The Roman

CHAPTER TWO

Justina looked out of the window, and stared down into the crowded Forum for what must have been the hundredth time. Patricians, plebeians, merchants and slaves all going about their daily business, totally oblivious to the woman who watched them all with anxious eyes.

Would he come? The time was approaching for her and Diogenes to leave, but she wanted to wait until the last possible moment before she returned to Herculaneum, just in case he turned up.

She worried her bottom lip with small white teeth, thinking about their meeting yesterday. He had looked at her with such hatred, but then he had kissed her with such passion, and then such tenderness, that she had been overwhelmed. And when the kiss had ended, and she'd left his quarters, frustration had eaten away at her, for failing to explain anything to him. But then what had she expected? It was obvious that he still loathed the very sight of her after all these years.

Justina sighed, and moved away from the window back to the bed. She finished packing the small amount of clothes she had brought with her, the chore taking her mind off the long journey ahead of her, and the conversation she would be required to have with Quintus. She dreaded what his reaction would be, once she told him that she had failed to persuade Marsallas to return. And even though she knew he would be too weak to retaliate, Quintus still managed to cause her stomach to clench in fear. And, of course, he still had Secundus to do his bidding…

Just thinking of Quintus’s cruel, and hated, overseer caused her to shiver in repulsion. Secundus acted as Quintus's right hand man, effectively running the villa, and had done so ever since Quintus’s gradual decline in health several years ago meant he couldn't control his slaves - and her - as he used too. But Secundus was even crueller than Quintus if that were possible, and he meted out such horrific punishments on any of the slaves that incurred his wrath, that even Quintus, had on occasions, had to intervene and tell him to stop, such were the extent of their injuries.

He’d also been her nemesis these past two years, ever since he had arrived at the villa. He watched her every movement, his snake-like eyes missing nothing as they stripped her body bare, and he always seemed to be near her, waiting for any excuse to touch her. It had become so unbearable at times that she had even been forced to inform Quintus. Thankfully, Quintus had warned him off, and the touching had stopped for a while, but then slowly, insidiously, it would start all over again. And Justina knew he was only biding his time, waiting for Quintus to die, before he made his final move and took what he wanted. Her. In his bed. Justina’s lips twisted wryly as she thought of the potential danger she was in. How ironic, she thought, that for six years she’d managed to avoid Quintus’s touch, only to find herself at the mercy of his overseer.

Justina shuddered, and deliberately dismissed him from her thoughts. She needed to finish packing if she were to be ready to leave at the allotted time, and worrying about Secundus wasn’t going to solve anything. She would just have to deal with him when the time came. And she would. Because once Quintus was dead, she would be a free woman, a woman who would finally be in control of her life…and her destiny.

A few minutes later she was ready, and when she heard a knock at the door she walked over to it and opened it, assuming it would be Diogenes come to collect her. But her body froze when she saw Marsallas leaning against the door frame watching her, a brooding look on the harsh planes of his face.

For a moment she remembered the young man of her youth, and mourned his demise, for the man standing across the room from her bore no resemblance to the youth she had know all those years ago. And although he had been muscular as a young man, today, as he stood there in the doorway of her room looking totally at ease, Justina had to acknowledge that he had matured into an outstanding specimen of manhood.

The life as a charioteer demanded peak physical fitness, and Justina had to acknowledge that he looked every inch the superb athlete that he must be. And he looked totally at ease in his skin, as if he knew exactly what effect he had on women.

Unbidden, he came slowly into the room, smiling a wolf’s smile, and Justina blushed at having been caught staring at him again. He lifted his arms in a gesture of supplication, the action faintly mocking, as his blue gaze fixed on hers with such intensity that it caused Justina’s stomach to clench partly in fear, and partly in response to the sheer masculinity he exuded.

"So here I am. What was so important that you had to travel to Rome to see me?”

Justina swallowed, her nerves on edge, as he came further into the room, his muscular presence instantly shrinking the room. She felt her breath catch as he came closer, standing no more than three feet away from her. The harsh lines of his face had been carved out by his life in the Circus. But he was also ruggedly handsome, and just looking at him caused her heart to beat erratically even after all the years away from him.

She had the urge to move away, to put some distance between them, but didn’t want to appear a coward, so instead she lifted her chin and looked him squarely in the eyes. Her fear dissipated somewhat, when she saw with some surprise, that he looked ill. His skin was a sallow yellow colour, his eyes bloodshot, and she could see sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip. Concern overcame fear, and she ignored his question. Instead she asked, “Are you ill?”

She saw him raise an eyebrow, and a small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

"Your concern is touching, Justina. No, I am not ill, just recovering from the excesses of last night, if you know what I mean. Life as one of Rome’s great charioteers, is just one long endless party.”

Justina blushed at the sarcastic tone of his voice, and she turned away, annoyed with herself for showing concern for him. She should have realised that he would turn it against her.

After a tense silence had fallen in the room, she turned back to him and saw him watching her through narrowed eyes. He was obviously still waiting for an answer as to why she had come to see him, so taking a deep breath she said in a measured tone, “Your uncle is dying. I’ve come to Rome to ask you to return to Herculaneum. To…to come home.”

Another long silence descended in the room until Marsallas barked, “Home! Since when has that mausoleum ever been a home? No, I don’t think so Justina. You can tell my uncle that I am far too busy here in Rome!”

Justina said nothing. She didn’t argue with him, or try to persuade him as she knew it would be futile. She had, at least, carried out the order she had been given, and could now return to Herculaneum knowing that she had spoken with him. If she was honest with herself, she agreed with Marsallas. In all the years she had lived in the vast villa, she had never felt comfortable living there, and she had prayed every day for the opportunity to be presented to her so she could leave the cold austere place.

“Tell me one thing though, Justina.” Marsallas asked, breaking into her thoughts, “Did my uncle ask, or order you to come here?”

Justina looked up at him, guilt stealing over her, as hot colour stained her cheeks at his question. The unspoken reaction was answer enough for Marsallas, and he laughed, the sound harsh and guttural in the silence of the room. “Just as I thought,” he said, his mouth twisting in derision. “No, I will not come back to Herculaneum, Justina. My life there is over, you can tell my uncle that. It was over the day he bedded you!”

She stiffened at the harshness of his words, but said nothing, watching as he walked back towards the door, and back out of her life once more. But then he stopped abruptly, as if he had suddenly remembered something, before he turned and walked back to where she stood. She had to resist the urge to flee when she saw the intense look on his face as he came towards her. But she stood her ground, willing her body to remain calm. But when he came to within touching distance of her she was potently aware of his raw sexuality. Her skin prickled in awareness, and she swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. She could well imagine the women of Rome wanting him in their beds.

“I almost forgot,” he murmured softly, lifting up her chin with firm fingers, and Justina not having any choice, looked up into his face. She felt her eyelashes flutter slightly as her eyes clashed with his. His fingers were rough, calloused, with the hard work of his life. Then she felt his thumb skim over the fullness of her bottom lip, and she had to fight the urge to taste his skin with her tongue. She could see resistance in his eyes as he touched her, as if he were fighting his own internal battles as far as she was concerned. Then his eyes darken with suppressed passion, and before she could think, or react, he leaned forward and took her in his arms and kissed her - deeply – his lips firm and unyielding, his tongue demanding, and gaining access to the softness within.

Justina gripped his strong bare forearms, wanting to break away from the kiss, but unable to do so as a surge of desire flowed through her. She closed her eyes, caught up in the headiness of his mouth on hers. Eventually he pulled away, and Justina felt bereft that the kiss had ended so soon. But then the enormity of what had just happened hit her, and her eyes flew open.

For a heartbeat neither of them moved, but then Marsallas broke the spell between them, his lip twisting in derision. He cocked his head and clicked his tongue, in what was obviously a false gesture of regret, before asking in a mocking tone, “Tell me, do I kiss better than Quintus?”

Justina gasped in horror at his words, and before she could think, she slapped him across the face. Hard.

For a moment she couldn’t believe she’d hit him, and she stood open mouthed with shock at her audacity. She watched as a large red mark appeared on his cheek, before stepping backwards in an involuntary movement when she saw his eyes narrow in anger.

“Witch,” Marsallas hissed, a nerve ticking furiously along his clenched jaw line. For a moment Justina thought he might retaliate, but he didn't. Instead, he turned and strode out of the room without a backward glance, the door slamming shut behind him.

* * *

Diogenes came into the room a short while later. Justina was sitting on the bed deep in thought. She looked up at the silent man; reading the question in his eyes, the concern on his face.

“I will be ready in a moment, Diogenes,” she murmured standing up. Then in a sudden surge of rebellion, against Quintus and his orders, she said, “But we are not leaving for Herculaneum just yet. I want to go to the Circus Maximus first.”

* * *

“Mar-sall-as! Mar-sall-as!” The name rang around the vast arena, bouncing off the sides in a cacophony of noise, so deafening that Justina had to put her fingers in her ears to block it out. There must have been nearly one hundred thousand people in the arena, and it seemed that all of them were chanted his name over and over again, shouting and screaming in mass hysteria, as their hero rode his victory lap. Justina, caught up in it all, watched spell-bound as her eyes followed his every move as he rode around the arena acknowledging the approval of the crowd.

He had just won his race – yet again – and had been “crowned” with his palm branch and wreath, whilst the four horses he drove were adorned with palm branches attached to their harnesses. The horses seemed to know that they were being worshipped and pranced and preened as they trotted around the arena absorbing the accolades meted out on both man and beast.

Justina could see that Marsallas was revered with some sort of cult status, and she would have had to be blind not to see the covert looks all the women gave him. It was obvious that he could have any of the women here with a snap of his fingers, but as he waved to the crowd, his stance strong and proud as he stood in his chariot guiding his horses, Justina could see that his face was grim, and she wondered why he wasn’t revelling in his victory…

They had not long arrived, and had just taken their seats so she and Diogenes had missed most of the race, but now as she looked around at the crowds she could tell that they were obviously enjoying themselves. Eventually the crowd quietened as Marsallas finished his victory lap and rode out of the arena and everyone took their seats. The intense rays of the afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, and Justina wiped the sweat from her brow. How on earth did people manage to stay here all day in this heat she wondered?

She leant across and asked a young couple who sat next to them how the races were run, explaining that she was a visitor to Rome, and once they realised she was a novice to the games needed no further invitation, being more than happy to explain the “rules” to her. She was told that there were four teams – factions – the Blues, Greens, Whites and Reds, and obviously, from the colour of his tunic Marsallas rode for the Blues. Apart from his tunic the only other adornments he wore were fasciae – padded bonds that were wrapped around his torso and thighs for protection, a thick leather helmet that protected his head and a falx – a curved knife to cut the reins that were wrapped around his hands in case of an accident if he was dragged around the arena.

Apparently, she had missed the elaborate opening ceremony that consisted of a procession led by the dignitaries who were sponsoring the games, followed by the charioteers and teams, musicians, dancers and priests carrying the statutes of the gods and goddesses who watched over the races. Once the procession had finished the charioteers drew lots for their position in the starting gates, and once the horses were ready, a white cloth – mappa – was dropped by the sponsor of the games. At the signal, the gates were sprung, and up to twelve teams of horses thundered onto the track and the spectators followed the race by watching the bronze dolphin counters being pulled down on the spina – located on the central barrier after each lap passed.

“Is Marsallas competing again?” She asked the young woman.

The woman nodded, “Yes. He rides at least three races a day on average, sometimes up to five.”

“Five!” Justina exclaimed.

“Aye. He is fabulously rich you know, he earns a fortune – some say he has amassed over twenty million sesterces in the last six years or so he has raced! He has never been injured either, it is a miracle really.”

At Justina’s shocked expression, the woman giggled, and leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “Rich, handsome, and unmarried, it is a shame I am a married woman if you know what I mean. He can have any woman he wants, rich or poor, slave or patrician. And frequently does, if the gossips are to be believed!”

Justina felt a surge of jealousy flow through her at the woman's words, but never had the chance to reply, even if she wanted to, as the crowd surged to its feet once more, the trumpeters announcing that another race was about to start. As she craned her neck towards the starting gates she could see that Marsallas was once again racing, as he stood proud and erect in his chariot. He must be exhausted she thought, a worried frown on her face, but the race started, and the thunder of the horse’s hooves, as well as the roar of the crowd took over, cutting off her wayward thoughts.

As she watched entranced, she could see that Marsallas was a master tactician and knew exactly what he was doing as he rode at breakneck speed around the area. He used his body weight, his reins tied around his torso, to lean from side to side to direct his horses’ movements, keeping his hand free for the whip he carried. She could see that there were other chariots sporting the blue colours, and it seemed as if they all worked as a team, the other charioteers using various tactics to break the concentration of their opponents, which then allowed their team mates to gain the coveted inside of the track, maximising their chances of winning.