VII.

 

 

I WAS MARRIED.

The revels of my wedding celebration whirled about me, a cacophony of sound and sight and colour. Taking a draught of wine, I watched as those guests around me laughed and gossiped, as they consumed the food and wine my father had provided, as they delighted in every decadence my mother had brought to bear.

Much had been accomplished in the three weeks since my father had told me of the betrothal, culminating in tonight's revels. None had commented on the haste of the event, at least none had to me. Most had offered me genuine-sounding congratulations and I had accepted them as best I could, attempting a smile even as I knew it must appear a grimace.

My new husband…I took another draught of wine. My husband had spent most of the celebration in conference with my father, and I knew not of what they spoke. I found I did not much care. Let them spend the entire night in discussion, though at some stage I would be called to go with him.

I took yet another draught of wine.

I had first met the man who was to become my husband two days after my betrothal. He was older than I, and I knew him not at all. At first, I had no notion of why my father had tied me to this man. If Rachael had still been in service to me… I swallowed. If Rachael had still been in my service, I would have known within the hour. As it was, I had discovered it a day later. My new husband had wealth. Extensive, exorbitant wealth.

I stared into my goblet. Rachael. Preparing for the wedding had brought me attention, such that I could not search for her without notice. I had tried, but my every attempt had been foiled by too many eyes upon me, servants and slaves and my mother as they scrambled to bring a wedding to bear. Thus, I became disheartened and I had no Marcus to urge me continue.

Marcus.

I swallowed, ignored the burn in my eyes. I had not seen Marcus for three weeks. Three weeks. The longest I had ever been without him previous had been three days. Often I found myself wishing to speak with him, to pour my concerns and frustrations upon him and hear his opinion and his comfort. It was such that I felt lost without him, without his almost-smile and his jests and the way he would look at me as if he had care for my words.

Turning contemplation from my goblet, I searched across the revels and found what I sought. Across the room, clothed in gold mask and fine loincloth and made to be Crassus, Marcus watched me.

Other gladiators stood silent around him, clothed in steel and silver and all in accompaniment to the most prestigious of my father's stable. The guests exclaimed over Marcus's presence, made wagers on his prowess, touched him and prodded him, and I wanted to kill each of them for these transgressions.

He ignored all, though, and his gaze never left me.

I looked back to my goblet. I could not give him trouble. Such folly for him to stare, to display our inappropriate connection. If anyone noticed, if any commented, he could be made to suffer. With the morning, though, I would be far away, installed in my new husband's domus. Who then would care of the connection between a studious girl and a slave?

Even as I attempted not to, my gaze returned to him time and again. Still he stared at me, the impassivity of the golden mask reminding of when first we met. He had been impassive then, with his own features made into a mask. I wanted to go to him, to rip the mask from his face and gaze once again upon his countenance. Wanted to kiss him, touch him, and I wished I had spent our time together differently. Wished I had the courage to declare to him all I felt. Most of all, I wished for a different life. One where he was free, and he loved me.

“Lucia, my love. You have made us proud this day.” My mother came to stand beside me, her own goblet full with wine.

Removing my gaze from Marcus, I glanced at her. “I am much pleased it should be so, Mother.”

“Yes, I can tell such from your tone.” She sighed. “At least try to look happy, Lucia. You will put all to mope who encounter you.”

“Yes, Mother.” I forced what felt to be a smile.

My mother frowned. “Maybe it is you should not attempt such.”

Given permission, I dropped all expression.

“So, Lucia, what think you of your new husband?” My mother smiled as some acquaintance passed us by.

“I know not what to think, Mother. I do not believe I have spoken to him above four times.”

“Ah, well, it may be that is for the best. You will come to know him soon enough,” she said. “Lucia, does your slave realise the trouble he causes by staring across the room at you?”

Panic set my heart to pound. “He is not staring. He is only standing as he should, with gaze forward.”

My mother tutted. “Lucia, that was not the correct response. You must remember, from this moment, to answer ‘what slave?’”

Uncertain, I regarded her. “What slave?”

A rueful smile quirked her lips. “Very good, my love.” Her gaze slid past me. “Ah, look who arrives.”

I turned and found my new husband approached. Odd. I could not recall his name.

He arrived at our side and bowed low over my mother's hand. “A fine celebration, one for which I offer much gratitude. But now, I wish to claim my wife, if it is agreeable to you, lady.”

“Of course. She is now yours.” My mother stroked my cheek. “You have done well, Lucia.”

Troubled, I looked into her eyes. She only offered a smile as my husband's hand took mine, as he led me from her.

Docile, I followed as my husband negotiated the throng and I dared not look up, dared not meet Marcus's eyes as he surely watched our progress through the room.

There was nothing to be done. I was married.

 

***

 

MY HUSBAND GRUNTED ATOP me. He had torn through my virginity, had caused me pain and discomfort with no preparation, no kiss, none of the caresses I had seen Marcus give his love or the ones I had given myself.

My husband thrust into me, grunted, and then thrust again. He was taking forever.

I stared at the ceiling. He had brought me here to this chamber with no explanation, had closed the door behind him and then turned to me. Hesitant, I stood awkward in the centre of the chamber, watching as he watched me, his consideration bringing nerves to dance beneath my skin.

Then, he had bade me disrobe.

My hands trembled as I had undone the brooch at my shoulder, as I unwound the tunic from my body. Only Rachael had before seen me unclothed, and I struggled to resist the need to cover myself.

He had next ordered me on the bed and, as I lay back, I heard the sounds of his disrobing. My palms pressing into the bedclothes, I waited. And then, he had joined me.

My husband still had not finished. He grunted and thrust, and then his hands covered my breasts, his fingers twisting and pinching my nipples.

“I want you wet,” he said.

Shock slapped me at the sound of his voice. Acute and sudden, I felt him inside me, moving roughly through too-tender flesh, his sweat-slicked skin slapping against me. Coarse, calloused hands caught at the delicate skin of my breasts, bringing bruises to bloom. His harsh breath stirred the hair at my temple and I could see his face, his eyes, the bead of sweat winding its way down his temple—

Panic struck and I wanted to shove, I wanted to run, but I could not, he pinned me down and I could only… I could only…

Marcus. The roll of his eyes as I taught some absurd legend. The curl of his body as we hunched over a scroll. The shape of his almost-smile.

Closing my eyes, I turned my head and I pretended I was with him.

Finally, finally, my husband shuddered and spent. All was quiet for a time. Then, he disengaged and patted my head as though I were a child, grunting again before collapsing beside me.

I said nothing.

He fell asleep, his quiet breath the only sound in the room. In the distance, the revels from the wedding celebrations continued, shouts and laughter and faint strains of music.

I stared at the ceiling, my husband's seed inside me. I felt cold.

That night, I could not sleep.