The Roman

Caroline Storer

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Contents

Caroline Storer

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

About HarperImpulse

Copyright

About the Publisher

Caroline Storer

Being a poor sleeper, I’ve been making up stories for years now to try and exhaust my mind, and get some much needed sleep. It doesn’t always work as the stories then demand to be written! I write mainly Historical romances, but I’ve also written Contemporary romances, Romantic Intrigue and I’ve also tried my hand at Futuristic and Time Slip romances.

I live on the beautiful island of Anglesey in North Wales, with my wonderful husband, Colin. By day I’m an Environmental Health Officer, where I get to meet lots of interesting people – all grist to the writer’s mill.

Firstly, I'd also like to thank my editor, Charlotte Ledger, for giving me this wonderful opportunity to publish my book with HarperImpulse.

Secondly, I want to say a huge "thank you" to all my friends and family who have supported me, in particular my mum and dad, and best friends Kath and Paula. I also want to mention all my cyber friends who, over the years, have given much needed help and encouragement. Thank you, Suzanne, Michelle (Styles) and Kate (Hardy).

And finally … for my wonderful husband, Colin … who always believed.

CHAPTER ONE

Circus Maximus – Rome AD 79

Marsallas closed his eyes, letting the stillness inside the stables act as a balm to his ravaged senses. He could still hear the crowd in the arena chanting his name, even though he’d ridden his last race of the day.

For a full five minutes he stood there, before he opened his eyes once more, and watched as his four horses, magnificent greys, were rubbed down by four slaves. Like him, the horses were quiet and still, allowing the slaves to tend them without any trouble. He walked over to them and stroked the muzzle of each of them in turn, his touch gentle and soothing. Lampon, the most forward of his horses, nudged him.

“Hah. You know me too well, Lampon,” he said softly, taking a pear from a small cloth sack that he carried. The horse whinnied as he took the fruit, and Marsallas patted his flank before moving onto the other horses. When they had all been given their pears, Marsallas stood back, letting the slaves finish their tasks.

They were magnificent animals – he had chosen well – and they had not let him down once in the four years he’d had them. They had raced over two hundred races together, winning over one hundred and fifty of them in that time. A phenomenal feat, considering it was one of the most dangerous sports in the Circus Maximus. His quadrigae were considered the best, and when he raced his four horse chariot he was always the favourite to win.

Once the slaves had finished tending to the horses, Marsallas dismissed them with a nod of his head, leaving him alone with his animals. He walked into each of the stalls and stroked his hands over the horses’ flesh, feeling their muscles and ligaments to make sure there were no sprains or bruises. The sheer brutality of the races took its toll, on both man and beast, and it was Marsallas’s duty to make sure that his horses were always kept in the best condition. Eventually he finished his rounds, and was closing the last of the doors to the stalls when he saw his team member, and close friend, Fabius Rufus coming towards him.

“Fabius,” he said in greeting, a small smile on his face as his protégé approached. He was secretly proud of the young man; the man he had trained to be as good as him in the Circus. But then he frowned, when he saw the preoccupied look on his face. “All is well, Fabius?”

“There is a woman here,” Fabius said, by way of explanation, ignoring Marsallas's question. “She wants to see you. She has a slave with her-”

“Fabius,” Marsallas interrupted, “I am not interested in entertaining the rich patricians of Rome tonight. I am tired, hungry, and I stink. I'm going to bathe, eat and sleep in that order. Besides, even I have standards, and an orgy is just a little too debauched for my tastes!”

Fabius shook his head. “You’re wrong Marsallas. The slave is male, and as large as a tree, and the woman just wants to talk to you, not seduce you.”

“They always “just want to talk”, Fabius,” Marsallas grunted, shaking his head in vexation, “You should know that by now! We are nothing but studs to these women,” then he turned towards the rear door of the stables. “By the gods, I’m sure the women of Rome are getting more and more forward these days.”

“I agree with you Marsallas, they are,” Fabius reasoned, raising his voice slightly as Marsallas walked away. “But this time I think the woman is genuine. She says she has news-”

“Enough Fabius,” Marsallas shouted, cutting off his friend’s words without a backward glance. “Like I said, you have her. All the women love your blonde hair and green eyes. You will have her eating out of your hand in next to no time!”

* * *

“You were quick. Didn’t she live up to your expectations?” Marsallas asked a short while later, as he finished off a small meal of meat, bread, and olives in his quarters.

Fabius’s face suffused with colour, as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “No! I mean…I never…” Fabius stammered, his voice trailing off.

Marsallas raised an eyebrow in surprise. It was unusual for Fabius to be so nervous. Normally he was supremely confident when it came to women … and sex. “What ails you Fabius? You seem out of sorts this evening.”

“The woman. She just wants to see you. To talk to you.”

“Fabius, how many times-”

“Justina.” Fabius interjected, cutting off Marsallas. “She says her name is Justina, and she has come from Herculaneum.”

The knife Marsallas had been using to slice some meat was stabbed into the wooden table with such force that the handle wobbled violently. His eyes narrowed in anger, as his brain assimilated the full implication of Fabius’s words. An ominous silence fell between the two men until, finally, Marsallas stood, the scraping of his chair sounding as loud as a thunderbolt.

“Where is she?” he hissed, the words forced past tight lips, his face pinched with anger.

“Outside.”

Marsallas said nothing for a moment as his mind raced frantically. He stared at the wooden door, as if he could actually see through it. Justina was here. Outside and waiting for him. He felt his stomach clench, and he forced down the wave of nausea that threatened at the thought of meeting her again. Conflicting emotions surged though him. Anger vied with despair. Rage battled hope. But it was fear that took precedence. Because fear was a double edged sword…

Fear could make him lose what little control he had over his emotions when it came to Justina; emotions he had ruthlessly tried to suppress for years now. Fear could make him lash out, to try and hurt her as much as she had hurt him, or equally, it could make him do something totally out of character, like pull her into his arms and kiss her. Because when it came to Justina, she made him think and feel things he’d never felt for any woman.

For six years long years he’d desperately tried to wipe her from his memory. Sometimes he succeeded, often going weeks without thinking about her. But then something would happen, a jolt to his memory, and he would find himself once more wondering about her…remembering her …

Justina. The only woman he’d ever loved…and the only woman he’d ever hated. She’d taken his love and thrown it back in his face, and in the space of one day she had systematically destroyed him. Her betrayal had turned the young, untried man he’d once been, and made him into the cold, hard, bastard he was today.

And now she was here, waiting outside his quarters, wanting an audience with him. He couldn’t help but wonder if the six years since he’d last seen her had wrought many changes in her. She would be twenty two now, a far cry from the sixteen year old girl he’d known back then.

But that girl had been so beautiful, and he closed his eyes briefly as he remembered what she had looked like. He could picture her as clearly now, as if it had only been yesterday since he’d last seen her, instead of all those years ago. Tall and slim, she’d had the palest of skin that had been so soft to the touch. Skin that had been in stark contrast to her jet black hair, and he remembered teasing her about her heritage, saying she must be descended from a warrior woman enslaved from the wild north lands. Her features had been perfection too, from her wide grey eyes, down over her small straight nose to the fullest lips he’d ever seen. Lips that he’d had the urge to kiss, from the first moment he’d seen them …

Marsallas re-opened his eyes, focusing on the present once more as he weighed up the situation he was now faced with. The rational side of him said that he should just send her away, refuse her request. But the irrational side of him wanted to see her again. It would be a test of sorts he decided. If she elicited no response in him other than distain then he would know for certain that he had finally managed to purge her from his mind once and for all.

The irrational won…

So he sat down, pulled out the knife that was embedded in the wood, and carried on slicing another piece of meat. Deliberately, he kept his posture relaxed, giving nothing away of the inner turmoil he was experiencing, before finally saying to Fabius, “Tell her to come in. I will see her.”

* * *

"If I am not out in five minutes knock on the door. It will be my signal to leave.”

Diogenes frowned, but said nothing, just stared down at her.

Justina smiled slightly, interpreting his look, well used to the slave’s silence. “I will be fine. I promise.”

Diogenes stood aside, and Justina tapped on the door. Without waiting for an answer she pushed it open and entered the dark room.

At first she thought there was no-one there, Fabius having played her false by sending her into an empty room. With only one wall sconce illuminating the room, most of the space was in darkness. But then she saw a slight movement, and as she let her eyes adjust to the dimness, she was able to make out the shadow of a man standing as still as marble to the rear of the room.

Then the shadow spoke. “Justina.”

The emotionless tone of the voice caused Justina to shiver, and her heart to beat faster. There was no mistaking who had said her name. His voice was indelibly printed on her mind. But the tone was deeper than it had once been, rough almost. Yet it had a pleasing quality she couldn’t explain.

Uninvited, she walked further into the room, his presence drawing her to him like an invisible bond, only stopping when she approached the edge of a small table. She glanced down at the remains of a meal, then back up to where the shadow stood. Lifting her head towards him, she said as calmly as she could, “Greetings, Marsallas.”

Then the shadow stepped forward suddenly becoming human flesh, and Justina gasped, her face losing all colour as she took in the man standing in front of her.

There was no doubting it was Marsallas. But at the same time she couldn’t believe how much he’d changed. Virtually unrecognisable from the carefree youth she had once known. Now, in his place stood a virtual stranger, one who looked at her with total indifference on his face.

He looked even taller than she remembered, if that were possible. Broad shoulders tapered down to bare arms, tanned a golden brown. Arms that were crossed over each other, showing off his powerfully bunched muscles. Of their own free will her eyes tracked down his body. Over the impressive width of his chest that couldn't be disguised by the short green tunic he wore, down past the tautness of his flat stomach, to his long, tanned muscular legs.

Justina felt a quiver of awareness slither down her spine, and like a starving woman she feasted on him. The hard sculpted face, the piercing blue eyes she remembered so well. She drank him in, absorbed him, and her fingers actually itched to caress the hard planes of his face, to trace the shape of his eyebrows and the angled hardness of his jaw.

She felt his power. Not just his physical power, but the sheer presence of him. Although he had only said one word, his bearing said it all, and it made her stomach clench. Even now, after all these years, he still had the power to affect her, and without warning a sudden surge of longing, long suppressed, assailed her.

She saw his eyes lower to her mouth. She hadn’t been kissed in years, and she felt desire flare deep inside of her, rising to such an intensity it fairly took her breath away. She ached for him to draw her nearer, to kiss her, to stroke her body to life once more.

Then she saw his eyes narrow, harden, and Justina felt a rush of panic hit her. She was stupid to have come here.

She should have gone back to Herculaneum and lied to Quintus. Said she’d tried to gain an audience with Marsallas, but he had refused to see her. But she hadn’t, and instead she was standing no more than ten feet from him.

Totally at his mercy.

She wanted to flee, but she held her ground. Instead, she straightened her spine, and prepared herself for the ordeal that was to come.

And it would be an ordeal.

She forced a polite smile, desperate to keep to the plan she had mentally prepared whilst standing outside his quarter’s, waiting for Fabius to introduce her. Just go in. She had said, over and over again, like a mantra. Be cordial, say what you have to say, and then get out of there as quickly as you can.

“Thank…thank you for letting me see you. What…what I have to say won’t take long. I-”

“You have come a long way to see me, Justina, considering I said I never wanted to see you again,” Marsallas drawled, his mouth twisting in derision as he interrupted her faltering words. “And if my memory serves me right, I cursed you to Hades too.”

Justina felt a sudden chilling panic pierce her, but she kept her face impassive, refused to let him see how much he disturbed her. So she kept her hands loosely clasped in front of her, and made herself relax. She lifted her chin, hoping he wouldn’t notice the faint trembling of her body that she couldn’t quite control, “I do remember, Marsallas,” she said, keeping her voice steady, “But I am not here to see you, I have come because I have a message from your uncle. Quintus is-”

She heard his breath hiss, before he cut off her well rehearsed speech with a violent slash of his hand. “Stop!”

She froze. Helpless. Unable to think, or do anything, she watched as he lowered his hand, her eyes taking in his long narrow fingers, fingers that Justina remembered so well…

“I do not want to hear about him – ever.”

His words were harsh, but Justina felt a surge of pity for him. She knew how much he hated his uncle, and secretly she couldn’t blame him. His uncle had never shown his nephew any love.

The words hung heavily between them, and wisely she said nothing, as she could see that he was holding onto his anger by a thin thread. His face was an implacable mask, devoid of emotion, and for several long moments he stared at her, his eyes unfathomable as he watched her. Then he stepped forward, and this time she couldn’t control her bodily reaction.

She shivered inwardly, when the warmth of his fingers cupped her chin, exerting enough pressure that she had no choice but to lift her face up to his. For years she dreamt of feeling his touch again, and now he was so close that she could feel the heat of his breath on her face, see the flecks of blue colour that made up his magnificent eyes. She had to fight the urge to close her eyes when the warm scent of his skin, a mixture of sandalwood and musk, floated over her, enveloping her like a cloak, bringing back memories long suppressed. Heat pooled in the pit of her stomach, as delicious sensations curled through her.

Then his fingers splayed out, and she had to bite back a groan of desire. Two of his fingers still cupped her chin, but the others feathered softly down the slim column of her throat, before they came to rest on the pulse that beat rapidly at the base of her throat.

This time the heat within her spread to every pore of her skin, making her hot and dewy, feverish almost, and when she saw the pupils of his eyes dilate, she could tell he was very much aware of her reaction to him.

The moment was broken when he casually dropped his hand, and stood back from her, breaking off all bodily contact. Inwardly she mourned the loss of his touch. A touch that brought back so many memories.

“You must be fatigued after your long journey. Would you like some refreshment?”

The sudden change of tone in his voice unnerved her. Gone was the anger, now there was a mocking edge to it, and Justina had to press her lips together to prevent her from saying anything. Deliberately she lowered her eyes, in case they showed any hint of defiance. She didn’t want to antagonise him, couldn’t afford to bait him in any way, she knew that.

That would be foolish. And she wasn’t a fool.

Desperate to recover her composure, she looked up at him with what she hoped was a neutral expression on her face. “No thank you. I had something to drink at the inn before I came here.”

“Do you mind if I do?”

Justina bit down on her lip in irritation. “Yes,” she wanted to shout, “I do mind.” But she held back her words. She knew he was playing some sort of twisted game. Teasing her, like a cat teased a mouse.

Shaking her head slightly, she smiled politely, “No, of course not.”

But when he moved closer to her, to lean across the table to pour some wine into a goblet, she lost all ability to think. Once again the heady scent of his skin brought back memories, and she closed her eyes briefly, remembering everything about him as if the past six years had only been yesterday.

It was only when she opened her eyes, and saw him watching her, with eyes so fathomless, that she realised he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

Justina blushed in mortification. How could he have affected her so quickly? She should be immune to him after all these years. She told herself to turn and leave, get out of there as fast as possible, but her body was incapable of moving.

Eventually Marsallas broke the tension, by raising his goblet in an unspoken mocking salute, before he drowned the contents in one swallow, never once taking his gaze off her.

Justina watched him, biting the inside her lip. If she needed proof that coming here was a mistake, then his false gesture was the final bit of evidence she needed. He wasn’t interested in anything she had to say. She could see that in every hard line of his body, by the coldness radiating out of his eyes.

Whatever emotions he had once felt for her had long gone. Wiped out by six years of bitterness.

She had to leave. Right now. And without a second thought, about the actual reason why she was here, she turned and bolted for the door, and hopefully, her escape.

She thought she had succeeded. Her hand was on the rounded wooden door knob, and the door had even opened slightly. But then she saw two hands slam above her head banging the door shut, trapping her between his two outstretched arms.

How had he moved so fast? She thought, panic coursing through her as she tried ineffectually to wrench open the door.

“Don’t go.” The words were whispered in her ear, so intense, so passionate that she felt her heart break right open.

Swallowing past the lump of emotion in her throat, she whispered, “I have to go, Marsallas. I shouldn’t have come. It was a mistake. I…I’m sorry.”

Still desperate to escape, and in what she knew to be a futile effort, she tried to pull open the door. But the door didn’t move, and with mounting desperation she lifted her hands, her nails digging into the hard muscles and tendons of Marsallas's forearms trying to pull them away.

But the door stayed shut, her strength no match for his, as he leaned his weight against the wood barring her escape. Eventually she stopped, her hands dropping to her sides, her chest rising and falling with exertion as if she had run for miles.

For several long moments she stood there, her mind racing, desperately wondering what to do next. She needed to be strong, not let him see how much his presence had affected her, how much she still desired him. To show him would be foolish – suicidal – even. Then, a different feeling came over her, and she realised that she was actually frightened of him.

She didn’t know why he frightened her. Maybe it was because he had changed so much in the intervening years since she had last seen him. Not just physically, but mentally too. The youth she had known had only ever shown her kindness. But now, today, she wasn’t so sure. He looked so hard, indomitable, the coldness of his blue eyes revealing so much more about him than what he’d actually said.

The man that stood behind her was the product of his uncle’s hatred – and hers – if she were honest. She, and Quintus, had made him the man he was today. But she knew, deep down, that Marsallas wouldn’t hurt her. He might hate her, but he wouldn't harm her. Marsallas wasn't like his uncle, she was sure of that.

Then thinking of Quintus, and all she had suffered at his hands these past years, she mentally squared her shoulders and turned slightly, as if to convey to Marsallas that she wasn't afraid of him.

But her rational thoughts disappeared instantly, when by turning, she brought herself even closer to him if that were possible. Her heart skipped a beat when she felt Marsallas’s breath on her neck, moist and hot as he leaned in even closer, a soft sigh escaping him.

“Yes,” he whispered, as his mouth made contact with the warm skin of her neck. With deliberately slow movements he took hold of her hand, and turned her fully, so she now faced him. He was so close, the heady scent of his skin so intoxicating, that she couldn't stop the shiver of arousal that coursed through her.

No more than two minutes had passed since she had entered his quarters, and already her body was reacting to him like it had always done. It was as if her emotions, which she had ruthlessly suppressed all these years, had suddenly erupted like some dormant volcano, and her desire for him - her longing for him - burst forth like molten lava, threatening to overwhelm her.

She heard him laugh softly under his breath, as if he knew exactly what she was feeling, what she was experiencing. And when he moved closer, so his hips made contact with hers, Justina groaned inwardly as she felt the hardness of his arousal nudging her lower belly.

“Beautiful, beautiful, Justina. I want you.”

Justina’s eyes widened. Had she heard him correctly? Shaking her head in denial she whispered, “No… I…” But her words trailed off when he bent his head, and felt his tongue stroke the sensitive area of her neck just under her earlobe. Heat curled in the pit of her stomach; warmth spreading through her whole body, as her knees went weak with longing.

“You say “no”, but your body screams “yes” Justina. You can deny it all you want, but you want me as much as I want you. I felt it earlier when I caressed your neck. Your beating pulse told me everything I needed to know.” The words were soft, a rumbling from deep within his chest as his teeth nipped the soft lobe of her ear, the sensations so intense that she couldn’t stop herself from arching her neck.

Eventually, reality returned, and instinctively she tried to pull away. “Marsallas no! Stop, please. Please-”

But he ignored her plea, and his mouth closed over hers, his lips bruising as he kissed her with deliberate passion. Justina tried to turn her head away, to escape the onslaught of his mouth. But his fingers burrowed under her long hair, trapping her, forcing her to stay where she was, as his hand curved around the back of her neck pulling her towards him.

The kiss intensified, as if he were stamping his presence on her, punishing her for all the years of torment she had put him through.

She moaned, hating the rough assault of his mouth on hers, her nails digging into the hard muscles of his forearms as she tried to pull away.

But her resistance was futile, her strength no match against his, as Marsallas pressed his hips into the softness of her stomach, the gesture blatantly sexual. Again Justina moaned, remembering how it had once been between them. How he had kissed her so softly, so gently, that she had wanted the kiss to go on forever-

Then as quickly as it began, the kiss ended.

Marsallas pulled away from her, and Justina turned her head in mortification, not daring to look at him. She heard his ragged breathing as he stood there, the sound harsh in the stillness of the room. Once again she felt her chin being lifted, her eyes forced to meet his. Expecting to see hatred reflected there, she was taken aback when, instead, she saw torment and pain in the darkness of his eyes.

Justina felt her resistance crumble. Had he hated kissing her like that? Did he remember what it had once been like between them?

The questions flew through her mind. She wanted to ask him, but she was incapable of speech. Instead, she lifted her hand and laid it along his strong jaw bone, conveying to him without words, what she was thinking, what she was feeling.

The unspoken gesture was enough, and she closed her eyes as Marsallas’s mouth fused with hers once more.

“Justina,” he breathed, and this time he kissed her in a way that sent heat searing through her body. This time his lips weren't trying to punish – they were gentle, soft, mobile – seducing her, awakening memories of long ago when they shared such sweet kisses together.

His hands reached for her once more, gently caressing, skimming over the slimness of her shoulders, downwards, until they rested on the sides of her ribcage. Slowly, they moved inwards, cupping the fullness of her breasts, and Justina jerked, feeling the sensitive flesh swell, her nipples pebbling with desire as he rubbed them through the thinness of her silk gown. Long suppressed sensations flushed into life, as she gloried in the feel of his hands on her body once more.

“Marsallas,” she groaned against his lips, wanting so much more.

“You want me don't you?” he whispered.

“Yes. Oh yes-”

Then reality hit her, as the full implication of what she was saying, what she was doing, impinged on her passion soaked mind. And this time it was she who pulled away, and as she stared at him, time seemed suspended as Marsallas watched her, his face giving nothing away.

She felt shaken to the core by what had just happened, both of them caught up in the past and the present. Then, mercifully, the tension was broken by a loud rap on the door, the noise as loud as a thunder-clap in the stillness of the room.

Diogenes! Of course! She realised belatedly. Her allotted time with Marsallas was up. The interruption broke the tension between them, and she whispered, “I…I have to go. Quintus-”

She realised her mistake as soon as she uttered Quintus’s name when his face darkened, and his eyes narrowed into dark slits of anger. Then he turned abruptly, and walked away from her, returning to the table to pour another goblet of wine.

“Yes. Go now while you can, Justina. I'm sure my uncle has need of you.” The words were hissed past tight lips, before he turned to her once again, his face closed, unreadable.

Justina said nothing. She wanted to run over to him, beg his forgiveness, and explain everything.

But she didn’t.

Instead she turned, and wrenched open the door, leaving the room with as much dignity as she could, holding back the tears that threatened to fall.

It was only when she heard a loud smash come from Marsallas’s quarters that her step faltered. Marsallas must have thrown his wine goblet on the floor in anger or frustration – or both …

* * *

Marsallas tapped the table with his index finger, looking up with bloodshot eyes to where Fabius sat opposite him.

Fabius raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Doing as Marsallas asked, he refilled his goblet with wine once more.

“You have three races tomorrow, Marsallas. Is it wise to get so drunk?”

Marsallas pulled a wry smile, and looked up at his friend, “Are you my mother now, Fabius?” he asked, his words slurred, and not waiting for an answer he lifted the goblet and drowned the contents in one giant gulp.

“No, not your mother,” laughed Fabius, “But maybe your conscience. You, my friend, are going to have a mighty sore head in the morning.” And this time, without being asked, Fabius filled the goblet once more.

But instead of drinking the wine, Marsallas merely stared down at the rich liquid, his mouth twisting, his mind racing. A long silence fell between the two men, both of them lost in their own thoughts until Marsallas broke it by muttering, “She is as slim and beautiful as I remember. It would have been something if she had gone to fat!”

Marsallas looked up at Fabius, seeing the slight smile on the younger man's face. He grunted slightly, his own mouth twisting into a smile of sorts. “I’ve said that before haven’t I?”

“Aye. A few times this evening.”

Then as quickly as it came, Marsallas’s smile vanished. “I wanted to hate her, Fabius. But instead I kissed her,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He saw Fabius’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at his words. “See, I have shocked you now, eh?”

Fabius nodded, before he leaned forward, “She told me she is staying at the inn near the Forum. She leaves tomorrow, after the Fifth Hour.”

Marsallas assimilated that bit of news without responding, and another silence fell between them, both of them oblivious to the raucous laughter behind them as they sat at their table in the drinking den.

“Was she your lover, Marsallas? In…in Herculaneum? Is that why she came here to see you?” Fabius finally asked, several minutes later.

For several long seconds Marsallas said nothing. He desperately wanted to say “yes” to Fabius. To tell him that Justina had once been his lover in the true sense of the word. But that would be a lie. All he’d had ever done was kiss her, caress her, nothing more.

He lifted his head, eventually meeting Fabius’s curious gaze. “You couldn’t be further from the truth if you tried, my friend. Justina was never my lover. She’s my uncle’s mistress!”

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.

Marsallas controlled his horses with what seemed to be the minimum amount of effort, almost with an arrogance that bordered on dangerous, as if he didn’t care whether he won or not. Whether he lived or died-

The crowd gasped, as one of the opposing charioteers – a White – was forced against the inside wall of the arena. His chariot broke apart as it smashed into the stone wall and he was thrown from it. Justina could hardly bear to watch, as the poor man was dragged around the ring, still holding onto the horses’ reigns, until, finally he was able to bring the horses to a stop. She let out a sigh of relief when she saw that he seemed to be unharmed as he stood up and ran out of the way of the oncoming chariots that had already raced around the track, and were now on their way to the finishing line.

Her eyes focussed back on Marsallas’s chariot, and she could see that he was once again in the lead, having held his team of horses back until the last minute to keep them from exhaustion, before allowing them full reign, and letting them race as fast as they wanted to. She marvelled at his skill, as he rode around the arena at break neck speed, seemingly totally unconcerned by the danger he must face every time he raced, and Justina was amazed that he had never been injured. She watched, with a sense of relief, when he passed the finishing line, again the winner, before once again acknowledging the adoration of the crowd as he undertook his victory lap.

Once the race finished Justina let out a huge sigh, relieved that he had escaped injury, and sat back down heavily onto the wooden seat feeling totally exhausted. She smiled wryly to herself, thinking that if Marsallas knew of her concern for him, he would have reacted with scorn, no doubt throwing it back in her face.

She recalled how different it had once been between them. There had been no bitterness, no hatred, no anger between them.

And then, as if the past had suddenly come right back to haunt her, she remembered how it had all started…

CHAPTER THREE

Herculaneum – AD 73- six years earlier…

Justina sighed, stood up and wiped the sand off her hands on the coarse linen of her stola, a frown on her face as she stared down at the sand sculpture. She tilted her head slightly, it wasn’t her best effort she thought, pulling a face of disgust. She had been trying to sculpt a life size figure of a deer in full flight. But she hadn’t quite got the proportions right she decided. The head was too big for the body, and the legs were too long and skinny.

She had got the idea for the sculpture from a fresco she had seen on the wall of the Basilica, and had been itching to sculpt it ever since she had seen it a few days ago. She had memorised the drawing, but obviously not well enough. But then, she realised, perhaps she was being too hard on herself. She had never actually seen a real deer, so maybe she hadn’t done too bad a job after all!

Turning away from the sculpture, she made her way down to the water’s edge and sat down on the damp sand removing her handmade straw hat and sandals before wriggling her toes in the cool water. She leaned her head back, letting the last of the afternoon sunshine wash over her. It would soon be time to leave, and she relished the small amount of freedom she had here.

As she sat there, she was vaguely aware of the stillness of the afternoon air being broken by the sound of splashing water, and her head lolled forward, her eyes searching out the noise. Squinting, she made out a dark shape in the dark blue waters, and for a moment she thought it was a dolphin, but as she focused on the shape she realised that it wasn’t a dolphin but a swimmer, a very powerful swimmer she thought, as she watched him cleave his way through the water, his arms strong and measured as they cut through the waves.

He was a very good. Maybe he was in training for some upcoming games? Perhaps the celebration of the birthday of the late Emperor Augustus which was next week she mused to herself. But her thoughts were cut short abruptly, and she tensed, drawing her knees up to her chest, when she realised that the swimmer had changed direction and was swimming straight towards her!

Not sure what to do, she stood up and watched the approaching swimmer, every sense she possessed on alert. Then, making up her mind she turned abruptly and started to walk away.

“Wait! Please. I won’t hurt you.”

His words, spoken directly behind, sounded as if he was slightly out of breath and Justina stopped short. For a moment she hesitated, undecided what to do. How had he got to the beach so quickly? She thought in amazement. She turned around slowly, and when she saw him she swallowed the lump in her throat as she stared open mouthed at the young man who had called out to her, and who was now walking slowly towards her. The intensity of his eyes on hers was disconcerting, and she quickly looked away. But then, as if he held some sort of hold over her, she looked back up at him.

He looked like a young Neptune, rising from the waves, as he came out of the water towards her. He was naked apart from his subligaculum. The leather loin cloth moulded his hips snugly, and Justina’s eyes looked away from there, quickly shifting to his muscular bronzed torso. His chest was hard and smooth, and she had the strange urge to stroke her hands over it to see if it was as strong and powerful as it looked.

Her artist’s eye took in the perfect proportions of his body. His long muscular legs, narrow hips, his flat stomach, then up once more to his chest, and then finally, her wide eyed gaze settled on his broad shoulders. She had to acknowledge that he was a perfect specimen of manhood, and secretly her hands itched to sculpt him, to feel his muscles, to-

“My name is Marsallas.”

The words were spoken softly, and effectively acted as a splash of cold water to Justina’s wayward thoughts. Instantly, her eyes shot up, and met his twinkling blue ones. Realising that she had been caught staring at him, she blushed bright red when she saw the humour reflected in his gaze. Mortification surged through and she turned away from him.

Oh no, how could she have been so blatant? What must he think of her?

She turned slightly, and looked at him from under her lashes. She could see that he was standing there staring at her, waiting for her to say something. “Justina,” she finally said, aware of the huskiness of her voice. “My name is Justina.”

Marsallas nodded slowly, and smiled at her, his perfect straight teeth a startling white against the bronze of his skin.

“Hello, Justina. Will you sit with me?”

She hesitated, aware of her hands twisting together nervously, “I…I…”

He must had sensed her hesitation, because he said quietly, “You are a very good sculptress by the way,” he said nodding at the sand sculpture next to her. “Please. Stay for a little while,” he begged.

Justina glanced up at him, chewing her bottom lip in indecision. She really should leave. The day was growing late, and her father would expect her back soon. But seeing the earnest expression in his deep blue eyes she made up her mind to stay. So she nodded slightly, and noted in surprise that his shoulders slumped, as a look of relief passed over his face when she accepted his request.

“How old are you?” Marsallas asked, once she had sat back down on the sand, and he had joined her.

Justina was slightly taken aback by the question, “Fifteen,” she answered slowly, and when she saw him frown, she added, “But I’ll be sixteen next month.”

“So young,” Marsallas said, almost to himself.

“And you? How old are you?” She murmured, noticing the husky edge to her voice once more.

“Eighteen.”

“So old!” She said, her tone gently teasing.

Marsallas smiled at her, and grunted softly before he raised a mocking eyebrow at her in recognition of her answer. Justina couldn’t help but smile back, and at that moment they both relaxed, as an understanding flowed between them. For the next hour they talked, tentatively at first, as strangers do when they first get to know each other, but after a while they talked easily, as if they had known each other for years, each of them sharing a little of themselves.

“My father is Aulus Justus Phillipus, he is the town’s baker. Do you know him?”

Marsallas shook his head as a sudden bleakness washed over his face. “No I don’t. Unfortunately, I don’t get out much.”

Justina looked up at him, as she noted the dark undertone in his voice when he said the last sentence.

“Oh. I…I see.”

Marsallas smiled at her, his voice gentle, “I don’t think you do, Justina. But it is of no consequence.”

Not sure of what to say in response to that, she decided to change the subject. “Do you live nearby?”

“Umm. Over there,” he said gesturing to his right, to where the large marble villas stretched along the shoreline of Herculaneum. Justina’s eyes widened in surprise, she knew that the villas along the beach were owned by the patricians, the rich and elite of Herculaneum. Just who was Marsallas, and why was he interested in her? Then before she could stop herself she blurted out, “Are you a slave?”

Marsallas threw back his head and laughed for what seemed the longest time. Justina wondered why he found what she’d asked so amusing, and when he finally stopped, and looked over to where she sat, he must have noticed the small frown of annoyance on her face, because he took pity on her and finally answered her. “No I am not a slave, Justina. Although I might as well be one.”

Justina opened her mouth to ask why, but never had the chance to voice her question as Marsallas leaned forward and placed a finger on her lips. “No more questions, Justina. Please.”

Seeing the pleading look on his face, Justina closed her mouth and turned away, shyness stealing through her.

Marsallas sighed, “Now I have upset you. I’m sorry.”

Justina looked across at him, and shook her head, “No, it is I who should apologise. I had no right to pry.”

She saw his eyes close, and heard his soft groan of remorse, before he shifted closer to her. “You were not prying. It’s…it’s just that I find it so hard to share myself with anyone. I’m not used to having anyone care about me.” Then he leaned forward, and she watched mesmerised as his mouth came towards hers. Then his lips were on hers, and they both gasped in unison as a frisson of awareness surged through them both.

“Sweet. So sweet, as I knew you would be,” Marsallas whispered, his breath mingling with hers as his fingers gently cupped the softness of her jaw, squeezing gently until Justina had no choice but to open her mouth. Her gasp of pleasure was obviously what he wanted to hear, as his tongue probed deeper, teasing and tasting the sweetness within. Then the kiss, gentle at first, changed, deepening in its intensity as Marsallas increased the pressure of his mouth on hers as he felt her passion match his.

Justina didn’t know who pulled away first, but after what seemed like a lifetime their lips parted and they just stared at each other, young lovers caught up in the intensity of their first kiss, their first embrace. She shivered at the expression she saw in his blue eyes. Desire had darkened them to almost black, and she watched entranced unable, and unwilling, to look away.

It was Marsallas who ended their embrace, and Justina inwardly mourned the loss of his arms around her when he finally stood up.

“I have to go. Will you come tomorrow?” he asked quietly, staring down at her intently.

Justina nodded. “I’ll try. It depends on my father and whether he will go to-” She stopped speaking abruptly, unwilling to say anymore, but not before she saw the small frown that creased his brow.

“Like I said earlier, Justina. We all have things we want to keep to ourselves,” he murmured after an awkward silence had fallen between them. His tone was gentle, soothing, as if he understood her plight, her reluctance to tell him everything.

“Yes. I…I…”

“Try to come tomorrow if you can,” he said, interrupting her faltering words as he smiled down at her, in what was an obvious attempt to lighten the tension between them. “It is important that you do, as we have unfinished business.”

Justina looked up at him in surprise. “Unfinished business? What unfinished business?”

Marsallas grinned wickedly, “Why, the business of getting to know each other of course. Farewell my beautiful, Justina.”

Then before she could say another word, he turned and ran back towards the water edge and waded out into the cold water before swimming away, leaving Justina staring after him.

* * *

“Lie still please! I’ve nearly finished.”

“How can I? With a million ants crawling over me. I’m sure one has just crawled up my ar- err - up crevices I never knew I had.”

“Marsallas!” She cried, her tone horrified.

Marsallas laughed. “You are such an innocent!”

“Stop teasing,” she said, smiling at him. “Please Marsallas, just a few minutes more. I promise.”

She heard him grunt, the noise conveying to Justina that he didn’t believe her for one moment, and she couldn’t contain her giggle. But he obeyed her plea, and she saw him assume the position she wanted, his body unnaturally still.

“Is this pose really necessary? My poor legs and arms are killing me. I must look stupid.”

“Yes, the pose is necessary. You are supposed to be Jupiter defending the Empire, about to jump a hurdle. Now be quiet.” Inwardly she laughed, but said nothing more. She saw him move his head slightly, knowing that he was watching her, and a glow of pleasure went through her as she felt the heat of his gaze on her.

But then her work took over, and a frown of concentration settled on her brow as she knelt on the sand, her hands quick and frantic as they moulded and shaped the damp sand. It was over an hour later when she finally stood up. “There, I have finished. You can get up now.”

“At last!” Marsallas said, groaning theatrically, as he rose from where he had been lying, busily brushing the sand off his body.

He walked over to where Justina stood next to the sand sculpture and glanced down at it. He let out a gasp of surprise, and looked up at her, stunned amazement on his face. “It…it is wonderful! Unbelievable.”

She blushed, and glanced away in embarrassment. “Really?” She breathed, as if she could not quite believe what he said, as if she could not see her own genius.

“Yes, really. You have a brilliant talent. It is as if the sand is about to fly off into the air, it is so lifelike.”

Justina smiled up and him, and he smiled back, and their eyes locked. Then Justina pushed him away gently, breaking the spell, “Go and wash yourself, you are covered in sand – and ants!”

Later they sat by the water’s edge, the waves of the sea lapping gently at their feet as they watched the setting sun. They both knew that the time was approaching when they would have to leave.

“Is there no way you can start sculpturing properly? You have such talent it is a waste to see your sculptures washed away by the incoming tide.”

Justina smiled sadly. “My father is only a poor baker. He – we - work incredibly hard, there is not much money left over for luxuries such as letting me train as a sculptress. Besides, it is a male dominated world, I doubt very much whether anyone would take me on as an apprentice.”

“But-”

Marsallas stopped short, but she knew what he was going to say. They’d had this conversation before, on quite a few occasions in fact, during the past few weeks of their acquaintance. He was going to argue the point that surely her father made a decent enough living as the town’s best baker, to afford to let her train as a sculptress.

But thankfully, this time he said nothing. Instead, she saw him lean over and rummage in a small cloth sack he had brought with him.

“I nearly forgot,” he said, taking out a small wooden box and handing it over to her, murmuring softly, “Happy birthday, Justina.”

Her eyes shot to meet his sparkling blue ones, “You remembered!” She exclaimed, as she took the small box, her hands trembling.

“Of course I remembered. It’s not every day a girl has her sixteenth birthday.”

“What is it?” She asked, looking down at the small wooden box she held in her open palm.

Marsallas smiled, “Why don’t you open it and find out.”

Justina looked down at the box, then back up at Marsallas. She smiled, a radiant smile that lit up her face. Then she looked down and carefully opened the box, unable to contain her gasp of shock when she saw the ring inside. Hesitantly she took it out, and stared entranced at the beautiful gold and ruby ring that sparkled in the late afternoon sunshine.

“It was my mother’s. Do you like it?”

She knew how much he had loved his mother, and how he had been devastated when she had died when he was just ten years old. So giving her a ring that must have been so precious to him, seemed to forge the bond between them even closer. Even more so, as Marsallas knew that Justina too, had lost her mother when she was only a baby.

Now as she lifted tear filled eyes to his, she breathed, “Oh Marsallas, it is beautiful. I have never seen anything so lovely.” Then she frowned and shook her head slightly. “But this is too precious to give to me. It was your mother’s. Are you sure? I mean-”

“Justina. It’s yours,” he said interrupting her, his tone firm but gentle. “My mother would have loved you. She would have been proud for you to have it. Truly.”

The tears Justina had been trying to hold back fell, and Marsallas groaned, pulling her into his arms, “Don’t cry. Please.”

“I am crying with happiness, Marsallas.” Justina hiccupped, “Thank you so much, I will treasure this always,” she said placing the ring on her middle finger, before she looked up at him.

Marsallas smiled down at her, but then his smiled faded, as he leaned forward and kissed her passionately. Eventually they pulled away to stare at each other, and Marsallas whispered, “I love you, Justina.”

Justina smiled up at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears, “And I love you as well Marsallas, with all my heart.”

Marsallas groaned again, and pulled her back into his arms. Without conscious thought Justina’s arms wound around his neck, and they kissed with such passion, such longing that neither of them heard the man approaching until it was too late.

“Justina! What in the name of Jupiter are you doing, girl?” The booming voice directly behind her registered immediately, but before she could react, she was wrenched unceremoniously away from Marsallas with such force that she gasped in pain.

“Father!” Justina moaned, staring up in disbelief at the angry man who loomed over her, and Marsallas, his hand clamped like a vice around the softness of her upper arm as he pulled her away from Marsallas.

“But I don’t understand, father? Where are we going?” Justina cried, moments later as her father dragged her away from Marsallas. She saw through pain filled eyes that Marsallas was being restrained by a giant of a man - a slave most probably - as he tried to wrestle free from his grip and come to her defence.

“Marsallas!” Justina cried, seeing the desperation on his face as he struggled ineffectually to get away.

Justina was aware that she was being taken, not to their home in the centre of the town, but along a path to a large marble villa.

“Quiet girl,” her father had growled, shaking her as she struggled once again, and Justina, afraid by the anger that had consumed her father, stopped her struggling and said nothing until eventually they reached the gate of an imposing villa. As if they were expected, the gates swung open, and they were met by a silent slave who led them into the opulent villa, through magnificent high ceiling rooms, until they were finally left alone in the tablinum. Justina turned to her father, begging him for an explanation, but he had remained mute, refusing to answer her questions, his face pale and his hands shaking.

Eventually, after what had seemed like a lifetime, the door had opened, and a man of around fifty entered the room. He was tall and thin, and wore a toga of the finest linen.

Justina knew instantly who it was. Marsallas’s uncle. Quintus.

Even if Marsallas had not described him, she would have known who he was. Quintus was his uncle on his father’s side and she could see the family resemblance. Like Marsallas he had piercing blue eyes – but his were as cold as ice - and she couldn’t control the shiver of fear that went through her as he stared at her.

“Have you told her?” He asked her father, never once taking his eyes off Justina. Justina saw her father shake his head, sweat popping out on his forehead. “No.”

“Good.” Then saying nothing more, Quintus arranged his toga before he sat down on one of the luxuriously covered chairs. Taking some grapes from a golden platter, he waved his hand for them both to sit down.

Justina’s father sat down heavily in another chair, and Justina realising that she didn’t have much choice, slowly sat down next to him.

“I can see why my nephew is besotted with you. You are very beautiful. Come over here and sit beside me.”

Justina blanched at his words, and looked across at her father, “Father, please-”

“Cease!” Quintus shouted at her, before he swivelled his eyes to her father and bit out, “You should keep your daughter under control, man. She has too much freedom, too much tongue in her head. Now I said come over here.”

The colour drained from her face as Justina realised that her father seemed powerless to protect her, and reluctantly she rose and went over to sit next to Quintus. A shiver of revulsion coursed through her when he took her hand in his, his cold, thin fingers, rubbing the softness of her palm. Glancing over to where her father sat, Justina saw his shoulders slump in defeat, totally crushed by whatever hold this man had over him.

Once Quintus was sure that he had the upper hand once more, he continued speaking, his voice matter of fact and totally impersonal. “Your father is in a lot of trouble, Justina. He owes me a tremendous amount of money, his gambling has got out of control I’m afraid.”

At his words, Justina glanced sharply across at her father, desperate for him to deny what the older man was saying. But when she saw her father's face visibly age in front of her, she couldn't help the feeling of sickness that assailed her, “No.” She whispered, her head shaking from side to side, refusing to believe what she was hearing.

Looking up at her, his face as pale as death, her father whispered, “I am sorry child. Truly sorry.”

“But father. We can work it out. We did it before. We can do it again,” desperation edged her voice as she pleaded with him.

Quintus’s fingers dug into the softness of her skin, and Justina winched in pain, as she was forced to look back at him.

“How noble. How brave,” Quintus mocked, “But I’m afraid your father has got in too deep this time. He owes me a lot of money – money that has to be repaid now!”

“But I don’t understand-”

Quintus slammed his other fist down on a table that stood next to him, the action causing both Justina and her father to jump in fright. “I won’t tell you again, girl. You talk too much. As my mistress you will learn your place. You will learn to be seen and not heard!”

Justina took a deep shuddering breath at his words, unable for a moment to take in what he said. “Mistress?” She finally whispered, “I … I don’t understand?”

Quintus sighed dramatically, a bored look on his face. “Do I have to spell it out for you girl? I thought it would be obvious. Your father has bartered you - given you to me - to pay off his debts.”

“No! No it is impossible, I love Marsallas-”

“Marsallas!” Quintus spat, shaking her like one of the straw dolls she used to play with as a child. “I don’t think so my dear. You will be mine, not Marsallas's. And if you tell him anything of this, I will crush you and your father, and I will crush Marsallas. I will make Marsallas’s life a living death, so much so, that he will wish he is in Hades if you say one word to him of this. Do you understand me?”

Justina said nothing, her face deathly pale. She knew in that instant - that moment - as she glanced over to where her father sat, crushed and defeated, his head bent with the weight of his sorrow, that her life was about to change forever.

Looking away from her father, she saw Quintus’s lip’s curl in disgust at her father's weakness, and she shivered in trepidation as she recalled everything that Marsallas had told her about his uncle. His cruelty. His anger. His brutality. The callous way he treated everybody.

Even his only wife hadn’t escaped his tyranny. She had died a broken woman, a mere shadow of the vibrant woman she had once been according to Marsallas. And now it seemed that neither she, nor her father, would escape either.

It was, as if by some cruel twist of fate, that she had just become the main prize in some obscure contest, between uncle and nephew, and now between Quintus and her father.

And then, as if things couldn’t have gotten any worse, the door to the tablinum had flown open, and Marsallas had barged in, a furious look on his face as he took in the scene before him. It was obvious he had managed to escape from the slave, because the slave ran into the room moments later and grabbed him by his arms restraining him once more, when Marsallas had come to an abrupt halt inside the room.

“What in Jupiter’s name is going on?” he shouted, trying to wrestle out of the slave’s clutches, but his fight was futile as the slave's size and strength was so very much greater than his, and after a few moments he stopped in his attempts to free himself.

Quintus, confident now that his nephew was no threat to him, smiled over to him, “Ahh, Marsallas, I am glad you are here. You are just in time to congratulate me,” his tone was sarcastic. Then he raised his hand - the same hand that held Justina's - up in the air.

Marsallas stiffened, and his eyes narrowed when he saw their clasped hands, but refusing to be baited he remained mute.

“Nothing to say, boy? Well I’ll tell you then shall I? Justina has just agreed to be my mistress. She has been a bit remiss in not telling you what’s been going on, so I thought it was about time that you found out.”

A stunned silence fell in the room once Quintus had stopped speaking.

For what seemed like aeons, but in actuality was only seconds, Marsallas glared at his uncle before he finally broke eye contact and looked at Justina.

“Tell me it is not true, Justina?” He whispered, his eyes pleading, begging her to deny what his uncle spoke.

Justina bit back the tears that threatened to fall, when she saw the pained expression on his face, physically swallowing the lump of emotion that threatened to choke the very life out of her. Breaking eye contact with him, she turned slightly to look at Quintus, seeing in that instant the evil radiating out of him, the madness in his eyes, as he seemed to relish the misery he was inflicting on the three people in the room with him.

She knew with a certainty, that Quintus was capable of destroying them all if she didn’t acquiesce to his demands. He would crush each, and every one of them without a moment’s hesitation, if she denied anything he’d said.

So she turned, her face as pale as death, and her heart breaking into a thousand pieces, and said, “I’m sorry Marsallas. I-”

“You said you loved me Justina, only me,” he interjected, his face draining of colour as the enormity of what she was telling him sank in. And when she said nothing in her defence she saw him stiffen.

“All this time you were planning to be my uncle’s mistress?” Disgust replaced shock, and she saw his fists clench and unclench in rage, before he spat, “May you rot in Hades, Justina. I hope you remember me every night, whilst you lie on your back with your legs spread for him!”

And with that, he wrestled out of the slave’s grip, and the slave realising he was no longer a threat, had let him go

* * *

The light touch on her arm jolted her back to the present. Eyes focussing, she looked up at Diogenes, the same slave that had restrained Marsallas all those years ago on that fateful night.

“What?” Then she looked around her, surprised to see that the crowds were rapidly dispersing, the games finally over for the day. She shook her head slightly, “I'm sorry, Diogenes. I was far away.”

Then without another word, she stood up and followed the crowds out of the arena, leaving behind her past once more, her heart heavy and sad.

CHAPTER FOUR

“I’m sorry, Justina. There is nothing more I can do. I've made him as comfortable as possible.” Lydia said, as Justina entered the darkened bed chamber.

Justina nodded, as she walked over to where Lydia, her friend and a well respected healer, stood. “I understand, Lydia. Thank you for all your help.”

She spoke the words softly, and Lydia smiled at her, placing a hand on the younger woman’s arm in a gesture of comfort, as Justina looked down at Quintus who lay as still as death on his large bed.

“It is the least I could do. Do you need anything? A sleeping draught or something?”

Justina shook her head, “No, I will be fine. Thank you.”

Lydia said nothing more, but squeezed the younger woman’s arm in understanding before she left the room, closing the door with a soft click behind her. The finality of it caused Justina to shiver, her eyes automatically glancing over to a table along the back wall, seeing the wax death mask displayed so prominently. It had arrived that afternoon, rather appropriately she thought, as it now acted as a constant reminder of Quintus’s imminent death.

Looking away from the mask, she stared down at Quintus. He looked so still, as if he were already dead. The sunken hollows under his razor sharp cheekbones were so pronounced that no flesh remained on his face - or the rest of his body for that matter - and the blue veins on his hands stood out in stark contrast to the whiteness of his parchment thin skin. But she saw his chest move in small shaky movement’s, testament that he still clung to life, refusing to die, refusing to succumb to the disease that had been eating away at him for months now.

Justina sighed, and turned away, looking up at the man who stood silently next to his Master. “You can leave if you want, Diogenes. There is nothing more anyone can do.”

Justina didn’t expect a reply from the slave – he was a man of few words. But he didn’t leave and Justina shivered, ever so slightly in awe of the slave, even after all these years. She remembered the first time she had seen him, the feeling of shock that had assailed her as he loomed over her, black fathomless eyes staring down at her from a body nearly seven feet in height, and this, coupled with his massive strength – his chest alone was the size of three men’s - had rendered her immobile with fright.

His skin was as dark as mahogany, and his bald oiled head complete with earring, made him look like some giant pirate, but Justina knew that he had been captured many years ago as a young boy from Syria. She couldn’t tell how old he was, he seemed ageless somehow, but she knew that he must be at least forty years old by now-

A loud groan interrupted her thoughts, and she looked down at Quintus, surprised to see that he was awake for the first time since she had come back from Rome. Justina leaned over, and laid her hand on the cold skin of his forehead. “Shh, Quintus. Rest now.”

Quintus shook his head, and lifted a finger towards Diogenes, beckoning the slave forward. Once the slave had approached, Quintus rasped, “Lift me.”

“No Quintus, you must lie still,” she implored, a frown of concern on her face.

But Quintus ignored her, waving her away, and Diogenes, as ordered by his Master, lifted the old man until he was upright, placing a silk cushion behind his back. For several moments Quintus gasped for breath, the exertion causing him serious distress.

Eventually Quintus’s breathing steadied, and once he was able to breathe normally he looked over to Diogenes. “Leave,” he ordered.

Justina watched as the slave left the room, then she tensed when she saw his gaze come to rest on hers, a hard look in them eyes. She had seen that look many times over the past six years, and knew that it boded ill. Quintus beckoned her over, and Justina not having much choice, walked over to stand by his bed. He took her hand, his bony fingers gripping the softness of hers. “Did you see him? As I ordered you too?”

Justina stiffened, before she answered, “Yes.”

“And?”

“He won’t come.”

The three words held a wealth of meaning, and Quintus cackled. “Of course he wouldn’t.” He breathed hard, before he rasped, “And how was he?”

Justina frowned, not sure what he wanted her to say. But she spoke the truth anyway. “Hard. Indomitable. Full of hate.”

A cruel smile touched his lips, “Good. It was about time he became a man instead of fawning over you. What else?”

The question was fired rapidly, and Justina flinched slightly, “He said his life in Herculaneum was over, and he had no desire to return.”

“Not even for you?”

The question caused Justina’s heart to race, and she suddenly felt faint. Lifting her chin in defiance she fixed her gaze on his, refusing to be cowed. “No. Not even for me.”

Quintus’s eyes narrowed, the blue of his eyes like shards of ice, “Are you sure of that, Justina? He couldn’t keep his hands off you when he was younger.”

Justina sucked in her breath, refusing to answer his question. Instead she asked her own, “Why are you so full of hatred, Quintus?” Her voice was low, measured, with the depth of the emotion she was feeling, “Can’t you just leave it be? You know what you did tore us apart; can never be repaired. Be content with that as you lay here on your death bed.”

And with that she turned to leave, but his words halted her, causing a trickle of fear to course through her.

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Justina. I’ve sown the seeds of hate once again,” he said cryptically.

Closing the door to Quintus’s bedroom, Justina made her way down the dark corridor, her brow furrowed as she thought of Quintus’s words. He was so bitter. So full of hatred. Even now, with his death imminent, he still festered a hatred for his nephew that defied logic.

Deep in thought, she was unprepared for the shadow that suddenly came to life from behind one of the marble columns. She stiffened, instantly on the defensive, thinking it was Secundus.

But it wasn't Secundus, and Justina she felt her heart lurch in surprise when she saw Marsallas standing there.

Had it been five whole days since she’d seen last seen him? It seemed like a lifetime ago. Her stomach muscles contracted as she took in a deep breath, watching as he came towards her, his eyes burning into hers so intensely that she didn’t know whether to run away from him, or run into his arms such were the myriad of feeling coursing through her.

She did neither. Instead she merely stood her ground. A shiver ran through her, trickling down her spine like ice cold mountain water. Eventually she found her tongue, and silently cursed the husky tone of her voice as she said, “You have come.”

The words once blurted out, now sounded stupid, and she blushed in mortification. It didn’t help when she saw Marsallas’s mouth quirk in a slight smile at her gaucheness.

"So I have.”

Those three words held a wealth of meaning, and Justina looked away as an awkward silence fell between them.

"Is Quintus in there?”

Turning her head back to him, she became aware that he had moved closer to her and her lips were now no more than a whisper away from his. Her stomach plummeted as she fought the urge to fuse her lips with his. To taste him. All of him.

“Yes,” she finally answered.

“Can I see him?”

Justina nodded. “He was still awake when I just left.” For a moment she wondered whether she should mention the conversation that had just taken place. Making up her mind quickly, she blurted out, “He wasn’t in a very good mood, I’m afraid. He was questioning me about you…”

Her words trailed off. For a long moment Marsallas said nothing, just stared down at her, his eyes expressionless. Then he walked past her and stopped in front of the door, before he turned to where Justina was still standing, “Will you come in with me?”

For a moment she hesitated, unsure. But then she saw a glimpse of uncertainty – fleeting – but none the less there – enter his eyes before it was blinked away. “Yes. Of course,” she said, making up her mind.

* * *

“Quintus? Marsallas is here,” Justina whispered, unsure whether he was asleep or not, as his eyes were now closed. For a few moments silence reigned in the room until Quintus’s eyes suddenly shot open, causing Justina to jump slightly with the unexpectedness of it. His eyes bored into hers briefly, before they swivelled to where Marsallas stood on the other side of the bed.

For an indeterminably long time both men stared at each other, each of them taking the others measure.

Considering how ill Quintus was, Justina was surprised to see anger and hatred radiating out of Quintus’s eyes, before his lips, parchment thin, curled in disgust as he looked his nephew up and down.

Eventually Quintus spoke, “Well, what a surprise. My long lost nephew returns at last.”

Justina held her breath, amazed by the vitriol she could hear in Quintus’s voice, and she glanced over to Marsallas awaiting his response.

“Uncle,” Marsallas nodded in greeting, his tone neutral. But the word held a wealth of feeling, and Justina ached with pity for him. Inwardly she was annoyed with Quintus. Hadn’t Marsallas come to see him as ordered? And now that he had, Quintus was still angry with him! It seemed that nothing Marsallas could do would ever please his uncle.

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