The chariot and horses came to a stop at the Villa Candida, so named for its vast length of whitewashed walls that stretched in a square facing the ocean. The rectangular villa itself was built within the walls on a rise so that the inhabitants could see the sea from the portico. The center courtyard of the villa held an immaculately kept garden, filled with rare flowers and fruit trees imported from Egypt and Rome, and three large fountains.

The villa was huge, luxurious even by Roman standards. It had under-floor heating vents where hot air from a furnace was kept circulating by slaves who labored day and night, from fall to spring, by constantly feeding wood to the fires. Running water was piped in from a stream, channeled down from the hills through a miniature aqueduct into three large baths, each with colorful mosaic floors. Two of the bath’s floors featured marine scenes of tritons, mermaids, and the god Neptune; one showed a circle of bathing beauties in tiny bathing suits surrounded by dolphins.

The caldarium and tepidarium faced the afternoon sun to help keep the waters warm through the night. The frigidarium was in full shade by noon. A laconium was used to sweat out illnesses and for pleasure, and the palaestra allowed Decimus to keep in shape by providing a space to throw the discus and lift weights.

Five bedrooms, a huge formal dining room, a kitchen, and a temple formed the main living area within the villa. Each bedroom was equipped with its own marble latrine, beneath which a constant flow of cold water carried wastes to the sea through a ceramic pipe.

Within the walls was a smaller villa, the Villa Rustica, which housed slaves; horses; a hospital; a storeroom for amphorae of oil, wine, olives, and grain; a laundry; and a prison. It had a barn for goats and chickens and another detached outbuilding that was a staff kitchen.

Decimus had established a flourishing side business shipping slaves to Hispania Baetica and bringing back olive oil, which he then sold to the Roman troops in Germania for a fabulous profit. The prison in the Villa Rustica often held the slaves until they numbered enough to fill a ship.

Lucius stared in disbelief as they waited for the large oaken gates to swing open.

“You’d better shut your trap before the flies get in,” said one of the horsemen. The others snickered. They took Lucius for an ignorant country boy and thought he would make a fine toy for their lady.

The chariot stopped before the portico of the Villa Candida and deposited its mistress onto a mosaic that depicted a black puppy barking against a white background. “Cave Canum” was written in black tiles across the top of the mosaic. This deposition was immediately followed by a swarm of yapping and barking fluffballs, who assaulted their mistress with delirious joy. None was bigger than a rabbit.

“Ferox, Lupa, Theron, Tigris! Down!” Flavia screamed, until a slave ran up to relieve her of the maelstrom.

She did not have to issue orders; this was a well-rehearsed routine. Lucius was shoved to the ground in front of the door and left there, wondering what was expected of him, until a slave finally approached and took him by the elbow, saying, “Come this way; you will want a bath,” in a tone that did not invite contradiction.

Lucius was led to a small chamber beside the baths and ordered to remove his clothes. The house slave took them away, clearly disgusted and holding the reeking toga at arm’s length as he bore it to the rubbish fire. Another slave handed him a soft woolen towel and a pair of leather sandals.

“Do you wish to start with the caldarium or with the tepidarium?” the second slave inquired. His mouth was slightly pursed, and he looked to the side of Lucius, not at him.

Lucius, offered no indication, tried, “I’ll do whatever is usual.”

He was led to the caldarium, where Flavia was immersed, clothed only in her flowing red hair. Lounging serenely against a wall and clutching a glass of cold honey-wine, she purred, “Come on in, the water is delicious.” Her eyes were hungry.

He clutched the towel around his middle. It was clear that the woman thought herself irresistible, but to Lucius her nakedness was shocking, brazen. She looked exactly like the demons that he had heard about in the schola at Inissi Leuca. His eyes found the floor; he could not bear to look directly at her.

“Have you never had a hot bath? It won’t hurt. Afterwards I will rub oil onto your sunburn. Tsk! Those poor hands! Let me see them.” She put down the glass and glided over, took one of his hands, and pulled him into the pool. Once he was in, she stood very close to him and held his hand to her mouth, kissing the palm.

“Do you feel better now?” she asked, batting her eyes slightly.

“No! Yes!” he stammered, sidling back towards the steps.

She watched his hesitation, his confusion. “There’s no hurry,” she said silkily. “I’ll stay here. Lower yourself into the water.” She nodded at him.

Lucius felt wary, put off by such flagrant lewdness, but he gradually let himself sink into the warm water, feeling it envelop his sore muscles and aching limbs. The water was like drifting into dream without sleep. He let out a long sigh and a small moan.

She half-closed her eyes and watched him get lost in the feeling, leaning against the marble wall and letting her legs float loosely beneath her.

Lucius sank deeper, closed his eyes, and let the water rise over his chest, his shoulders. He lifted his feet, tilted his head back, and let the water hold him. It was like nothing he had ever known. The cold waters of the ocean and of the streams where he had washed and swum were like playful slaps. This was like swimming in hot tea.

She giggled, and he stood up with a splash. Her eyes pinned him, and all the comfort was gone. He stood half out of the water like a rabbit caught in a clearing.

“Go,” she said, somewhat sternly. “You have soaked long enough.”

As he climbed out of the pool, she admired the smooth, taut skin of his buttocks as he walked towards the dressing room. She ran her eyes appraisingly over the length of his legs, the shape of his arms.

That evening, after Lucius was massaged, oiled, and dressed in a snowy white toga, he was led into the dining room, where Flavia reclined on a red couch. He had never seen anything like it; all the furniture in the room was gilded with gold leaf, and twenty fat candles flickered at once.

He sat where she indicated on the adjacent couch, and she took his hand and gently caressed it.

“Where are you from?” she purred.

Her breasts were near fully exposed by the low-cut gown she was wearing, and Lucius was becoming flushed with embarrassment—and, he was ashamed to realize, an unwelcome desire.

“I am Galli, from Inissi Leuca. I was taken by mistake. I am not a slave!”

“No?” She gave a little laugh and smiled. “That’s a mistake I’m glad someone made.”

“I am a Christian brother. I can read and write.”

“Ah, a philosopher. A learned man. There are many things I would like you to teach me. Shall I tell you about the god I adore?”

“Which god is that?” he asked, his voice suddenly high pitched.

“Pan. Do you know him?”

“No, lady. I know only my one god.”

“One god is not enough.” She drew her finger along the line of his jaw. “Not for all the pleasures that we can have. Pan is my favorite god; he is the Greek god of orgies. He can split himself into multiple bodies to ravish many maidens all at once! He gives lovers their fire and their strength.” Her eyes glowed.

Lucius pushed her hand from his face. “I am a man of God,” he said.

Flavia sat up on the couch and studied his face. She could not tell if he was truly ignorant or if he was just playing a coy game, prolonging the act of pleasing her. She was intrigued. “Come,” she commanded abruptly. “Let us eat.”

As the night wore on, there were salads, fish, game, figs, and sweets. For Lucius, the sheer volume of food was overwhelming, an overload of the senses. While Flavia was far more interested in the man before her than any food, she let Lucius ply her with questions. She patiently told him the names and natures of the local gods and of the gods and goddesses that protected the door and the threshold. Finally, he asked for the full history of the vestal virgins. Now we are getting somewhere, she thought and rose to demonstrate a ritual in the hearth.

“I honor the vestals as I must, as all good Romans do, but my favorite goddess is Venus-Aphrodite.”

She reached for a box on a low table near to the fire that was covered in red satin, opened it, and took out a handful of dried red rose petals that were heavily scented with rose oil. She held them briefly in her hands before dropping them slowly onto the flames. As the petals turned to black embers and smoke, she spoke an invocation:

“Golden Aphrodite, born of the sea,

You who travel with grey wolves

And bright-eyed lions,

You who travel with the swift roe-deer

And make them to lie down

Two by two in shady glens,

Bring to me that which I desire …”

Lucius thought with a pang of Aurelia, and of her grace and charm that had so easily enticed him. He recalled that when he was near her, when he touched her, it was as if he were melting into a second self, a magical extension of his own form. He recalled her laughter and the simple joy of being with her family.

This woman was completely different. Where Aurelia was gentle and self-effacing, respectful of his wants, this woman was simply obscene. He wanted no part of her. His mind raced to think of ways to thwart her plans.

As she turned to approach the couch and before she could straddle his lap as she clearly intended, he asked yet another intellectual question to throw off her plans. “Please explain to me the concept of the numen. Christians teach that God lies outside of creation, in heaven. But your religion posits that all things are inhabited by a divine essence. Can you illuminate this idea?”

“What?” She leaned away from him, incredulous.

“The numen. If all things contain the divine essence, then are all creatures equal? Are crickets and birds equal to men? Are slaves the equals of a lady such as yourself?”

Flavia searched his face for insult, for a sign that he was mocking her, but she saw none. “Oh,” she said, a sudden realization coming over her. “You prefer men, or is it boys?”

Lucius shook his head, confused.

“I can watch,” she offered. “We don’t need to be alone.”

“No, I’m not … that’s not … I mean, I can’t … ”

“Not? Can’t?” She reached between his legs and stroked him. His revulsion overrode everything; his body did not react.

She slapped his face hard. She slapped it again. “Eunuch!” she screamed. “How dare you insult me?” She hit at him again and again. “Get out! Get out!”

Lucius fled. A goblet landed on the tiles behind him, and then a plate smashed into the wall near his head. He found the door and ran right into the chest of a burly guard. “Take him to the storerooms!” came Flavia’s order through the doorway.

He was unceremoniously ushered into a storage chamber in the Villa Rustica to spend the night. He pushed together a few grain sacks to make a bed and fell into a fitful sleep.

The slaves had never seen a man refuse their mistress, and they were amused.

“Hah!” said the chef, an educated Greek. “Lady Flavia likes to say her slaves are nothing but ‘vocal agricultural implements.’ I wonder what she’ll call this one!”

The next morning, a slave appeared in the storeroom, sent by the cook to collect an amphora of olive oil. Seeing that Lucius was awake, the man first made sure he had his attention and then tentatively drew a design on the dirt floor with his foot.

Lucius watched silently, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

The man found a broom propped against the wall and turned it upside down, using the point of the handle to more clearly inscribe the message. It was a fish. The man looked at Lucius to see if he understood, then pointed from the fish to Lucius. At first, Lucius was puzzled, but suddenly comprehension came. “Oh!” said Lucius. “Yes, I too am a Christian.” He nodded his head vigorously.

“I thought so,” said the man, relief showing on his face. To reveal that one was a Christian in a Pagan Roman house could mean a sentence of death, as he knew from bitter experience. He had lost family members to the circuses.

“No one has ever refused the Lady Flavia. You faced a lioness!”

“Can you help me?” Lucius asked. “I need to get out of here!”

“Yes, I think I can, if you can but wait until nightfall.”

Flavia did not send for Lucius that day, nor did she send him food or drink. For her, he no longer existed.

The slave who was named Asbolos because his job was to keep the furnace going and so he was perpetually covered with soot brought bread and water from his own ration. That night, he unlocked the storeroom and urged Lucius to follow him outside.

“I have a cart to carry rubbish outside the gates from time to time. Get under the trash sacks, and I will wheel you out to the hills beyond the outer wall,” he whispered.

“Thanks be to God for your kindness,” Lucius responded.

In the dark of the moonless night, Asbolos wheeled Lucius out of the gates and down the hill. Once freed from the villa, Lucius made for the shoreline and swam a short distance out to sea, to avoid the guards. He planned to come ashore only when he reached the spot where the little curach lay hidden in the rocks around the bend, just past the boat builders’ beach, not far from the villa.