The Raven and the Rose (23 page)

Julia smiled to herself. Margo had lived in the Atrium so long she was beginning to sound like Livia Versalia. Margo’s Swiss origins had been obscured by long years of Roman service.

“Why were you so late the other night?” Margo asked. “Livia was asking about you.”

“The doctor took a long time.”

“Does he think you’re improving?”

“He seems to find me better.”

“Do you feel better?”

Julia nodded.

“Good. Then the physician’s visits won’t have to last much longer. I’ve always thought I should go along on them anyway, but you know Livia, she finds some busy work for me to do here when you’re gone.”

Julia did know Livia; the Chief Vestal regarded Margo’s time as hers. Livia preferred to see the slave occupied with domestic chores rather than exchanging gossip with the Sejanus servants while Julia visited her sister. Julia thanked fate that this was so; if Margo had received permission to go with Julia the ruse of consulting the doctor would have been rendered useless. Margo would not be content to remain in the street with the litter, like the bearers. She would want to lounge inside the house, watching every move Julia made, just like the nosy mother she was in all but nature.

Seeing Marcus would have been impossible, and seeing Marcus was all Julia lived for these days.

The next nundina seemed an age away. Julia longed for her lover. She lay awake at night and remembered the strength of his body, the tenderness of his touch, and the hunger would begin again, a hunger which knew no outlet but Marcus. She was restless, sleepless, thinner; Margo, who watched her the way a timekeeper watched a sundial, knew that something had altered but couldn’t imagine what it was. Julia saw this, and tried to make the servant think that it was her “illness” which had caused the sea change. That’s why Margo questioned her so closely about her visits to Paris. The slave was looking for signs of improvement in her condition and could find none.

For Julia’s condition was love.

Danuta, Livia’s slave, appeared in the doorway of Julia’s suite and said, “Please come to the Aedes, Julia Rosalba. The cleansing is about to begin.”

Julia rose from her knees and shook out her skirt, following the slave into the hall. On New Year’s Eve all the Vestals swept the shrine with water from the sacred spring in preparation for the rekindling of the fire the next day. It was forbidden to use water brought in a pipe or other conduit for this purpose, or any other ritual cleansing of the temple; hence the trips to the spring of Egeria which had enabled Marcus to first speak to Julia.

“The others are waiting for you,” Danuta added, in a tone which suggested that Julia was late.

Julia sighed. She no longer had any patience for the Vestal duties which claimed so much of her time and which now seemed so unimportant.

All she wanted was to go away with Marcus.

But until that happened, she had to keep on with the daily charade.

She walked behind Danuta into the temple.
 

* * *

Verrix sat up on the edge of his bed and pulled on his tunic, wincing with the action; his back was so stiff he could hardly move his arms. He stood and stretched gingerly, combing his hair with his fingers, then went to his door and out into the hall.
 

It was the middle of the night and everyone was asleep.

He was going to have it out with Larthia right now.
 

He was tired of her mercurial behavior. She could lie to herself but no longer to him. He remembered her coming into his room when he was hurt, he KNEW he had not been dreaming. She had spoken to him lovingly, caressed him, but now that he was recovered she had withdrawn again, trying to pretend that her concern for him was no more than what she would show for any injured servant.

That was going to stop.

The house was very still as he walked through it, the torches burning low, his shadow looming on the polished floors. He paused outside Larthia’s room, saw that her door was ajar, and pushed it open all the way.

She was not in her bed. He looked toward the portico and saw her slender figure outlined against the full moon.

She was sitting on a bench under the stars, obviously as sleepless as he was.

Verrix crossed the bedroom and went out to the back. When she looked up and saw him she went very still.

“What are you doing here?” she said. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“So are you.”

Larthia rose and he saw that she was wearing a diaphanous night robe of ribbed silk, almost transparent when the moonlight shone through it. She gathered it around her quickly and folded her arms, facing him.

“Go back to bed, Verrix. You haven’t recovered completely yet, and what if someone saw you out here with me?”

“I don’t care. It’s the fifth watch, anyway. Everyone else is asleep.”

Larthia turned her back on him.
 

He strode across the portico and seized her by the shoulders. When she tried to dash away from him he grabbed her wrist and spun her around to face him.

“I remember what you said to me after the flogging, Larthia. I know I wasn’t dreaming. I remember what you did, how you touched me, exactly what you said.”

She stared up at him, her pale eyes wide, her slender throat working.

“Do you love me, Larthia?” he demanded. “Do you?”

He saw the answer in her face but she made no reply, refusing to admit the truth.

 
“If you do, say so now, because if you don’t, I am leaving this house tonight and you will never see me again. I don’t care if I never attain freedom or if you send every bounty hunter in Rome after me. I can’t stay here any longer and not have you.”

She was trembling; he could feel her shaking like a leaf in the wind.

“Do you think you’d be lowering yourself with me?” he said. “Is that it? Are you worried about what people will say? How can you help your sister with what she is doing and still be so cowardly yourself?”

Larthia tried to pull away from him; he held her fast, her face inches from his.

“Or is it that you’re afraid all this,” he nodded back at the house, “will be taken away from you if your husband’s trustees discover you’re sleeping with a slave?”

She closed her eyes.

Disgusted, he flung her away from him so rudely that she stumbled.

“I’m going,” he said, the slight catch in his voice the only indication of the emotions raging within him. “If I mean anything to you, don’t send the dogs after me. If you cover my absence for a few days it will give me a clean head start.”
 

He was halfway across the portico when she ran ahead of him and blocked his path.

“Please don’t go,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face.

He stopped short, his heart pounding.

“You don’t know what they would do to you,” she added, wiping

her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Who?” he said softly.

“The magistrates. If we were discovered it would be
stuprum
, a sex crime, illegal carnal relations with a noblewoman. You would be sentenced to death,” she said.

“Do you think I care about that? I’ve been sentenced to death before, it’s a dull day for me when I’m not.”

She smiled through her tears, shaking her head at the absurdity of his reply.

“Larthia, give in. Give in to what you feel. It’s very late, there’s no one else here, no one to see you do what you want instead of what you’re supposed to do.”

She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again her expression was resigned, but at the same time incandescent.
 

He held out his arms and she ran into them.

Chapter 7

“I’ll be awkward,” Larthia whispered. “It’s been so long and I was never very good at it in the first place.”

“You’ll be good at it with me,” he promised. He picked her up and carried her into the house.

Larthia lay back in his arms, content to let fate overwhelm her. She was tired of worrying about her love for him, tired of debating what to do and how to keep all the conflicting elements of her life from running into one another. This was what she really needed; it was like a miracle to touch him after wanting it for so long. He was so warm and secure, he enveloped her slight form with his larger one as he set her on the bed; his kisses drove everything but the hunger of the moment from her mind. When she opened her mouth under his she felt the response of his body in a single fluid movement.

Verrix took the initiative masterfully, reversing their traditional roles, and Larthia reveled in her submission as he enclosed her in a muscular grip, binding her to him. One large hand moved up her back caressingly, his fingers tangling in her loosened hair, the silken strands clinging to his palm. He held her motionless as his mouth took hers greedily, with such total abandon, that Larthia clung to him desperately. He was the only stable object in a reeling world. Verrix made a sound, half sigh, half groan, and dropped his hands to her hips, pressing her into him forcefully. Larthia gasped against his mouth as she felt his fierce arousal.
 

He was a complex of contrasts: the lean strength of his limbs, the surprising softness of his mouth, the clean scent of his skin and hair, the dry woolen smell of his homespun tunic. Her fingers slid luxuriously into the wealth of golden curls at the nape of his neck as she responded to him helplessly, powerless to resist. She forgot that he was a slave and she a great lady with a name to protect; she forgot that he was a Gaul who wore a torque and trousers and she a Roman matron with a house and staff on the Palatine hill. He was a man, and she was a woman. That was all.

He kissed her over and over again, with the deep avidity of long denial. When he stepped back to remove his tunic she waited breathlessly, then embraced him once more as soon as he had pulled the shift over his head. Her fingers encountered the scabs on his bare back and she paused, unsure, unwilling to hurt him. He felt her hesitation and said hoarsely, “Touch me, Larthia, I’ve wanted you to touch me so badly.”

She took him at his word. He inhaled sharply as she bent to kiss his chest, running her tongue over his pectoral muscles, the flat hard nipples nestled in soft golden hair. She didn’t know what she was doing, she was acting on instinct, but his reaction told her that her instinct was correct. He gripped her tightly, holding her head against him, his eyes closed, his lips parted, his breathing harsh. Then his fingers curled around her slender shoulders and he raised her up to his level, seeking her mouth again with his.

Larthia kissed him back with reckless intensity. She had never felt like this in her life, and she wanted more of it, much more. Verrix seemed so sure, so confident, and she followed where he led, but when he reached for the sash of her robe his fingers were shaking and he fumbled with the gauzy material. Larthia caught his hand and raised it to her lips.

“Let me do it,” she whispered, and he watched avidly, his eyes luminous in the candlelight, as she removed her robe and dropped it on the floor. He saw the delicate, ivory skin, the small, perfect breasts tipped with rosy nipples, and he was lost. He grabbed her and pushed her down on the bed, taking one raised nipple into his mouth, where it swelled more, hardening between his lips. His callused fingers closed around Larthia’s other breast, engulfing it, his thumb brushing the sensitive tip until she arched her back and moaned aloud, drowning in the twin sensations.
 

Verrix murmured something in his native language as his mouth left her breast and traveled to her navel. Larthia didn’t understand what he was saying but his loving tone told her everything she needed to know. He pressed his face to her bare thigh, closing his eyes, and Larthia looked down breathlessly, watching him as the golden brown lashes rested on his cheeks. His face was hot, his tanned skin flushed, the muscles in his arms and back rigid with tension as he held her. He moved suddenly and buried his face in the mound of dark hair at the apex of her thighs.
 

Larthia froze, suddenly shy. Her husband had never done such a thing; it thrilled her and yet unnerved her at the same time.

Verrix felt her withdrawal and moved up next to her on the bed, enfolding her tenderly.

“I’m sorry,” he said thickly, stroking the satiny curve of her back. “I got carried away, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to scare you, but you’re so beautiful, you’ve been driving me crazy. It’s hard to hold back...”

Larthia put her finger to his lips to silence him. “I feel the same,” she whispered. “But this is new to me. My husband didn’t make love, he just got it over with fast, and even that didn’t happen very often. He just wanted children, he didn’t care...”

“Shh, shh, don’t remember that now,” Verrix said soothingly. “Think of me, only of me.” He eased her onto her back, letting her take his weight. She felt him again through his thin woolen pants and moaned.

“What?” he said against her mouth, pulling her bare legs around him. “Do you like that?”

She whimpered helplessly.

He pressed into her, rotating his hips, and her breath escaped her parted lips in a silent exhalation.