Zucchabar, late January 182 A.D.

This morning, while I was visiting the market, an extraordinary thing happened.

Well, extraordinary is not the most appropriate word to describe the event, but since it managed to upset the entire town, and since its effect will be felt in the upcoming months, I think the adjective I used is not wrong either.

The arena has crumbled.

One moment it was up, its dark shadow stretching over the dye market, the next it was but a ruin surrounded by a cloud of dust as high as the nearby hills.

Of course, it did not happen in silence, but it was accompanied by a thunder-like sound that, coupled with the tremor of the ground under our feet, made us believe it was an earthquake.

Instead it was just the arena, fallen down like a beaten gladiator.

Men are currently working to rescue the persons and the animals that were inside when the building crumbled. There is little hope to find anyone still alive, and the corpses must be burned before they rot. As the common people labour hard, the city's prominent personages, Father included, are instead already discussing about how to raise the funds to rebuild the arena- let's hope without saving money on the materials, as they did in the past.

The mob must be kept entertained, otherwise it gets bored and dangerous. I would prefer to see them build a theatre but men - and many a woman - prefer blood to plays.

Zucchabar, late January 182 A.D.

Father and I had another discussion today. It concerned Publius, as usual, but it has been harsher and more difficult than the previous ones.

All started when my son did not work out in the afternoon. His right leg was bothering him and I told him to take a day of rest. Publius followed my advice, but Father was not pleased with either of us.

He burst in the library where we had been reading, slamming the door open and staring furious at us.

"What there is now?" He said sarcastic. "The little boy has scratched his knee?" He did not wait for an answer, but marched to the chair where Publius was sitting and hit him with a blow to the back of his neck. "Get up, you weak girl, and go out in the courtyard! I want see you run until you have no more breath!"

Publius hesitated before moving, and his lips trembled, as he looked at me.

"Get up!" Father shouted again, raising his hand, and my son stood up, limping away from the room.

My heart cried as I watched him, trying hard to walk straight-backed despite the pain. My son is such a brave little man...why can't Father see it? Why does he see only Publius' faults, while he is blind to his virtues?

"Why do you treat him so?" I faced Father when we were alone. "You know how damp weather causes his knees to hurt more, and it had been raining for three days!"

"A real man does not care about a few drops of water! A Roman must be tough enough to bear every kind of climate! Or do you think you can complain about the weather when you are in the legions? I want my grandson to be a soldier, not a weakling like the man who sired him." Father concluded with disdain.

"Gneus was not a weakling, he was a good man." I replied, feeling the need to defend my late       husband.

"Good for what? He was able to give me only one grandchild and he is just a weak boy." Father snickered. 

"Oh really? And who chose him as my husband?" I hissed, furious. "You! You selected him because of his family, but there were signals of his weak constitution. His parents were cousins, and you know that close inbreeding can cause mental and physical taints. But you ignored it. You made me marry without even bothering to ask what I thought, and this is the result. That's why you are so hard with Publius - because your grandson is not as tall, robust and strong as you are! Because he is a dreamer, a lover of books, and does not love to fight as you do!" I spat in Father's face, our visages so close I could feel the heat of his boiling anger.

He raised his hand, and I was sure he would hit me, but then he lowered it, and growled, stressing the words. "Don't ever dare to talk to me like this another time...understood?"

I did not reply, nor nodded, nor I lowered my eyes. I simply stood there, staring at him, until he turned and walked away, leaving me alone.

I have spent the last hour in Publius' room, rubbing his back and legs with healing oils. I did it almost in complete darkness, to avoid Father discovering us.

My son did not want to let me do it in the beginning, for he thought it was his duty to bear the pain born from his punishment in silence - or, more probably, Father told him so. He tried to play down his discomfort, but I had seen at dinner how stiff he was and how his ribs hurt, so much he barely spoke. If Father noticed it, he chose to ignore it - but he also avoided making nasty comments that would hurt my boy more than any blow.

Publius loves his grandfather, and he does not resent how he is treated, for he believes it right. He is a dutiful boy, brought up in a family with strong concepts of virtue, discipline and courage. For him, Father is example of the perfect Roman man: a courageous soldier, a good politician, a respected paterfamilias. But the gods have not been kind with him as they had been with Father. My son's body is delicate, and I am afraid all these physical exertions will not make it stronger, but will end up ruining his health.

I am a Roman woman. I appreciate strength, physical prowess and stoicism. I too would have liked to see my son grow up strong and robust. But the gods - and my husband's bloodlines - decided otherwise...so now I am just a mother, concerned for her only child's well being.

Zucchabar, Early February 182 A.D.

Father has just returned from the forum followed by three unknown men. The view over the garden and the gates is not good from this window, but I got the impression two of those men were restraining the third one, who walked between them. I even believe to have caught a glimpse of metal at the man's wrists...Manacles? Has father bought a new slave? And for what? We already have enough servants here. What does he want from that dark haired bearded man?

After lunch I got the answer to my question and, as it often happens with Father, it would have been better to remain in ignorance, rather than know the truth.

The bearded man I saw is indeed a slave, but not a common one. He is a gladiator- and not an unknown one. He is the Spaniard, Zucchabar's most popular - and deadly - fighter.

Father has rented him for one month because he wants the slave to teach Publius how to use a sword and his combat skills.

He was so satisfied, so...smug when he reported me how he had been able to convince the Spaniard's owner, a certain Antonius Proximo, to loan him his slave.

"It was not easy at all," Father explained, rubbing his hands in satisfaction, blind to how I must have blanched upon hearing the gladiator's name and the reason he had been brought here. "I thought he would be happy to make some good money out of his slave now that the games are closed down because of the crumbled arena, and instead he proved very difficult. Proximo is very protective, so to speak, of the Spaniard, for he has plans for him - his school will move to Rome as soon as the navigation season opens, and he has great projects for his best fighter. He was afraid his slave might escape, and I had to explain him how the walls surrounding this place are impassable and how I will have the Spaniard always guarded by one of my freemen. In the end I managed to convince him...and a good deal of money changed hands." Father laughed, but quickly sobered, fixing his steely eyes in mine. "Tell your son to be ready, for starting from tomorrow, the Spaniard will do his best - or his worst - to transform him in a man."

I opened my month to protest, to ask him how he could seriously believe I would trust my son with a killer, but Father silenced me with an imperious gesture, before he walked away.

Now I am here, writing, but my hands shake so much these scribbles are practically unreadable.

Publius has just gone to bed, after we discussed Father's plans for him. My son is awed but also eager, afraid but willing to be trained by the Spaniard. As many boys of his age, who have never attended the games in person, but only heard the adults' comments about what happens inside the arena, Publius believes the gladiators are gallant, honourable warriors, in the tradition of Rome's greatest heroes. He does not know the naked, cruel reality, that the gladiators are only killers, fighting each other to entertain a crowd as blood-thirsty as them. So Publius believes the Spaniard is a sort of Hector or Hercules, a master swordsman from whom he will be able to learn many things, and finally make his grandfather proud of him. And as he spoke, my son's eyes were as determined as Father's, showing his great will...it is a tragedy his body is not up to it.

Someone might think that if he is willing enough and practice hard enough, his condition will improve, but I have spent too many sleepless nights at my son's bedside not to know his body will more probably break down than strengthen under a serious effort.

His father knew it too, and he never pushed our boy to do more than he could, he just wanted him to be a good student, which Publius has always been without any urging. Oh Gneus, how I wish you were still alive! There was never passion between us, but respect and affection and you loved Publius as fiercely as I. You wanted him to become a lawyer, a local politician, not a soldier. You would have never allowed him to be left prey of a gladiator...

The Spaniard.

I shiver at the mere thought of him. He is the most ferocious gladiator I have ever seen during the few times I attended the games. I remember when I was younger and Father forced me and my brothers to attend them, for "they made us stronger". He was wrong. Giving birth to my son, pushing him in this world - that made me strong, not witnessing such useless killings. I am just grateful he has not yet dragged Publius in the arena - and I pray that damned building won't be up for many months more.

My eyes wander outside the window, to the little, secluded barrack in a corner of the garden, where the Spaniard has been closeted - away from the house, as the dangerous beast he is.

I have still impressed in my mind the only time I saw him fight. It was about fifteen days ago, a couple of days before the arena crumbled. Father and I had been invited there by one of his business partner and I had failed to find a polite excuse to refuse.

I remember how shocked I was by how fast the Spaniard killed six men in less than a minute, without letting them even try to give a hint of a defence. And I recall I was not the only one to be shaken. The crowd had fallen silent, only to collectively gasp when the gladiator threw one of his swords against the nobles' box and shouted at the people sitting on the stands...something about how entertained we - they - were... Oh yes, I remember.

I believe the crowd was disappointed because the combat had ended so quickly and the Spaniard was angered by it. Instead Father had been impressed by the display of efficiency - he had called it so - of the gladiator. He commented with his friend that he had fought like a soldier, killing quickly and without waste of energy. Perhaps this is the reason Father chose him for Publius, but it does not reassure me in the least.

How can I leave my child in the hands of such a killer? Of course the Spaniard will not purposely hit him, but I am sure Father has told him to be hard with my son, and who knows how a slave might react when given free rein with a Roman freeborn?

Zucchabar, Early February 182 A.D.

Publius had his first lesson with the Spaniard few hours ago. They trained in the small inner courtyard, and I attended it sitting under the porch, watching anxiously as the gladiator handed a wooden sword to my son and then showed him how to handle it. The Spaniard taught Publius moves and counter moves, explaining when they must be used with clear, simple words.

I have been surprised to discover the gladiator speaks as a well-learned man. His Latin is flawless, with just a hint of accent, and during the lesson he made some references to Julius Caesar and Trajan's conquests. Curious. I have never expected it in a slave.

The training session was concluded when Publius' arm started to ache because of the unusual exercise, and while Father's expression made clear he would have wanted them to go on a while longer, the Spaniard was quick to call an end to the lesson. He then bowed to Publius and praised him for his efforts - another thing I had not expected him to do.

He did not look at all the brutish fighter I had thought he would be.

This evening Publius has talked incessantly about the Spaniard and their lesson. He looks forward to tomorrow training, and his eagerness managed, for once, to raise Father's approval, which, of course, made my son even happier.

I just hope the next lesson will be as good as this one, and would not cause him grief and pain.

Unbidden, my gaze stops over the barrack in the far side of the garden, where the gladiator has been locked up after being allowed to visit the bathhouse. Light filters from the small window. I wonder what he is doing. How does he occupy his time when he is not working with Publius? The little building is narrow and low, I am not even sure he can walk straight.

The lamp in the barrack has just been extinguished. The Spaniard has gone to sleep. It is time I do the same.

Zucchabar, Early February 182 A.D.

Something... unsettling happened this morning.

I had just returned from the market with some bulbs for the garden and while I was talking with the gardener, telling him where to plant them, I glimpsed a strange movement beyond one of the fences. I went to see what it was and I discovered it was the Spaniard.

He was having a work-out in the grass patch in front of the barrack, doing push-ups and other exercises under the guard's watchful eyes. He wore a set of chains to his ankles, but his movements were not overtly hindered by it. To the contrary, he moved around with agility and a grace uncommon for such a large man, and I could not help but stare at him...at his tanned, muscled flesh, glistening with sweat. And as I watched him, I felt the almost unbearable impulse to touch him...to caress his skin and know its texture. My hand almost itched with desire and by the time I realized what was going on, I discovered that my heart was running and I was withholding my breath. I became aware I was behaving like a school girl spying the boys fighting in the gymnasium, and walked away, irritated with myself.

I feel like snorting. I acted as if I had never seen a man before, like I was a maiden of fourteen, instead of being the mother of a boy of the same age. Like one of those women lusting after the gladiators I despise so much, for they forget their honour and their duty while they stare at some piece of male flesh.

It won't happen again, I swear it.

In the afternoon Publius had his second lesson with the Spaniard. It went pretty much like yesterday, with the difference being it was longer and more complex. The gladiator assigned a number to each move he has taught Publius, and my son had to execute them in response to the number his trainer called at random. The exercise went on for a long time and again ended when my son claimed to be tired.

Father did not like it and at dinner he informed Publius tomorrow the lesson will go on until he decides it is time to stop. My son simply nodded, but even the implied reprimand was not able to ruin his good mood.

The Spaniard has praised him again, and my child is basking in those gentle words. It does not matter they come from a slave; for Publius they come from a gallant warrior, and they are boosting his self confidence.

How I wish Father would understand sometimes a kind word can do much more than beating and harsh comments! He was not as hard with my brothers when they were growing up. Age and the lack - so far - of other male heirs have changed him. He wants Publius to be perfect in his eyes but fails to see perfection does not exist. What makes a man virtuous is his constant desire to reach perfection, to test and improve himself even knowing that very seldom he will get close to it.

Zucchabar, Early February 182 A.D.

The lessons progress.

Publius and the Spaniard are now "fighting" each other with their wooden swords. Their movements are still slow and the gladiator calls out both the numbers of the move he is going to make and the one of the counter move my son must execute to block him.

It is so beautiful to see Publius' eyes spark with excitement and eagerness before every lesson. To see his young face set in a mask of concentration while he fights, even if sometimes I have to stifle a grin because his tongue is peeking out. To see his cheeks flushed with exertion and pride after one of the Spaniard's praises.

The Spaniard... I have caught my eyes stopping and lingering over him many times today. He is a very handsome man, and I can't but admit his powerful masculinity is calling out to a part of me with such intensity it is difficult to ignore it.

It is unsettling and I don't know how to relate to it. Discovering he is not a mindless, brutal thug, had made me see him with different eyes. He is soft spoken, well learned, gentle with my son, and he is touching a part of myself I believed was dead for good when I was ordered to marry Gneus.

This evening, for example, not only did I wonder about the opportunity of visiting him in the barrack to try to engage him in a conversation, but I also did something I have not done in ages: I watched myself in the mirror and studied my face and body, perusing my reflection with critical eyes and wondering if a man might still find me attractive.

I think I can still do. 

My dark brown eyes are not yet lined, and it is the same for my mouth, still full and slightly turned upward. There is no silver in my black hair and the skin on my cheeks is still smooth. As for my body, my breasts are ripe and my belly flat, despite my thirty two years and Publius' birth. Not bad indeed, but I would be happier if this examination had not been prompted by this question: what does he - he being the Spaniard - think of me? Does he find me attractive?

The mere thought cooled my enthusiasm. 

What does it matter if a slave likes me or not? Nothing at all. No matter how attractive I find him: he is a slave, I am a Roman matron with a son soon to be wearing the toga virilis, and these unbefitting feelings must be suffocated and forgotten.

Zucchabar, Early February 182 A.D.

The crisis I have been afraid for some days have finally exploded, but it developed in quite an unexpected way.

In the past afternoons, I have noticed how Father was getting restless during Publius' lessons. He was dissatisfied with the way the gladiator treated my son, complaining he was too tender. I have tried to calm him, pointing to him, instead, how well Publius has been progressing and how his skills have improved in such brief period, but he had replied it was not enough, that he wanted my boy to become tougher. I knew with painful certainty it was only a matter of time Father would ask...order...the Spaniard to beat my son with his wooden sword.

And it happened today.

As it has been raining since the morning, I thought - hoped? -  the lesson would be cancelled, but, of course, Father ordered otherwise. So we all moved in the courtyard, made muddy and slippery by the rain.

The lesson started and it did not take me long to notice Publius was slower than usual with his legs. There were no doubts his knees were hurting because of the damp weather. He tired quickly and soon he started to make mistakes, until the moment he slipped and fell down, a cry escaping his lips.

I was at once on my feet and outside the porch, but Father ordered me to stop where I was and shouted Publius to get up.

Publius tried hard, even motioning away the hand the Spaniard offered him, but his knees failed him, and he fell again, as it continued to rain, and my tears mingled with the drops of water on my cheeks.

Father shouted again, but Publius did not react. So he turned to the Spaniard and urged him to beat my boy till he got up.

The Spaniard did not move.

"I ordered you to hit him with your sword!" Father screamed again, but the gladiator shook his head.

"No." He said loud and clear, and threw his swords away.

Father let out an unarticulated cry, marched out the porch and, after picking up the discharged sword, he moved to where Publius was still nursing his knees.

"Noooo!" I screamed rushing forward, but the Spaniard was faster. He grabbed Father's arm before he could do any damage, and twisted it behind his back, making him drop the weapon.

I knelt near Publius, taking his trembling body in my arms as a few feet away the Spaniard freed Father, who immediately called for the guard to intervene.

The Spaniard did not resist when his arms were imprisoned behind his back, while Father, after rubbing his forearm, retrieved the sword he had let fall.

I tensed, afraid he would try again to hit Publius, but instead he moved toward the restrained gladiator.

"How did you dare to disobey me, slave? To hurt me?" he hissed, before striking out. The first two blows hit the gladiator to his stomach, and when he doubled over, Father hit him twice more on his back, then kicked him to his belly.

It was then I could not take more, and leaving Publius, I ran to put myself between Father and the Spaniard.

"Stop, Father!" I cried. "That's enough!"

"Do you want some too?" Father snarled, but the horror on my face calmed him. But not completely. He let go of the sword, yes, but he walked where Publius was now standing and slapped him hard with the back of his hand.

"Touch him again and I swear I will kill you."

The voice, low and deadly, came from behind my back, startling me. I turned around to see the Spaniard standing, his body tense and ready to spring.

The guard moved forward to block him, but I stopped him with a gesture. The man had just protected my son, and I did not feel in danger with him, no matter what he had just said.

Father moved closer to us and hissed, "What did you say, slave?"

"You heard me. Beat me if it makes you feel a man, but leave the boy alone."

"How do you dare to threaten me, to insult me?" Father walked in front of the Spaniard and slapped his face.

The gladiator did not wince. "I am doing it to prevent you from committing a mistake, noble Julius Ireneus - an irreparable one." He tilted his chin to indicate Publius. "Your grandson loves and respects you even if you beat and terrify him... He loves you despite all your faults. Why don't you do the same with him?"

Father's hand was still raised during this speech, but instead of hitting the gladiator again as I expected, it slowly lowered, as the Spaniard stepped even closer to Father and continued. "Publius is a fine boy. Intelligent, dutiful, loving, but the gods have not blessed him with physical prowess. He will never be a soldier like you were - resign yourself. If you insist on this path, you will end up causing him a serious incident that might leave him crippled...or worse." The Spaniard's eyes narrowed. "And then what would you have obtained, noble Junius Ireneus? An empty house and the death of your family line. Do you really want to risk it? Do you know how it is when you see the future die?"

"No," murmured Father, in such a subdued tone as I have never heard from him. "No, I don't know Spaniard, but I feel you do." 

"Yes, I do. And just because I know, I beg you not to commit the same mistake I did. Don't put your pride before the people who love you. It is not worth it."

There was a long, interminable moment of silence, then Father nodded.

"I will keep your words in mind, Spaniard," he said in the end.

The gladiator bowed his head and I let out the breath I have been unconsciously withholding. It was then I realized it had stopped raining and a shy sunbeam was peaking through the clouds. It lightened the spot where Publius was standing, using his sword to support himself.

Father walked to him and murmured, "Come, grandson, let me help you back inside the house, you have already taken enough damp for today. I watched as they moved slowly away and my eyes blurred with tears of relief and hope. I then heard a slight rustling noise and a soft voice asking, "Are you all right, lady?"

I turned around and found myself face to face with the Spaniard. It was the first time I saw him so close, and the sight led caused my already weary heart to almost lose a beat.

He was so handsome...A strong, chiselled jaw covered by a well trimmed beard. A long, straight nose. A broad forehead to which his wet, short cropped hair was plastered. Two beautiful, blue-green eyes, watching me kindly, his head slightly tilted on the side.

My voice failed me and I was just able to nod in reply to his question.

"Good." He smiled weakly, attracting my eyes to his little, fleshy mouth, then he straightened. "With your permission, lady Junia, I would like to retire to my cell to dry myself."

"Of course...but first visit the bathhouse."

He nodded, bowed his head, and turned to leave.

It was then I realized there was something I had to do.

"Wait!" I called.

He stopped and faced me, an eyebrow arched in enquiry.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He nodded and bowed again, then he left followed by the guard.

About two hours have elapsed since that moment, and I here in my rooms, with my maid drying and coiling my hair. Publius is still soaking in the hot bath I had the slaves prepare for him. I will let him stay there as long as he likes. Then I will give him a good massage with a mix of arnica oil, good to reduce the bruises, and lavender oil, good for relaxing the muscles, and... my mind drifts away.

About two hours have elapsed, and yet my eyes keep on seeing how the Spaniard stepped forward to protect Publius, how he bore the beating in silence and with dignity, and how he looked when he boldly spoke to Father. Not many a man would dare to speak to Junius Ireneus in that way, and yet he did, risking a severe punishment for my son's sake. What kind of man he is? He looks so dignified, proud...noble. How can he be a slave?

My eyes wander again to the barrack. What is he doing now? He said he wanted to dry himself, but does he have something with which do it? A towel and a clean tunic? I don't even know how the barrack had been arranged to host him. That place had been built to house dogs...animals, as I once thought him to be.

But he is no beast.

He is a wonderful man and I hope he is not forced to sleep on bare ground.

I must go there and check the situation. I will do it as soon as I am done here.

Dinner will be served soon - I can hear the noises made by the slaves as they arrange the table. I must go down soon, but I first wish to fix on the wax of these tablets what happened in the Spaniard's barrack, when I went to visit him.

Before going, I had checked on Publius, finding him asleep on his bed. So I decided the massage could wait, put the vials with the oils back in my pocket and left him to his nap.

I went down in the garden, carrying with me a towel and a clean tunic I hoped would fit the Spaniard. 

Once in front of the barrack I unbolted the door and knocked on it before calling, "I am coming in!"

There was a rustling sound as I pushed open the door, and when I was inside, I saw the Spaniard was sitting on a pallet, covering himself as best as he could with a blanket.

I briefly looked around the narrow place, noticing it had been somehow made habitable, with a chamber pot in a corner, a basin and a pitcher full of water in another, a low stool and a small table, on which the gladiator's blue tunic and linens were spread out to dry.

I blushed at the realization he was naked under the sheet he had hurriedly thrown over himself. 

His gaze was embarrassed as he tried to stand up, and I hasted to motion him to stay seated, as I stammered, "I- I am sorry to bother you, but I brought a dry towel and a clean tunic. I hope it will fit."

"Thank you, lady," he murmured, followed by one of those polite bows of his.

I walked closer to the pallet and he freed an arm from beneath the sheet to take the items I was handing him. As he moved, the fabric slid down his shoulder and from my standing position, I not only got a glimpse of his broad back, but I also noticed the red welt marring it. The bruise caused by Father's beating was large and swollen and looked very painful to me. Without even realizing it, my hand reached down to touch it, and he startled violently.

"Forgive me," I apologized, "I did not mean to hurt you."

"You did not, lady," he replied, but I could see in his eyes and hear in his raspy voice he was lying. He was hurting- badly.

It was then I remembered the healing oils in my pocket. Lavender and arnica, just what he needed. Without stopping to think about the wisdom of my actions, I decided to use them on the Spaniard.

I walked to the table, took out the vials, uncorked both of them and mixed the oils on my hands, conscious the gladiator was observing my every move.

When I was ready, I turned around and said to him, "Bare your back, Spaniard, I am going to massage you with these oils. It will make you feel better."

"You don't need to do it, lady-"

"Do not discuss, Spaniard. It's an order," I interrupted him, walking closer.

He glared at me for a few moments, then he tilted his chin, set his jaw, and did as I commanded.

The complete view of his back, from his shoulders to his buttock made my mouth go dry, as I knelt at his side. It is so wide, so broad, so muscled, beautiful despite the angry red marks marring it. The feel and the scent - yes, scent, for I bent my head to sniff him - of his skin almost intoxicated me. My hands wanted to wander, to explore, to caress that golden expanse of male flesh, but I curbed my instincts, as hard as it was, for I have never felt like this before, and a part of me cried, wanting to break loose and do...do what? Oblige him to submit to my attentions, just like I ordered him to do with the massage? No, that would be too cruel. Even if...even if his reaction to my touch could indicate he would not oppose my actions...I have not mistaken the rather prominent bulge I spotted beneath the sheet when I faced him after I finished with his back and asked him if he felt better.

It was impossible to miss the swelling between his crossed legs, and he was embarrassed, very much so. His voice sounded almost strangled when he saluted me...

I wonder how much time has elapsed since he had a woman, to react in this way to a simple massage that was not even pleasurable, for I have pressed my fingers deep in his beaten muscles.

Perhaps I should send him one of my maids for the night... Yes, that's a good idea, a perfect way to thank him again for what he did today. But who would he favour most? Dark skinned, voluptuous Ayan, or the petite, fair skinned Marina? I will go for Ayan. I will instruct her to bring dinner to the Spaniard and then to offer herself to him, and spend the night with him. After all, Ayan is always eyeing men at the market, and I am sure she will be happy to carry out this duty.

Just after returned from dinner, which, to my surprise, was not a tense and silent affair, but a pleasant occasion during which Father talked to Publius as he had not done in ages, I discovered Ayan waiting in my rooms.

"What are you doing here?" I reproached her. "I told you to spend the night with the Spaniard."

"I know, mistress, but he refused," the girl almost cried, "He said he was not interested and sent me away."

"Did you insist? Did you make your intentions clear?"

"Of course! But it did not work." Ayan hung her head, disappointed.

"I see."

I dismissed her and sent word to Marina to come here.

I will send her to the Spaniard. He probably does not get crazy for these Numidian dark beauties. Marina instead has his same colouring - I am sure she will please him.

Zucchabar, Early February 182 A.D.

This morning I had another surprise.

The Spaniard refused Marina too, and sent her back. The girl did not come to inform me last evening, but she told me this morning, when I enquired about how was her night. She was as disappointed as Ayan, but I could not care less for her bruised feelings. I was too busy wondering why the Spaniard had refused my gift.

Why did he not take one of the girls? He was mighty aroused yesterday afternoon, for sure some relief had to be welcome...Or not? Oh well, it is getting late and I have more important things to do than muse over a slave's behaviour. Slave...no. It feels so bad to call him so. He has a name. Spaniard. Well, this too is not a name. I wonder how he is called...? Stop! I must go, Publius is calling for me, wanting to talk me about something, I don't know exactly what.

Well, now I know. Publius wanted to be sure I will let him continue his lessons with the Spaniard.

He was concerned I might decide to interrupt them after yesterday incident, but I reassured him. He will go on with his training, because he wishes for it, and not because Father obliges him.

Needless to say, Father was very happy to hear of my boy's eagerness. It is almost incredible to see how he is changed after a few well-said words. But perhaps it was not only the words to convince him... If a slave, a man who could be killed for threatening a Roman citizen, risks his life for a reason that does not concern him in first person, then it means that matter is really important. One would be stupid not to think hard about it, and Father is all but stupid.

He has promised never again to be so harsh with Publius, and I am sure it will be so. I have seen the truth of his change of attitude in his eyes - and for this I will never be able to thank the Spaniard enough.

The Spaniard. He is always in my thoughts. He never ceases to surprise me - he is an amazing man. And every time I think of him in this way, I cannot help but wonder how he become a slave, for I had no doubt he was not born in chains. I have heard somewhere he is a deserter, but I find hard to believe to it. Would the man who so unselfishly protected my son flee in front of the enemy? I don't think so. But perhaps he was given an order he could not obey ...Yesterday he said he knew what meant to lose his family members...Perhaps it is connected to his reduction in slavery...Who knows?

Late evening.

I am writing these lines in the library, darting quick glances to the object of my previous musings, studying him as he sits on the divan, his face a mask of concentration as his eyes go back and forth on the scroll as he reads. Every now and then he moves, unrolling more of the scroll and trying not to make too much noise with the chains at his wrists. Their sight offends me - I did not wish to see him restrained like this, but Father refused to listen to me.

"If you want to go on with this crazy notion of yours, and have him enter my library, it will be with his hands chained - or nothing."

I can understand Father's concerns and, in truth, had someone told me, ten days ago, that I would host a gladiator in my library, I would certainly take them for mad. But many things happened in these ten days.

Many things changed, and the conversation I had with the Spaniard this afternoon confirmed me how special he is...

I faced him after his training session with Publius.

For the entire length of the lesson, I had been aware of the hard glances the Spaniard had been throwing in my way, and came to the conclusion he was angry with me, although I could not fathom why.

So, once he was done with Publius, I approached him and, after some comments about my son's progress, to which he replied politely and coldly, I asked him why he was irritated with me.

His beautiful eyes - oh yes, they are so beautiful - flashed at my words, and I knew I had hit the target fully. However, he did not answer and just like yesterday, I had to order him to obey to my wishes.

His chin tilted and his jaw set - I begin to think he does it when he is ill at ease - he told me what I had wanted to know, with a rumbling tone that caused me goose bumps as much as his hard expression did.

"I don't like to be treated like an animal, praised for a job well done by seeing its basic needs satisfied."

It took me a moment to realize he was referring to the girls I had sent him.

He had been offended by my gesture. He thought it was like throwing a bone to a dog... and in his eyes I saw all the shame, all the degradation I had caused him. He had risked his life for my son and I treated him like an animal! I had only wished to be kind with him, to give him something I had good reasons to believe he craved, but I had only managed to offend and hurt this proud, strange man...this noble slave.

I was so ashamed of myself I lowered my head and apologized. You figure it, a mistress begging a slave's forgiveness! But I did, and I would do it again.

"I am sorry, Spaniard," I said, "I did not mean to insult you. I just wanted to make your life a little better after you did so much for my son. I - I never stopped to consider how you would see it. Forgive me."

He bowed his head, accepting my apology, then started to move away, for Publius was gesturing to him from the other side of the courtyard.

"May I go, lady?"

"In a short while...I still wish to make your stay here more comfortable. How can I do it? What would you like? More food? A better bed? Tell me and think of it just as a grateful mother's gift."

The Spaniard looked straight at me and murmured. "Books."

"What?"

"Books. I would like something to read, if it is possible. It had been...ages...since I last had a scroll in my hands."

I was stunned by his response, for I would have never predicted it. But perhaps I should not have to be so surprised, given his habit of quoting Caesar Marcus Aurelius' writings while he teaches Publius...

When I recovered from my stupor, I nodded with energy. "Then books it shall be."

I swear a slight smile appeared on his lips as he thanked me, before I let him go to teach Publius, who was waiting to show him gods only know what.

I returned inside the house, intending to have a selection of our scrolls sent to the Spaniard's barrack, but then I thought it would be better to have him come in the library to choose what he wanted to read.

Father thought I was mad when I told him about my idea, and told me in not so many words, but it was worth to stick with my plan just to see the amazement in the Spaniard's eyes, when he was taken in the library after dinner and I told him to pick the scroll he wished to read and to sit down on a divan. His eyes blazed with an unknown emotion before he started to peruse the shelves, delicately turning the labels to read the titles, until he found something of his liking. Seneca's writing - I am not surprised by his choice.

Our eyes have just met. I was observing him again, he has raised his gaze from the scroll and our eyes locked. He has stared at me with an unreadable expression on his face, quietly bearing my glance until, in the end, I lowered it.

He is an amazing man and his mere presence is causing me to feel emotions I though I would no longer experience...if I ever experienced them in first place. While he was looking at me, I totally forgot the notion a slave should not stare at his mistress, but I felt the almost unbearable need to make him smile...to caress his bearded cheek and see his eyes come alive with mirth. What is happening to me? What is this need to make him happy? And what does this man have to make me react in this way to him?

Zucchabar, Mid February 182 A.D.

Publius' skills with the sword are getting better and better. It seems like his body has discovered new resources now he is not threatened by Father's anger every time he does something wrong. And also the Spaniard's way of dealing with him, like the man he will soon be for the law, is very good for his self-esteem. More, the training system chosen by the gladiator, far from causing damages to my son's delicate joints, it is strengthening them. Publius has put on some muscles, and even if he will never be strong-looking, it is nevertheless an improvement, and something my boy has the right to feel proud of.

I have commented this fact with Father, whom, needless to say, is very happy about the situation, and he told me the training method the Spaniard is using is similar to the one applied in the army with the young recruits. Father would never admit it, but I believe he is happy the Spaniard is not the cruel, hard trainer he had wanted him to be.

As for myself, there is nothing more precious than seeing my son well and happy, as I hope he will always be.

Zucchabar, Mid February 182 A.D.

The Spaniard's presence in the library during the evening is now an established habit - and something I enjoy very much.

Yesterday things went a little different from the previous nights, for he did not spend all his time reading, but was engaged in a dice game by Publius. It was a very even contest, but in the end Publius was the winner and left the room smiling and joking this is the only game he will ever be able to beat the Spaniard.

This caused me to laugh aloud, and the gladiator smiled too, but he soon sobered, and his eyes took a far away look.

I used the following pause, before he got up to return to his reading, to inform him tomorrow there will be no lesson, for Father, Publius and I will go to visit one of my brothers in a nearby town.

The Spaniard just nodded, and feeling the need to make him smile again, I joked, telling he will be happy to have a day of rest from his duty as teacher to a boy.

But he did not smile. Instead he looked at me and replied, "It does not weigh on me to teach to your son, lady. I love to help a young life to grow strong...it is such welcome relief after having to cut down so many lives...after so much blood..." His eyes were haunted as he spoke, and I was unable to find an appropriate response.

So I just watched as he sat down and picked up his scroll, but it was soon evident he found difficult to concentrate, as I did, troubled as I was by his words.

My eyes fell often on his manacled wrists, the symbol of his slavery...I begin to hate that chain. I feel it is not necessary. The Spaniard would never hurt me or Publius and keeping him chained is just another useless humiliation.

This evening, hoping we will be back from Claudius' house not too late, I will have the guard remove it, so to allow the Spaniard to experience a bit of freedom.

Zucchabar, Mid February 182 A.D.

My hands are shaking this evening ... my emotions are in turmoil and my thoughts are delving in different directions.

What is happening to me? Why do I feel so? 

Calm. I must calm down otherwise I will never be able to sleep... But how can I do it, if every time I close my eyes, I again hear his voice and I shiver in response?

And to think everything had started so innocently!

I have always known the Spaniard is a very perceptive man- after all he immediately bonded with Publius, a shy, reserved boy. So I was not surprised when he understood this evening my eyes were troubling me: I kept on rubbing and blinking them. What instead took me off guard was his offer to read for me, while I sat on the divan and kept my eyes closed.

Despite my stupor, I lost no time to agree. It was still early in the evening, and I did not wish to retire so soon. Thus I sat on the other end of the couch where he was, and leant my head against the wall.

The Spaniard started to read and soon his low, deep, rumbling voice transported me in front of the walls of Troy, as the tales of the "Iliad" unfolded. I lost myself in the heroic acts of Hector, in the furious anger of Achilles, in the interventions of the gods...but then, almost without noticing it, I began to lose my focus...I thought I was going to fall asleep, lulled by hypnotic voice and instead...instead my mind started to drift and I imagined that some voice speaking to me...in the dark of a bed chamber...whispering me loving endearments...murmuring me in heated details what he would soon do to me and my body...

As soon as I realized it my eyes snapped open, their previous burning forgotten. My heart was beating madly and my breath was erratic. I almost panicked, and without thinking, I jumped to my feet, while the Spaniard stopped reading.

"Is there something wrong, lady?" he asked, rising too, concern plain in his eyes.

"No," I rasped, "Nothing is wrong, but - but I have suddenly remembered there is something I must do in my room. Please excuse me." 

I then bolted from the library and hurried as if escaping an unknown danger. But I am not safe in these rooms...I still hear his voice echoing in my head...and my body is reacting to it.

What is happening to me? What does it mean? Is it just a trick of a lonely woman's imagination? Yes, it must be so - Gneus died five years ago and I feel lonely. Yes, that's it. Any other alternative is unthinkable. I cannot be falling in love with the Spaniard! It is impossible! Yes, he is handsome and kind and intelligent...but he is a slave and Roman matrons do not fall for slaves.

Zucchabar, Mid February 182 A.D.

I read again what I wrote yesterday... Yes, Roman matrons do not fall for slaves - usually.

It is already too late for me. I have already fallen, or so I believe.

After last evening's happenings, I decided to stay away from the Spaniard, and did not attend Publius' lesson. But it did not work. Alone in these rooms I could hear his voice and the dull noise when the wooden swords clashed, and my mind kept on picturing him as he moved, charged, and retreated....it was even worse than seeing him for real, for my thoughts turned in a different way, imagining the Spaniard, in other more, intimate situations...

With a groan of frustration, I gave up and went down in the courtyard to watch Publius and the Spaniard complete the lesson. And to my great shame, I must admit my eyes rested almost always on the man's tanned, bulging muscles, while I forgot my boy.  My blood heated up at the sight of all that male flesh and I had to force myself to stay seated where I was instead of running again in search of a shelter from these crazy emotions.

I have not the slightest idea of how I will be able to face the Spaniard this evening in the library...The easiest solution would be to leave him in the barrack, but Publius has taken a liking for their dice games, and thus I will have to decide what to do. Go down in the library or find some kind of excuse to stay here.

I took my decision.

I am a Roman woman. I am not a coward. I will go in the library. My ancestors would never forgive me for such childish display. I will go down and have a firm hand over my emotions. I control them, not vice versa.

Ah! The last famous words! "I control my emotion, not vice versa". I should burst into laughter, but it would turn into a hysterical one.

Oh, my gods, look how I am trembling! I do even doubt I will be able to read these scribbles two days from now, so confused is my writing. I wish to regain my calm, but it is like yesterday evening: every time I try, my emotions overwhelm me.

He kissed me. Oh gods, he kissed me!

I cannot believe it...no, I can, I can. I can still feel the texture of his lips, the taste of his mouth and the silkiness of his tongue...

What is incredible is how we arrived to that point...

Everything had gone so well during the evening....Publius had his dice game, the Spaniard had his reading, and I had managed to do some bookkeeping.

Everything had gone smoothly until Publius went to bed and I remained alone in the room with the Spaniard, when my senses had suddenly woken up, becoming acutely aware of his presence. My skin could almost feel the heat of his own, despite the fact he was sitting in the other side of the library. My nose could almost smell his scent...and I grew agitated, so much I clumsily tripped over a pot full of ink that was on the desk.

Swearing under my breath, I tried to repair to the disaster, only to startle when I found the Spaniard at my side, dabbing the spreading dark stain with a piece of fabric before it reached the pile of papyruses stacked nearby.

His nearness paralyzed me. I stared numbly as he completed the job, then cleaned his hands with a corner of the same fabric, a rag one of the maids must have forgotten after dusting the place.

"Are you all right, lady?" he asked.

It was then my emotions took control over me and before I could check myself, I murmured, staring at him. "No, I am not right, Spaniard. I want you to kiss me."

I don't know what came over me...how I could utter such a request, but in that moment I was only conscious of his closeness and my needs.

I saw him tense, and his eyes narrowed at my words. He tilted his head and said, his voice hard, "Is it an order?" 

"Yes," I told him, breathless with want.

"Then the answer is no."

He stared at me, defiant.

I could not understand what was going on...I mean, why it had mattered to him if it was an order or not and why he had given me such answer. The only thing I was aware of was his refusal, and in my uncontrolled state, I lashed out at him.

I slapped him on his cheek as hard as I could.

"How do you dare to disobey me, slave?" I hissed, so similar in the tone and the words to Father that it is almost shocking.

He stared at me coldly. 

"You can have me whipped and beaten, if you want. But I won't comply. Lady."

Something in his chilling tone worked as a bucket of water thrown over my head. My mind was suddenly clear and sharp, and I realized what I had just asked and done.

I have never approved of the demands certain women and most of the men make of their slaves' bodies. Yes, they belong to us, they must obey to us, but I believe there are limits to our authority. Despite their legal equalization to animals and things, slaves are human beings and they have feelings...they have their dignity. It is cruel and dishonourable to abuse them in that way. Or I least I believe so.

And yet... yet in the moment my convictions have been tried, I failed, and I behaved like the women I so despise, using the power law gives me over the Spaniard to bend him to my wishes, totally uncaring of his feelings.

However I stopped before it went too far - this must mean something, does not it?

Whatever the reason, I calmed down, suffocated my pride and murmured, "Forgive me, Spaniard, that is unseemly of me. It will never happen again."

It was then, as I started to turn, that his arm reached out for me with a snake's speed and wrapping around my waist, brought me closer to him.

I had barely the time to utter "What-?" that his mouth descended over mine and I forgot how to think.

His kiss was gentle in the beginning, giving me time to get used to his lips, then he started to apply some pressure with his jaw, asking me to open my mouth. I was eager to obey his demand. My lips parted and his tongue sneaked inside, caressing my teeth, the roof of my mouth, my own tongue.

I have never been kissed like this by Gneus, and the Spaniard's bold, passionate exploration stirred inside me the desire to answer to his ministrations, to give back as much as I was taking. My tongue followed his own as it retreated into his mouth, and I explored him as he had done with me.

Then the kiss ended...I was completely out of breath as I pulled back, my heart beating as wild as a galloping horse's hooves. The Spaniard did not look much better; he was panting and his beautiful eyes were darkened, as his pulse beat madly in the hollow of his neck.

We stared at each other in silence for a long while, then I managed to murmur, "Why?"

Why had he changed his mind given me more than I could ever dream?

"Because I wanted it as you did... because I have always wanted you..." 

The last line was such a mere whisper I could barely catch it.

"What?" I wanted to ask for more explanations, but a knock on the door stopped me. The Spaniard stepped away from me and I composed my expression and called, "Come in!"

It was the guard, ready to take the Spaniard back to the barrack. I hadn't noticed how late in the evening it already was.

So I swallowed, nodded my assent, and watched as they left the library.

But now I am here, alone in these rooms, and my mind keeps on returning to those whispered words, "because I have always wanted you"...What do they mean? Was he referring to the time I massaged his back and he got an erection? Was he trying to tell me he refused the girls I sent him not only out of pride but also because he wanted me?

These thoughts are heady. Dangerous. I almost feel dizzy with their implications.

A man like him ... attracted to me. It is incredible...it is wonderful.

The lamp has almost burned all the oil. It is better stop here, or I might be left in the dark in mid line. I will go to bed now, but I doubt I will be able to sleep.

The Spaniard kissed me.

Zucchabar, Mid February 182 A.D.

I have spent the whole day closed in my rooms, claiming to be unwell.

Father came to visit me and found me pale and with shadowed eyes. He wanted to fetch a physician, but I managed to convince him it was just a minor, womanly ailment.

What could a doctor do to cure me from my feelings? If I have spent a sleepless night, is not because of my head, as I claimed, but because of my heart.

I have no doubts now. Silent as a snake and as dangerous, the Spaniard has slid under my skin.

I have fallen in love with him, and I would give about everything I own to be his lover, to give him my body...

Unfortunately, here lies the problem...I am a Roman matron and Roman matrons do not make love with their slaves. They use them for their pleasure, then they throw them away, unconcerned for their feelings. But it is not my case...Oh, Father rented the Spaniard from Proximo, so I suppose it would be easy enough to have him dragged to my room and have my way with him...I could chain him to the bed if he refused to obey - as I am sure he would if I treated him so. But it is not what I want. I do not wish to use him...I long to make love to him and with him...but I can't.

I can't follow my heart's desire, and I can't give him so much power over me. He has already enough. He is a slave.

I must stay away from him.

No more attending Publius' lessons.

No more evenings in the library.

No more daydreaming.

It must end here, before I disgrace myself.

Zucchabar, Mid February 182 A.D.

As some wise person once said, there is a river between saying something and actually doing it.

Staying away from the Spaniard is proving more difficult than I predicted.

I find myself lingering, time and again, near the windows opening on the gardens or the inner courtyard, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. I tense my ears when I know he is training Publius, wishing not to lose any of his words.

During the evenings, sitting in the library that seems so cold and empty without him, I wonder how he occupies his time alone in the barrack. Does he think of me? Does he believe I am punishing him because he kissed me? Does he know I am the one I want to punish?

I daydream all the time, re-living again and again our kiss in the library, and the feel of his arm around my waist.

But I am resisting. I won't give up. I can't.

Zucchabar, Late February 182 A.D.

Just when I thought the worst was over, something happened to convince me nothing has changed, but only worsened.

Today Father informed me he is going away for several days for a business trip. He does not know exactly when he will be back, and left me a series of instruction in case certain people should come to search for him. And he also told me what to do to get the Spaniard back to Proximo's school, should he not return in time.

Father's words have managed to throw me in an abyss of desperation.

The Spaniard will soon be gone and it is highly improbable I will see him again, since his owner is moving to Rome.

He will soon be gone...and I will lose him. Forever. I will lose any chance to love him as I long to do...

Oh, how stupid sounds my pride in front of the inevitability of fate!

He is a slave -yes. But much more importantly he is the man who stole my heart. Can I really let him go away without telling him? Without telling him what he means to me and how he makes me feel as alive as I have never been? Without asking him if he still wants me despite my behaviour?

No...I can't.

We are given only one life to live and I am sure I will always regret it if I don't act now, until there is still time.

I must do it.

I will do it.

The flame of the lamp casts tremulous shadows on the tablets. It is late in the night and the room is silent, except for the deep breathing coming from my bed. He is asleep, worn by fatigue and pleasure, but I am wide awake, my body still tingling from the love we made.

My eyes turn to look at him. I can barely glimpse the outline of the body he shared with me not so long ago. I smile and whisper his name.

Maximus.

Not Spaniard. I will never write of him in this way again.

Maximus.

He told me after he took me.

Maximus.

I close my eyes and my mind returns to this late afternoon, when my restless steps led me to the bathhouse. The guard was standing there, outside the door and I understood his charge was inside.

Suddenly I imagined Maximus taking his bath, swimming in the pool or rising out the water and all the doubts I still harboured vanished.

I dismissed the guard and told him, in not so many words, to get lost and to find another way to busy himself. He tried to protest but I would not hear any of it. After he was gone, I took courage in my hands and opened the door.

The splashing of the water covered the noise I made as I moved quickly to hide behind one of the columns, from where I observed Maximus as he sat in the low pool, pouring water over his head.

He had his back to me, and I ate him with my eyes. Then he stood up, as beautiful as the statue of a god and before I could realize what he was going to do, he stepped out the pool and bent to retrieve a towel posed over a bench.

It was then I acted.

Without stopping to think and ignoring the fear gripping me - fear he might refuse me - I crossed the space separating us as fast and silently as if I was flying, and I embraced him from behind, my hands lacing on his abdomen. He startled violently, caught off guard, and I rushed to reassure him.

"It's me, Irenea," I whispered, laying my cheek against his shoulder.

Maximus took a deep, ragged breath, but did not reply. Instead he tried to turn.

"Don't," I whispered, as my hands rose to caress his broad chest, brushing the fine hair peppering it, till they reached his strong neck. I felt him swallow hard.

"What are you doing here, lady?" he murmured, his voice low and deep.

"I have come to ask your forgiveness for avoiding you in these days, Spaniard. And I don't want to hear you calling me "lady"."

"Is this an order?"

"No, just my fervent hope."

He moved again to turn around, and this time I let him. We faced each other, and I was acutely of his closeness and his almost naked state- his body was covered just by a towel wrapped around his hips.

"Why?" Maximus asked, his voice hoarse.

"Because I have finally realized how much I love you and how much I long to be with you...If you will have me." I lowered my eyes, again fearful he might no longer be interested on me.

"If I will have you?" He said, before his fingers came up to raise my chin, so our eyes could meet. "How could I ever say no to you, Irenea? You have awoken my heart in a way I never thought would be possible again...I love you too..." His words trailed off, and he bent his head to kiss me as passionately as our first time. My hands rose to cup his jaw, restraining him as he tried to pull back, unable to let him go after his confession. He loved me. That was so much more I had expected or hoped.

"I want you," I whispered against his lips, when we finally had to come up to breath.

Maximus nodded but panted, "Not here."

"As you wish...let's go to my room using the servants' passages."

"Yes." He gave me another heated, bruising kiss, one of his hands cupping my nape, the other pushing the small of my back to press me against his hard belly and the rampant proof of his desire.

I moaned and was about to beg him to have to me there, on the hard marble pavement of the bathhouse, when Maximus moved away and knelt to retrieve his clothes and boots.

"Let's go," he whispered, his eyes wide with need, the towel around his hips barely containing his arousal. My mouth dried at the sight, but I managed to get hold of myself, enough to lead him to the passage entry and then to my rooms.

Once there, Maximus lost no time in dropping his clothes on the floor, and moved in front of me, observing my face.

"Are you really sure?" he asked softly, his eyes locked with mine, his large hand cupping my cheek to be sure I would not avoid his penetrating gaze or lie to him.

There was no need. 

I have never felt as certain of something as today.

"Yes, I am sure. Love me, Spaniard." And taking his hand in mine, I brought it to my breast and held it there. 

Maximus smiled, and he dragged me again in his arms, but he did not kiss me. Instead he pressed me to his chest, grinding his pelvis against me and burying his face in my neck, inhaling my scent and rubbing his bearded cheek against my skin, very gently. My husband had no beard so I did not know how arousing the rasping of one could be. I moaned and I felt Maximus' smile become wider against my skin, as his hands travelled down my back to cup and knead my buttocks.

His body heat was burning me through my stola, and I became agitated, wishing - no, needing - to feel his skin against mine.

"Please..." I murmured, unable to articulate my desires, but Maximus seemed to know what I wanted. His hands went to the brooches of my stola, slowly unfastening them. I tried to help him, but my fingers were so clumsy, I had to give up. Instead I used them on the towel wrapped around his hips, loosening it, and letting it fall on the pavement, just as my dress slid along my body, caressing my stiff nipples. My loincloth soon joined the stola and the towel on the ground, leaving me as bare as him.

My breast heaved with anticipation and arousal as I studied Maximus, standing proud in front of me, unashamed of his nakedness, his eyes drinking of my body as I did with his.

He is beautiful.

The most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

The broad shoulders I had admired when I had massaged his back give way to a wide chest and a flat, strong belly. His legs and arms are heavy with powerful muscles; they scream 'warrior', but also speak of a controlled strength, used only when necessary. His skin is tanned and the hair that covers his body has been bleached by the sun...except the dark brown curls surrounding his manhood.

It was so large and rigid as I watched him, curving against his belly, nearly touching his navel. My married life with Gneus had not prepared me for the sight of Maximus naked, hungry and hard. Intrigued, I could not resist and I reached out my hand to touch him, to caress then stroke the length of him. He felt firm as marble covered by silk, but also hot, as only excited flesh can be. I wanted to go on moving my hand but Maximus took my wrist and whispered hoarsely.

"Stop...or I will spend myself in your hand."

I raised my eyes to look at his, and I gasped at the fire I saw burning in his aquamarine pools. The question I had asked myself the evening I had first seen him aroused echoed in my mind "How long had he been without a woman?"

Now, his heaving chest, his skin covered with perspiration, his incredibly hard manhood and the clear drops of fluid already leaking down its tip, gave me the answer.

Too long.

Maximus had not felt the soft folds of a woman surrounding him for far too long - and yet, even in that moment, when he had the prize agonizingly within his reach, ready to be taken, he was forcing himself to move slowly, to not ravish me as his body was screaming to do.

I understood all of this looking into his expressive eyes and I was moved by the restraint he was applying over himself. But I also realized I did not want it. I wanted to bear the full strength of his desire and his need. I wanted to feel his body's power and mastery over mine. I wanted to give him everything I have and everything I am.

"Come," I murmured, taking his hand and leading him to my bed. I lay down on my back and I repeated my invitation, spreading my legs to make it clearer. "Love me."

Maximus covered my body with a groan, but refused to take me here and now.

Instead he grabbed my head, keeping it still as his mouth covered mine in a bruising kiss. His lips were hot and hard, his tongue demanding entrance, then thrusting deeply into my mouth, ravaging and possessive. When he finally broke the kiss we were both panting. My heart hammered wildly and before I could control my breath, Maximus' hands travelled to my aching breast, fondling them heavily, cupping and weighing them in his calloused palms. I moaned when his thumbs started to rub my stiff nipples and screamed when his hot mouth descended over my right breast and his lips closed around its puckered tip, his tongue swirling around it, again and again, as I writhed and arched beneath him. My hands rose to intertwine in his short cropped hair, pushing his head more against my flesh, and Maximus responded by starting to suckle at my nipple, tearing another cry from my dry mouth. How could he do it? I had never felt like this before. I felt hot, liquid, languid. But also restless, excited, needy, urgent. My head thrashed as Maximus went on with his attack on my senses. I wanted him to stop, to release me from this sweet torment, but when his mouth let go of my breast, I moaned in disappointment, only to moan again, this time with joy, when his lips engulfed my left nipple, giving it the same passionate attention he had given to its twin. And as he did so, Maximus was not still. He moved slightly, rubbing his engorged manhood in the cradle of my spread thighs, coating it with the moisture flowing from my heated, swollen sheath.

I have never been so wet with Gneus, but I was not ashamed. It was the proof of my ardent desire, just as Maximus' heavy, burning hot erection was.

His fingers wandered down along my body, caressing my ribs, my flanks, my hips, sliding finally between my legs. They remained still for a moment, then started to touch me there, exploring and teasing, before plunging inside me, testing my readiness. His mouth left my breast and in his heavy, ragged breath and burning eyes I saw the end of his restraint.

A shudder of anticipation cursed along my back as I spread myself even wider, raising my hips to accommodate him better, offering myself to him.

This time Maximus did not refuse my invitation.

He took hold of his shaft, groaning at the manual stimulation and with a single, powerful trust of his hips, he sheathed himself inside me to the hilt.

I screamed when he impaled me. So much time has passed since I had received a man inside me, and he is so much larger than Gneus. My muscles rebelled against the intrusion, and I dug my fingers in his biceps, trying hard to control my uneven breath. Drops of sweat fell over my face, and raising my eyes I looked at Maximus. He was poised over me, his eyes closed and his teeth gritted, as he used every ounce of his control to prevent himself from moving and thrust as his body was urging him to do.

My heart swelled with love at the sight of his unselfishness, and I arched my neck, kissing him softly on the lips.

"Love me, Spaniard," I repeated for the third time.

Maximus' eyes snapped open, two beautiful, shining sapphires boring at me.

"No," he said, his voice hoarse. "Not Spaniard. My name is Maximus...Say it to me."

Tears pricked at the corner of my eyes, and letting go of his arms, now completely relaxed, I cupped his cheeks and murmured. "Maximus..."

"Yes..."

I smiled, embracing his back with my arms and his waist with my legs and said again, "Love me, Maximus."

He did not need further encouragement

Maximus started moving carefully, with long, slow strokes that had him retreating from my aching body then plunging deeply into it. Again and again, taking his time to rotate his hips and grind against my most sensitive flesh, tearing moans and groans from my open lips. Soon he increased the rhythm of his thrusts, panting and grunting in need and pleasure, plunging inside me in wild abandon, as I arched beneath him, taking all of him and begging him to go even deeper.

I felt myself grew tenser and tenser as his turgid flesh kept on stroking that soft spot inside my body that was a source of such intense pleasure, until I could not take more and I screamed his name as my body convulsed around his and light burst in front of  my closed eyes in a myriad of different colours.

"Irenea! Irenea!" Maximus cried hoarsely as he approached his release. He thrust once more, then tensed, moaning aloud as his hot spurts bathed my welcoming, still pulsing channel.

He collapsed over me, but soon rolled aside, to avoid crushing me. I moaned at the loss of his softening flesh, but the disappointment was soon forgotten when Maximus took me in his arms and murmured, "I love you, Irenea."

"As I love you, Maximus," I whispered back, settling more comfortably on his chest and listening to his still hammering heart.

Afterward, we both fell asleep, and when we woke, I ordered the servants to bring us a cold dinner, while I went to find Publius, to reassure him I was fine. I was unsure about how much tell him and searched my mind to find some kind of explanation, but my boy already seemed to know...He just smiled, kissed my cheek and told me to not tire the Spaniard too much. Then he walked away, leaving me open mouthed and shaking my head, in disbelief and amusement.

When the dinner arrived, Maximus and I ate it in bed, filling the mattress with crumbs, feeding each other, and transforming the meal into an erotic interlude that precipitated another bout of passionate lovemaking.

Now Maximus is asleep, but I still am wide awake. I thought writing this notes in the almost darkness would make me sleepy, and instead they only managed to arouse me again...perhaps I should wake Maximus and trust myself in his expert hands, mouth, body....

Oh Maximus, I love you so much! Thank you for the joy you give to me!

Zucchabar, Late February 182 A.D.

Writing this journal has been a constant of my life for the past ten years. A pleasant way to occupy my time, to elaborate and explore my feelings, to find a solution to my problems...But now, these days, I resent the time I spend writing it, so busy I am...

But I still do it, for I want to fix here the emotions of these days, so that I will be able to read these accounts in a later time...a time when Maximus will not be there...a time when I will need all the comfort these notes and my memories will be able to offer me...No, I don't want to think about it now.

I don't want to ruin this handful of days of happiness.

Instead, I want to enjoy them to their fullest - as Maximus does.

He seems to be able to keep certain emotions under control better than I do...but perhaps it is different for him.

I now know much of his past life - he told me yesterday, as we sat in the garden.

I know he was a soldier, a high ranking officer who refused to obey an order that went against everything he believed into.

I know he was sentenced to death because of this, his family - his wife and his son - bound to follow his fate.

I know that he managed to escape and, seriously wounded, galloped from Germania to Hispania in the desperate attempt to save his loved ones.

I know what he found there: his home set to fire and his family burned and crucified.

I know how he buried them, before he fainted over their graves, hoping to die and reach them in Elysium.

I know how he was instead found by slavers, dragged away, and taken in Africa, where he was sold to Proximo.

I know the living hell he found himself into - an honourable warrior turned into a gladiator, forced to kill or be killed to entertain the mob.

And most of all I know how he considers himself a walking corpse. 

Maximus is sure he will die soon, and he is living these days together as a beautiful, unexpected gift, not to be discussed, but just to be enjoyed to its fullest.

Maximus told me he first raged against the gods when he discovered he was still capable of love after he thought that part of him had died the day he had found his murdered family, about one and half years ago. But then he changed his mind and decided to explore his feelings, as hopeless he then believed them to be...and be thankful for them.

His eyes shone as he described to me the joy he felt when I ordered him to kiss me and he understood his feelings might be reciprocate... He struggled to contain his emotions...so much he never completed the line but kissed me with passion.

My heart breaks at Maximus' resignation to his fate. He says he has found an inner peace now that he knows what he has to do. I asked him what it means, and he answered there is still one task ahead of him...He said there is chance he might accomplish his revenge against the man who destroyed his life, but refused to tell me more about what he plans to do and who this man is. He just told me he looks forward to travelling to Rome and that he is grateful for the time he is spending with us, for it helps him to rest his mind and prepare for his final battle.

When I heard this, my temper briefly flared, and asked him if I was just that, a way to relax...

"Of course you are not!" Maximus replied, trying to caress my cheek, but I wrenched my head away.

"Then how can you be so calm? How can you speak of your imminent death as if it regards someone else?" I invested him.

"I told you. I accept my destiny, Irenea. I cannot change it - and I don't want to change it. I will go to Rome to have my vengeance - or I will die trying to get it. Ours is just a brief season of love...A proof the gods have not forgotten me as I thought. I am just saddened I am going to cause you grief. I would never want to hurt you."

I don't know how to deal with the knowledge he will soon be gone, my mind even refuses to linger on those thoughts.

Sometimes I envy Maximus' calm and stoic acceptance of the events he cannot change. Other times, I just want to yell and scream and shake him. How can he be so resigned, so passive, as we discuss his life, his death and the end of our love? Why does not he try to fight? Is his revenge more important than me? I know he loves me...but not as much as he loves his late wife and son...

Here, so much for wanting to fix only pleasant thoughts on these tablets. I failed miserably.

In the heat of the night, naked in my bed, with Maximus moving slowly over me, loving me till I am speechless with pleasure, it is easy to forget and have the illusion our happiness will last forever. But the dreams vanish in the daylight, and the hard reality crushes over me.

Your time is running out.

Zucchabar, Late February 182 A.D.

Another day is gone, although I stubbornly refuse to check how many we still have. As I refuse to transform these notes into a valley of tears as I previously did.

Today I will write only of happy things... Like how Maximus and I worked together in the garden, kneeling side by side as we planted flowers in the flowers-beds, getting our hands dirty, laughing and talking, uncaring of the servants spying on us.

When we were done, we sat down under a palm and I watched as Maximus rubbed some of dirt between his hands, then brought it to his nose, sniffing it.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I am sniffing the scent of this soil. It is rich, fecund...your flowers will grow well and luxuriant." He smiled, patting the soil back in the flower-bed, then his smile disappeared and his eyes took a far away look.

"What is it?" I enquired touching his hand.

"Nothing," Maximus murmured, shaking his head. "It's just this the first time in about five years I have inhaled the scent of a soil on which I don't risk being killed."

I looked at him puzzled and he explained, "I always rub some dirt between my hands before fighting...I sniff it too, because I want to know how the ground where I can fall smells..."

"Oh..." I lowered my eyes, and unwilling to see melancholy ruin that perfect morning, I asked him to tell me something about Hispania.

A smile returned to grace his lips, then Maximus started to speak. 

He told me about the sea, which is calm and balmy in the South, but stormy and dangerous in the North. 

He told me of the tall, rocky mountains in the middle of the country, and of the gently rolling hill of Lusitania, the province where he was born. 

He told me of the long rivers crossing the peninsula, rivers that nurture fecund lands.

He told me of the beautiful horses you can breed there, and of the herds of ponies that still roams the hills, as wild and free as the wind. 

He told me of the beautiful cities you can find in Hispania: Emerita Augusta, Gades, Corduba, Tarraco, Malaca.

And he told me of the great men who hailed from those far away provinces to bring glory to Rome and Her empire, like emperors Trajan and Hadrian.

"And you cannot forget one of your favourites," I added, "Seneca was a Spaniard too."

"Oh yes, he was and he too was a great man."

As you are, I silently added, not wishing to embarrass him. 

I don't know precisely what kind of order Maximus disobeyed to be sentenced to death, but whatever his reasons, I am sure honour dictated his actions and that he has never betrayed the empire he had sworn to serve.

The afternoon was as pleasant as the morning...and hotter. And scandalous. If I have not managed to shock my servants today, then nothing will ever do.

As usual Publius had his lesson and, as usual, I went to attend it. But this time seeing Maximus' move around the courtyard, caused me to get mighty aroused. I watched his arms bend and stretch and I thought about those same arms pulling me to hi