murmured. His wound was not as bad as I supposed, the blood and stained bandage making it appear more terrible than it actually was.
This was not the first wound Marcus had brought to my chamber but it was the worst. Much had happened in the six months since his re-introduction to the arena. He had become champion, the gladiator primus of my father's ludus. Often was heard Crassus's name, shouted in the street, whispered in the shadows, and all seemed in lust with this new god of the games. The crowd brought him fame and that fame brought him a degree of power. Whispers had come to me he received favours in the barracks, the choicest food, the best training. It was even said he was offered the best whores but he abstained in loyalty to his love.
My hand slipped. Quick and with purpose, I focused on my task.
It was said a gladiator's wounds were a mark of his success, if, of course, he survived them. I had seen Marcus with bruises and gashes, broken bones and twisted muscles. This wound was no different from the rest. It would heal, and was not as serious as I had first thought. With careful tending, he would make a full recovery and then he would step to the arena to be dealt another blow. And another. And then yet another.
“Lucia.”
I looked up.
His gaze captured mine. “Lucia, I am well.”
Dropping my eyes, I busied myself with his wound. “I know.”
“This is as nothing. I have suffered much worse than this. You have no cause for concern.”
“Marcus, I know. Truly, I do.” Giving him the best smile I could muster, I met his eyes. “Though it kind, I do not require your reassurance.”
“But you have it.” Pale blue held me once more. “You always will.”
My heart turned in my chest. He looked at me as if…as if…
As if what, Lucia? What do you imagine? Marcus had a love, a life he longed for. He would not look at me with anything other than mild affection.
Returning my attention to his wound, I pushed aside such fancies.
It remained quiet between us. His muscles jumped as I skirted too close to his wound but in no other way did he indicate discomfort. I wished I could think of aught to say, some way to restore easy camaraderie between us, but my emotion was too close to the surface, too eager to turn scraps into a feast.
His chest rose and fell, my fingers rising and falling with his breath. “Your birthday gathering is tonight.”
I did not question this change of topic. “Yes.”
“You do not seem excited.”
“That is because I am not.” Tying off the bandage, I pinned him with a hard look. “Do not move unnecessarily, else you will open the wound once more.”
Hand cupped protectively over his wound, he shifted his seat. “You are not excited? It is your birthday.”
Casting him with a critical eye, I noted his movement appeared to cause no further injury. “My birthday, yes. This does not mean it is mine to celebrate.”
Marcus's brows drew together.
I sighed. “Both my father and my mother have invited all of their acquaintance. There shall be spectacle and drama. You should know, there will be gladiators displayed aplenty. Surely you have been pressed to serve.”
“Yes.” He held his wound as he shifted once more. “But I do not mind, as it is for you.”
Startled, my gaze flew to him. He had not noticed, shifting again to find a comfortable position.
“I wish it was I had a gift for you,” he continued. “Alas, all I can offer is my presence at your celebration and even then, it is forced. However, know when you look at me I will be undertaking my best to give you the birthday you wish.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “For you, I will even be hospitable to all who come.”
Wordless, I stared at him. For me he would do such? He would play the part assigned him and make not a word of comment, give not an inkling it did not sit well?
His almost-smile teased his mouth and again I imagined I saw…
You see nothing, Lucia. Naught.
Hands clenched, I turned from him. I could not do this. I could not continue to think so. He was not for me. “I have arranged another visit.”
No response. My hands tightened as the silence elongated. Then, “Niobe is to come again?”
“Yes.” Forcing a smile, I turned back. “On the morrow. Do not tell me you do not wish to see her.”
No return smile greeted me. “Of course not, it is only…” He did not continue. Instead, he stared at me, and under his gaze I grew restless.
Finally, I asked, “Only what?”
“Nothing. It is nothing.” Exhaling, he rubbed at the skin surrounding his wound. “So, Niobe is to come.”
I nodded.
“Much gratitude, domina,” he said, almost formal. “I know you risk much for us to meet.”
Again I nodded. It seemed words escaped me at the present.
Abrupt, the formality in his expression ceased. “Lucia. Know I appreciate all you do. You are— I could not—” His hand clenched to a fist on the desk, frustration drew his features. “I have not the words.”
I did not know precise what he wished to say, but I knew his intent. I placed my hand over his.
His startled gaze flew to mine. What did he have to be…oh. Oh.
Never before had we touched.
True, I had dressed his wounds yet never before had affection guided my touch. I made to move but he captured my hand before I could, lacing his fingers with mine. Gently, his thumb rubbed my palm and I lost myself in eyes of pale blue, in the rhythmic stroke of his thumb, in the closeness of his body to mine, in the fancies of a life shared with him.
No. I jerked my hands from his.
His expression never changed but at the loss, his fingers curled.
I struggled to take breath, to return my heart to a normal rhythm. I could not do this. I could not.
I heard him exhale. “So I will see Niobe tomorrow?”
Staring down at my hands, my vision blurred. “Yes.”
“And you?”
Confusion forced me to regard him.
He looked at me as if he had never looked away. “I will see you tomorrow?” he clarified.
Infinitesimal, I squared my shoulders. I could pretend I was brave and unaffected. “Should you wish it.”
“I do.”
In service to my pretence, I offered a smile. “Then you shall see me also.”
Crossing his arms, he nodded. Looking to the parchments, I determined to make a truth of my disaffection. I had to master control of these feelings. I would not lose him because of ill-advised emotion.
I heard him shift in his seat, saw him wince as the move pulled at his wound. I did not offer my care, and he did not ask for it. Instead, we settled to safer topics, to discussion of Mercury and Apollo. We settled to the rhythm of our acquaintance, and I pretended I was not in love with him.