Zucchabar, Roman province, 181AD

He was staying there in a corner of the room, silent and immobile as a statue. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, his chained wrists resting between his crossed legs.

Now and then his head turned in my direction, but when his eyes stopped on me, his gaze was blank, unfocused and I was not certain he was really seeing me.

He seemed completely lost in another world- a world existing only in his damaged mind.

As I looked at him I felt again the same pity I had experienced earlier that day, when I had seen him for the first time at the slave market.

It made me sad to see such a man reduced to this condition. It was clear to me he had not been born in slavery. His posture, his head carriage, his straight, squared shoulders-- nothing in him spoke of submission and a life spent in chains. He could have been a slave by the law, but nobody would ever completely own him.

I wondered what his eyes were seeing as he stared in front of him, and I tried to think about what could have happened to him to break the mind of this handsome and, I was certain, once powerful warrior. A former soldier of Rome.

 

His story was well known in Zucchabar, even by the people who had never put a foot into the arena, like myself.

He had been found by slave traders in Hispania - hence the name he went by, Spaniard - more dead than alive because of a fever caused by an ugly wound on his arm.

He had been somehow put back in shape during the trip from Hispania to Africa and sold as part of a lot to a Zucchabar lanista.

Proximo (that was the gladiators trainer's name) needed men to fight and men to die, and there was no doubt he had thought the Spaniard would have fit into the second group.

However, the lanista had gotten a big surprise when the blank-eyed slave had been pushed inside the arena chained by his right arm to another gladiator, the one everybody had supposed would have given a spectacle. Upon catching a glimpse of a man coming toward him holding a sword, the Spaniard had seemed to suddenly wake up and, with amazing skills and quickness, he had disarmed his attacker, taken hold of his blade, and managed to kill every gladiator trying to harm him.

Then, when the combat had ended, and he had been one of only three fighters still standing, the Spaniard had let his sword fall in the sand and retreated again in his absent mood, completely unaware of the crowd cheering on the stands or of the carnage at his feet.

In the following months he and his strange behaviour had become the talk of Zucchabar and that was why I had come to know about him, for I belong to that rare group of Romans not liking the gladiatorial games.

I had heard men and women talk of him at the thermae, at the markets, during social gatherings. Everyone had had something to say about the silent, blank-eyed, weak-minded Spaniard, who was such an amazing fighter in the arena, while outside of it he was utterly docile and calm and not responsive.

Proximo had discovered that the Spaniard reacted only when directly threatened, and he had made sure his guards acted always very gently around him, for he had guessed the gladiator would strike out without thinking about the consequences should he think himself in danger.

So, as the months had passed, the "mad" Spaniard continued to fight and win for Proximo, until the day, two weeks before, when the lanista had suddenly died and the heirs had announced all the gladiators would be sold at the market. They were merchants, respectable and honoured, and they did not want to soil their reputation by being associated with the games.

The news of the Spaniard being offered for sale travelled all through the province and when the day of the auction, arrived, Zucchabar slave market was as crowded as it had never been before.

 

In all honesty, I had gone to the market just out of curiosity, to finally see this famous "mad Spaniard" everybody talked about.

I was not sure of what had then pushed me to actually participate at the auction nor what had happened to convince me to shed so much money to buy the Spaniard.

I just knew I had done it.

He had been brought on the auction stage heavily chained, and when my eyes had stopped on him for the first time, I had thought he was the handsomest man I had ever seen. Tall, broad shouldered, with muscled arms and legs. His face was a work of contrasts, with a strong chin and nose and a delicate, almost feminine mouth. I had walked closer to observe his eyes, which were blue-green, and was taken back by the child-like look he gave me. He had looked trusting, gentle, perhaps even a bit frightened and somehow it had touched a cord inside me.

Since the death of my husband and only son in a shipwreck four years before, and the all-encompassing  pain I had felt, I had decided not to open my heart again to anybody, for I did not want to suffer again in that way. I had isolated myself in my villa on the hills around Zucchabar and participated in only those social occasions I had to attend for political or economical reasons.

I had kept everybody, servants and friends, at arms' length- until that morning when my dumb heart had felt a spark of compassion and sincere liking for that unknown man, hailed as a brutal fighter by the auctioneer, but who in truth had looked everything but brutal.

Standing among the crowd, I had overhead the comments of the people surrounding me. The lust-filled whispers of the so-called respectable matrons, who ogled over his body and made wicked suggestions about what they would do to him to see if he was really as dumb as he looked and the cruel remarks of the men, wishing for the guards to whip the Spaniard just for the pleasure of seeing him react.

I had felt sickened by them and without thinking twice, I had decided to save that poor man from the life of abuse all this people had in store for him.

 

The bidding had been fast and furious, for there were so many lanistae interested in him, and the price kept on rising, to Proximo's heirs great delight.

Aemilianus, my secretary, who had stared at me open mouthed when I had made my first offer, had tried to stop me a couple of times, but I had paid no mind to his urgent whispers. My husband had been extremely wealthy and the last member of his family, while my only relative was a distant cousin living Sicily.

I could use my money as I thought best, and that morning I had used it to buy the Spaniard.

The crowd had clapped loudly when I had been declared as the auction's winner, and many heads had turned in my direction, watching me with curious or smirking expressions, as they had wondered - or pretended to know - what I intended to do with my very expensive purchase.

 

It was exactly the same question I was asking myself as I sat in the library, sipping a cup of wine and observing the Spaniard and the way he looked around himself.

I had not the slightest idea of what to do with him. 

I had bought him to spare him the life of humiliation, violence and mistreating the other bidders had planned for him, for I thought it was not right to take advantage of a man who clearly was not himself, but I did not know what to do with him.

I yawned loudly, feeling exhausted. I had woken up earlier than usual to take place in the auction ground and be able to have a good look at the Spaniard, and the excitement during and after of the bidding battle had been tiring.

I clapped my hands and my steward arrived in a blink of an eye, making me suspect he had been standing just out of room, near the door he had begged me to leave open, so fearful he had been to know I intended to sit there alone with the Spaniard.

"Domina?" Aulus enquired, throwing a cautious look to the man sitting in the corner.

I hid a smile behind my hand. "Take the Spaniard to his room." I commanded. "Talk gently to him, don't touch him and avoid brusque movements." I added, repeating the instructions given to me by the guards who had escorted him to my house.

"Yes, mistress," the steward answered, moving toward the Spaniard.

"And remember to remove his chains."

Aulus stopped in mid-stride. "Are you sure it is safe, domina?" 

"Quite sure." I stood up and was mildly surprise to see the Spaniard do the same. I smiled at him then indicated the steward and said, "Go with him. It is time to go to bed."

He just stared at me, then turned around to face my steward, who was now at his side.

"Come with me," Aulus said, gesturing to the door and calmly taking hold of the chain.

The Spaniard seemed to nod and docilely followed the other man to the door and the corridor, as I watched him go, fascinated by the inborn grace with which he moved.

He moved like a sleek, powerful cat... a lion.

Yes, he even had the nobility of a lion. 

A lion who seemed to have forgotten his real nature, and yet could not help to be what he was.

I smiled.

Now I knew what I wanted to do with the Spaniard.

I would do my best to restore the lion in him, and to free him from the prison his mind had become.

 

 

The next morning after breakfast I went to visit the Spaniard in the slave quarters.

His room had been locked for the night, but Aulus had followed my orders and removed his chains, which were on the floor by the door.

I entered the cubicle after announcing myself with a knock. It would have not displeased me to catch more than a glimpse of his tanned skin - quite the contrary - but I did not want to risk that, taken by surprise, he might react before realizing I was not a threat to him.

The Spaniard was sitting on his pallet, his head turned in my direction and I could swear his gaze was a little more aware than the previous evening.

He looked at me for a while, then lowered his head and looked down at his hand, which was fingering and patting the blanket he was sitting on.

I observed him for several minutes, wondering what I could do or say next. He just ignored me and continued to stroke the fabric, apparently entranced by it. By the soft texture perhaps, for it was a blanket of good quality, although very old and worn out. Or maybe by its colour, which was creamy white and contrasted so much with the tanned skin of his hand.

Oh yes, the Spaniard was tanned- but he was also dirty, and it was made more apparent by the candour of the blanket. The day before he had been taken to my house in the afternoon and I had not felt like thrusting him in my slaves' hands for a bath just then. I had thought he might be scared by the events of the day and the new environment, and that he might need time to get used to his new situation.

In the moment, however, as he kept playing with the fabric, I wondered about the possibility that he might be fascinated by how clean it was, thus I said aloud, "It is very clean here, don't you think, Spaniard?"

His head whipped up to look at me.

"It is clean," I repeated, touring the small room, touching the few piece of furniture there, then showing my dust-free fingers to him.

The Spaniard's eyes followed me as I moved in the room, but he made no sign he had understood my words.

I sighed and knelt in front of him, trying again. "Would you like a bath?"

His eyes flashed for a brief instant and my breath caught in my throat. Had he reacted?

"A bath," I repeated, mimicking the gesture of washing. "Would you like that?"

His head lowered in the most imperceptible of nods, but a nod nevertheless. 

He had understood and this small gesture filled my heart with joy: there was still hope for my lion- or at least it was what I chose to believe.

 

 

In the days that followed I kept the Spaniard near me as much as possible, wishing to observe him and find a way to communicate with him, for he seemed to understand the meaning of only a few words: yes, no, bath, eat, sit, sleep, go, come, stop.

I spent hours talking to him, showing him around the house and the garden, touching objects as I said what they were, but it was useless for while he looked at my movements, I never saw the same spark of understanding I had noticed when I had mentioned the word bath for the first time.

And, by the end of the second week, I realized my actions had had an unexpected result: my lion had transformed into a dog. 

A guard dog; a loyal, gentle dog- but a dog.

The Spaniard had perceived my authority around the house, recognized me as his master, and soon developed the habit of following me everywhere, walking with me in the garden, sitting in a corner when I worked in my study or read in the library, even guarding the door of my bedroom the few times I took a nap in the afternoon.

He was a silent but intent presence, who asked nothing more than being in my company and showed protectiveness in my regards, getting uneasy and tense when someone got too close to me or talked too loud near me.

He was always upset the times I left the villa to go in town; I could read it in his lost, pleading blue-green eyes he wanted to come with me, but I never allowed him to go. Not only because I was concerned about what he could do seeing me surrounded by a boisterous crowd, but also because I did not want the people to see him. It was bad enough to have to endure their comments and ironic remarks about what I was doing to him, "as I kept him locked in the villa", without having them witness how he behaved. For some reason I did not wish them to watch how low this proud man known as Spaniard had fallen. I preferred them to remember him as the fierce gladiator they had cheered in the arena, where, at least, he had commanded some respect, and not as my lap dog. I did not want them to mock him or laugh at him; I wanted to protect him, my poor, beautiful, lost lion.

And yet, despite all my noble convictions, there came the time when I too behaved shamelessly with the man I had so adamantly declared I wanted to protect-- and betrayed his child-like trust in the basest of  the ways.

Of course, had someone know about it, they would not think I had done anything wrong. The Spaniard was my slave, and I had the legal right to do everything I wished to him and with him, including taking advantage of him, as it happened one evening in the library.

 

 

I was reading on the couch and he was sitting at my side, as always lost in his world. But that evening I was acutely aware of his presence, so much I stopped reading and turned my head to study his profile.

The Spaniard was indeed the handsomest man I had ever met. My husband had been beautiful in my eyes, but he could not have competed with him, not only in physique, but also in the authority and nobility I perceived around him, even in his current state. It was a crime that a man like him had been reduced to this state.

"Who are you?" I wondered aloud and he reacted at the sound of my voice, turning his head to look at me with his usual placid expression on his face.

I leaned forward to stare directly into his eyes; I had never noticed how much their colour resembled the sea. 

"What kind of man do you sheath, beautiful eyes?" I murmured, shifting my body to observe him better. "Who is hiding in your depth?"  

Of course, I was not expecting any response aside from his continuous staring at me.

Almost without volition my hand rose to gently brush the hair that fell over his brow, then it trailed down to caress his fascinating, bow-shaped mouth, partly hidden by the beard one of my servants kept tidy and well-trimmed. His lips were warm, soft, slightly wet under my skin and he closed his eyes when I brushed my thumb back and forth on them.

The desire to taste his mouth overwhelmed me. It had been four years since my husband had died, and I had felt no interest in male flesh since then. At thirty-nine, I had thought I had left all my needs behind, and instead...instead...

My hands trembled as I cupped the Spaniard's cheeks and brought his face close to mine as I bent my head and kissed him.

His lips were warm and soft, and opened willing as I probed them with the tip of my tongue. I explored his mouth and he let me do it, not answering my kiss, but not resisting either, as I savoured his taste and felt intoxicated by it.

I pulled back when the kiss ended, and I observed the Spaniard. His eyes were still closed, but there was a smile on his lips- a content smile.

Encouraged and desperate to taste him another time, I kissed him again on the mouth, then I covered his face with tiny kisses, relishing in the flavour of his clean skin. Brow, nose, eyelids, cheeks, beard, jaws...I kissed everywhere and he did not resist, and when my mouth finally reached his strong neck, he not only tilted his head back to give me more room, but he moaned- the first sound I had ever heard him make. It was a moan of pure, masculine pleasure, and it made my sex twitch and moisten.

I continued kissing his neck as my hands started to rub up and down his arms, enjoying the sensation of his soft skin stretched over his bulging muscles.

I felt as I had never before. Powerful, aroused, dizzy with pleasure even if the Spaniard was doing absolutely nothing to me, but just standing still, letting me touch and enjoy him.

I shifted on the couch to get closer to him, and as I did so, I suddenly realized where we were- in the library, where any of my servants could enter at any time.

The realization was enough to bring me back to reality. I sat straighter and ceased kissing and touching the Spaniard, as I looked around the room, feeling self-conscious. What was I doing?

His eyes opened and he fixated them on me. They were darker than before, but shining, and despite the blankness still lingering in them, I knew he wished me to continue.

That was enough to silence my conscience. I stood up and reached out with my arm.

"Come," I murmured throatily, and the Spaniard did not hesitate, taking my hand and following me to my bedroom.

Once inside, the door bolted behind us, I went to him and gently removed his belt, tunic and loincloth as he kicked away his sandals.

My hands ran over his strong, ruggedly beautiful body as I admired him. He was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and wide chest giving way to a flat belly, covered by fine, light brown hair. His legs and arms were heavy with muscles, but he was perfectly proportioned, like a statue made by a master sculptor, with the difference being he was alive, breathing and so warm.

I looked down at his manhood and my eyes widened at his size. He was longer and thicker than my husband, and my insides quivered in anticipation at the thought of having him fill me.

My eyes trailed back to his face and I saw how intently he seemed to be watching me, although, probably, it was just his male instinct reacting to a female in heat; my lion's spirit was still asleep or hiding.

I let my index finger trace a line along his shaft and smiled satisfied at his long moan and at the way he threw his head back- I was not able to reach his soul, but at least I could give him what his body craved.

I led the Spaniard to my bed, pushed at his shoulders until he was laying on his back, then I straightened and disrobed, his eyes following my every move. My heartbeat quickened when his gaze posed over my naked figure and I saw him lick his lips, while his member twitched. He liked what he was seeing!

I lowered myself on the bed, laying on my side near him, and caressed his chest in a wide circular motion, ruffling the light dusting of hair there and brushing his nipples. He moaned at the light contact, and it brought me a thrill to discover he was so sensitive there.

I licked, nibbled and delicately pinched his small peaks as he writhed under my mouth, his head thrown back in the pillow as his hands gripped the sheets.

It was an amazing, heady feeling to see that beautiful, strong man laying there at my complete mercy, but I did not stretch it too far. I did not wish to torture him- nor myself. And also, the Spaniard looked more than ready, clear liquid leaking from the tip of his member, and I did not want him to waste his gift.

I wanted him inside me.

I straddled his hips, raised on my knees, took hold of him and, after taking a deep breath, I lowered and impaled myself on him.

We cried out in unison as he filled me. I was wet and loose, but it took me a few moments to get used to his size, as he panted under me and throbbed in my depths.

Then I started moving up and down his manhood, closing my eyes at the delicious, long forgotten pleasure. I kept on rising, circling, writhing on him, moaning and gasping as the friction inside me grew in intensity, but after a while my arms started to tremble and ache.

So much time had passed since I had last done this, and my muscles were weak for the lack of exercise, and because pleasure was undoing me, sapping all my strength.

I tried to rise again, but my thighs had cramped, and an anguished cry escaped my lips.

I looked down at the Spaniard, laying there between my spread legs and murmured in desperation, "Help me...I cannot end this alone...I need you..."

I don't know if he understood what I said or if it was just a matter of his instinct taking over for he needed fulfilment as badly as me, but he took my hips in his big hands, bent his knees to give us more leverage, and started thrusting inside me with vigour.

I leaned forward, posing my hands on his chest, feeling his heart beat wildly, and abandoned myself to the need of my body.

It did not take us long to reach our climax, and I went over the edge as soon as I felt the first spurt of his hot seed bathe my womb.

We cried out and moaned together as pleasure washed over us, then the Spaniard let go of my hips and I slumped forward, collapsing half on him, half on the mattress.

He fell asleep almost immediately, and I soon imitated him, too dazzled to even try to think about what had happened.

 

When I woke up the following morning, the enormity of what I had done crushed over me.

I had taken advantage of a sick man, of someone who was not really aware of what happened around him.

It did not matter that he had liked it and found satisfaction in the act.

It had been a rape- perhaps not by the law, for he was a slave and the slaves are not raped but merely used - but a rape nevertheless. At least for me, mistress of a household where the slaves had never been abused, for there was no honour in mistreating those who could not defend themselves.

I felt like one of those depraved old men that abused children in the most sordid brothels of the city.

I felt so sick I thought I would throw up- but I did not, for the Spaniard moved in the bed, and my breath caught in my throat.

How would he react once he woke up?

I slowly rose to a sitting position and looked down at him, as he lay at my side.

He was awake, and watched me with his calm eyes. There was no accusation in their depth, and a slight smile graced his lips.

He was content, maybe even happy- at least to the degree a man in his condition could be.

Seeing he was well, made me breathe more easily, but shame assaulted me again when my eyes swept over his bare chest and I saw the marks my teeth had left on his skin.

I sighed and pushed away my guilt as an useless feeling. There was nothing I could do to erase what I had done, but I would just make sure it would not happen again.

 

Later that morning, I was working with my secretary at some bookkeeping, when a knock on the door distracted me and alerted the Spaniard, who, as usual was sitting a corner quietly looking at me.

"Intra!" I called and the door opened to show Marina, one of my freed women- closer to me than some of my acquaintances. She carried a basket in her hands and I thought she had just returned from the market.

"Domina? May I bother you for a few moments? I have something I wish to tell you."

"Of course you may." I smiled and gestured her to come closer to the desk.

"Mistress, while I was at the market, I overheard a conversation between two of the local physicians. They said the Demophontes of Caesarea is here in Zucchabar, to visit one of his sisters. I recognized his name; he is a famous doctor and I thought that maybe you might wish him to check the Spaniard." Marina concluded, tilting her head in the former gladiator's direction and giving him a gentle smile.

I stood up and circled the desk, joining my hands with a clap, so delighted I was by the news.

Dear Marina! My former playmate, maid, confidant and faithful friend, able to know my desires and my intentions even before I voiced them!

"This is wonderful news!" I exclaimed and the enthusiasm in my voice caused the Spaniard to look at me more intently. "Demophontes' skills are known across the empire and he is considered to be great Claudius Galen's best disciple. It is such a fortunate occurrence to have him here."

"I know, mistress." Marina smiled broadly. "That's why I hurried back here- but not before making some enquires: Demophontes is staying at his sister's place, the big villa near the old aqueduct."

I felt like embracing her, but Aemilianus' presence stopped me. My secretary had a very strong idea of what is proper or not for a mistress to do and he was still shocked by the amount of money I had "squandered" to buy the Spaniard.

Aemilianus gave me an almost outraged look when I ordered him to write a message for Demophontes, where I indicated his services were required and that he would be handsomely compensated for them, but bowed his head in agreement...or in defeat, for he knew nothing could change my mind once I had made my decision.

Satisfied we understood each other, I motioned the Spaniard to follow me, and I left the room, and went to the corridor, where I was finally able to embrace Marina with all my gratitude.

 

Demophontes answered my summon and arrived at my villa that same afternoon. He was a grey haired man with a long curly beard and wise, intelligent eyes.

After thanking him for coming and offering him some refreshments, I took him to the porch, where I had left the Spaniard as I greeted the physician. I had discovered some time before that the porch and the garden were his favourite places to be when he could not stay near me.

We stopped on the threshold of the porch, and while Demophontes observed the man sitting on the stone bench near the wall, I told him what I knew of the Spaniard's story before he came in my property, and reported how he behaved in the arena and with me.

Demophontes nodded as he listened to my words, and his eyes never stopped observing the Spaniard. Then, mindful of what I had said, he stepped into the porch, walking toward the seated man, his hands in front of him, palms up.

The Spaniard gave him a wary look, decided he was not dangerous, and relaxed, docilely submitting to the examination.

Demophontes listened to his breath and heart, checked his ears and mouth, touched his neck and skull, observed his pupils and moved a finger in front of his eyes to see if and how his gaze would follow it. He also examined his left arm, pressing his fingers on the puckered scar that marred his shoulder and looking pensively at the SPQR tattoo just below it.

He then talked to the Spaniard and asked me to give him some commands to see which of them he understood and how promptly he obeyed to them. He even feigned to threaten me and studied the Spaniard's reaction.

When he was done, the physician scratched his beard, and shook his head in perplexity.

"I will be honest, lady Vera. This is the first time I have seen such a case of mental damage. As you said, your slave seems lost in a world of his own- or, if you prefer, he is almost unaware of what happens around him."

"As if he is a prisoner of his mind?"

"Yes. As you have already guessed, I don't think he was born in this condition. He was a soldier and the legions do not enlist idiots."

I cringed upon hearing that word. My poor lion...my poor gentle lion...

Demophontes was still talking and I forced myself to listen. "During my career, I happened to meet men with a child's mind, but I don't believe it is his case."

"No," I murmured, thinking of the previous night, "his mind is not that of a child."

Something in my tone made Demophontes look sharply at me. "Is something you did not tell me, lady Vera?"

I blushed under his penetrating gaze, but I told him the truth. "Last night we... we were intimate." I stared at the Spaniard, still sitting on the bench. "He...did not start anything and was mostly passive, letting me do what I wanted...but I am sure he knew what was going on and when I asked for his help...he gave it to me."

I returned to face the physician and was relieved not to find any trace of judgement in his features- but, after all, he was used to dealing with patricians and their depraved habits...perhaps he was just very skilled in hiding his disgust.

After a brief silence, Demophontes spoke again. "What you said makes me think there might be some hope for him."

"Really?" My heart beat a little faster.

"Yes...His mind seems to be trapped - undoubtedly as the effect of a high brain fever from by the infection caused by the wound on his arm, which has never been tended to properly - but he is not totally unaware of the world surrounding him. He perceives threats and is able to defend himself, and he is very aware of you. Perhaps he wishes to stay with you to protect you as the dog you compared him to during your report, or because he "likes" you, as his actions during intimacy demonstrate. Whatever the reason, we have proof he is not completely gone and from what you said to me, I think he has improved since he was taken away from the arena and settled in a more relaxed environment. So nothing excludes he might improve even more and one day, maybe, "awake", but I cannot give you any certainty it will happen. In truth," and he gave the Spaniard a long, sad look, "I think it would be better for you not to set your hopes too high. It is probable he will remain like this for the rest of his life, a lion prisoner of a too narrow cage."

My eyes widened in surprise. Demophontes saw the Spaniard exactly as I did!

So it was not just the wishful thinking of a middle-aged, lonely woman in love...Breath caught in my throat as the enormity of what I had just thought struck me.

In love. 

Yes, I was.

With a slave.

Yes.

With a mentally damaged man.

Yes.

With the noble lion I knew he had been and prayed one day he would be again.

Yes.

It was scary.

It was amazing.

It was madness.

It was life.

"My lady?" The physician's  voice brought me back to reality.

"Forgive me, Master Demophontes, I was lost in thought."

"Did you understand everything I told you?"

"Yes, I did."

"And... are you going to keep him with you even knowing he might never improve?"

"Of course!" I exclaimed, surprised by the question.

"Good." Demophontes smiled. "I believe he was, and is, a good man and I would not wish to see him thrown in the arena another time, abused and exploited by uncaring people."

Abused and exploited... I blushed as I remembered the previous night's events.

"Oh no, my lady, I was not referring to that!" Demophontes commented seriously, "In truth I think it did him well. He is a man, he has needs. It was certainly good for his health."

I nodded, feeling a bit better, although still not at ease with what I had done.

"Thank you Master Demophontes, for everything." I finally said, showing him the way to return inside the house. "And now, if you just follow me, we will go to my study to settle our business..."

 

Demophontes' last words about me and the Spaniard kept on echoing in my mind when, later in the evening, I sat in the library trying to concentrate on the scroll I held in my hands. My mind continued to drift away and return to what had happened in that room the previous night.

Sighing, I put down the scroll and threw a side glance at the Spaniard, sitting in his usual place.

A shiver ran along my spine as I saw how intently he was staring at me. I turned to face him and noticed how his eyes were sparkling...as they had done the past night.

I lowered my head, telling myself I could not do again, when my gaze fell on his groin and I gasped.

The tunic was stretched over his body and could not disguise the bulge between his legs.

He was hard- hard for me.

I looked back at his eyes, acutely aware I was blushing, and the Spaniard smiled gently at me, before scooting toward me with an eager expression on his face.

He wants it, I thought. He wants it as badly as I do, and he is reacting...he has taken a small step, asserting his will...My lion...roaring against the cage imprisoning him.

I stopped questioning my actions and I leant forward, kissing him. His lips parted at once beneath mine, but this time, when I tasted his mouth, he responded, his tongue tentatively trying to mate with mine.

My heart almost burst with excitement. He was reacting- to me. 

I stood up when the kiss ended, imitated by the Spaniard, and this time I did not need to take his hand to lead him to my bedroom...

 

 

From that night on, the Spaniard moved into my chambers and always slept in my bed, and we did more things together. For example, I took the habit of reading to him in the evenings, and helped him as he tended to the flowers in the garden. In truth, I had been startled the day he had suddenly picked up a hoe and started sowing a neglected flowerbed, but I had soon recovered from my surprise and encouraged him to continue.

Spending so much time together made him get even closer to me, and his displeasure at being left home when I went in town grew. But now more than ever I wanted to protect the man I had come to love from public disdain and ironic comments.

Yes, first of all, I have never been too tender toward weaker people. Our society despises weakness and admires strength, both moral and physical. I looked down on the beggars and the other pitiful creatures roaming the streets in search of money and food, but the Spaniard was no weakling. His victories in the arena were now almost legend and, more importantly, I felt he had been a great soldier. His posture suggested he had been a man used to commanding, not to obeying, and more than once, looking at me, I repeated "Who are you? What has happened to you?" Was it possible he had been wounded in some kind of skirmish, had fainted and had then been found by slave traders, people that had no scruples to kidnap free citizens if the occasion arose?

Of course, I never got an answer and my attempt to locate the man who had first sold him to Proximo failed.

Whatever the truth, I did not want to see the Spaniard mocked by my so-called friends, so I never allowed him to follow me outside the villa, and always tried to make up with him as soon as I returned.

Our lovemaking continued to fill me with glorious pleasure, which increased the more he reacted to my ministrations. 

His hands now pressed my head against his chest when I teased his nipples, and his fingers buried in my hair when I took his manhood in my mouth. His tongue mated with mine when we kissed, and even if he never took control of our kisses nor initiated one, he now gave as much as he received.

I almost wept with joy the night his hands rose to cup and caress my breasts as I rode him, so confident and bold for a moment I thought he was going to grab me, flop me on the mattress, inverting our position and finally take me with the dominance of a lion with his mate.

He did not, however, and when I reached my climax, I cried out both in pleasure and disappointment.

 

As time passed my love, no matter how desperate and wrong it might seem to the others, grew and I came to realize I could no longer bear knowing the man I loved was a slave. It did not look right- not if my love was as sincere as I thought it to be.

The death of a friend of mine, a woman of my age, due to food poisoning, reminded me how fleeting life was and led me to take the steps necessary to guarantee my lion would be cared for if something should happen to me.

So, I not only freed the Spaniard- giving him the name of Verus Hispanus - but, to the utter shock of my administrator, I married him and made him my heir. In this case, it was a blessing a marriage ceremony does not necessary require the groom to say anything, for his being there made his consent implicit.

The financial and legal advisors I had consulted before making my decision thought I was crazy, that Zucchabar's sun had caused me to lose my wits, but I never felt more lucid as in the moment I sealed all the necessary documents. I was not a pathetic widow having lost her mind for her handsome slave.

I was a woman fully aware of what I was doing and doing it because I knew it was the right thing to do. And somehow I knew Marina and others among my servants understood why I did it, while I was certain Demophontes would approve my actions.

 

Shortly afterward, I decided to leave Zucchabar and move back in Aegyptus.

The news of my marriage had spread in town and I could not put a foot outside my villa without being object of sarcastic and mocking comments.

I could have borne them, but I was tired of being stopped along the streets by all the lanistae I happened to encounter, all of them wanting to buy the Spaniard to send him back into the arena. It seemed the young emperor Commodus had reopened the games in Rome - which his father had closed down a few years before - and all the gladiator owners scattered across the empire were eager to take advantage of Caesar's "generosity".

The day an insistent lanista, whom I had tried to silence remarking I could hardly sell my husband, commented with a smirk it would be easy enough to destroy all proof of the Spaniard's manumission and marriage, I began to fear someone might try to kidnap my love and I decided we had to leave.

We would move to Alexandria, settling in the villa where I had been born and had grown up. 

In Aegyptus nobody would know my husband's past, and we would be able to start a new life there.

 

I arranged with my administrator in Zucchabar to sell the house and pack all the furniture I had decided to keep on a ship and send it to Alexandria by sea, while I, my husband and my most trusted servants would travel by land.

My husband was not upset to find himself on the road, in an unfamiliar surrounding. Quite the contrary, he seemed to like to sleep in a tent and spend time around a fire as our party ate and talked into the night. But what he liked more was to be around horses; he loved them, I could tell by the delight I saw in his eyes when I handed him the reins of a quiet gelding, wishing to see if he would show some reaction to it, or simply stare at the beast with a blank stare.

The first time I saw my husband push his mount to a wild run in the desert and disappear from my sight, I felt blood leave my face in worry and fear. Worry he might fall and hurt himself, fear he might go away or get lost.

I sighed in relief when he galloped back and guided his horse near the wagon it was travelling on. He was excited and happy, his eyes shining, and breathing a little faster and that night, in our tent, he was more active and aggressive in our lovemaking, giving me a glimpse of the lover he could be.

 

We travelled along well-known and well protected caravan roads, crossing the various provinces in which the empire had divided its African territories. It was late winter, the climate pleasant and our trip progressed free of trouble until we entered in Aegyptus, when the first incident happened.

We were proceeding slowly along a well cultivated countryside. Golden fields stretched around us as far as our eyes could reach and everywhere we could see workers performing some kind of activity, preparing the land to receive the seeds. Aegyptus was known to be Roma's granary and it was for a good reason.

Suddenly, the peace of the serene landscape was broken by a tall column of dark smoke and by desperate scream and cries. I commanded an immediate halt and watched what was happening.

One of the many farms was burning, perhaps as the result of an untended bonfire. The tall flames were consuming a grey-stoned building, after having devoured part of the fields.

People were running back and forth carrying buckets full of water and throwing the liquid on the fire, but it seemed such an uneven battle.

I called my steward and told him, "Take all the men and go to help those farmers; the women will raise the camp in that free piece of land. Today's trip ends here."

Aulus nodded. "As you command, domina."

I watched as he ordered all the male servants to follow him as he ran toward the fire, then I faced my husband, who was riding at my side, for I needed his help to take care of the wagons and the mules pulling them.

I was taken aback by the way he was staring at the flames. His eyes were wide, fixed, almost unblinking, and he had never looked more lost to me than in that moment.

"Husband?" I called him gently.

No reaction.

"Husband?" I repeated.

No reaction.

I reached out for his arm, wishing to shake him, or even pinch him, and was shocked by how cold his usually warm skin was. I gasped, retracted my hand, before steeling myself and touching him again.

"Husband!" I exclaimed aloud.

Still no reaction- he seemed to not have even heard me.

I was getting really worried. He was staring at the flames with an emotionless gaze...there was no fascination or fear in his eyes...just nothing- and it scared me to no end.

Acting on an impulse, I jumped down off of the wagon and grabbed the reins of his horse. I was brusque and the animal moved to the side and threw its head back in fear, but my husband did nothing to try to control or calm it.

I turned the horse around and led it a few steps forward, so as to put the wagon between my husband and the burning house, and thus block his vision of the flames- not that he seemed aware of the change.

I ordered the women and the children of my household to raise my tent in the nearby patch of land I had chosen to stay for the night. As soon as it was up, with Marina's help, I pulled my unresisting husband down off of the saddle and I took him inside our quarters. We made him recline on the bed, where he lay calm, his eyes still wide open and blank, his skin still unnaturally cold.

Dismissing my maid, I sat down at his side and ran my fingers through his short cropped dark hair, wondering why the sight of a burning house had caused him such a reaction, and praying he would soon snap out of it.

After a while, he blinked several times in rapid succession, turned his head to look at me, gave me a tired smile...and fell asleep. It happened so quickly I had barely the time to smile back before his eyes closed.

I watched him for several moments more just to be sure he was all right, then stood up and went outside to check how things were going with the fire and the raising of our camp.

 

He did not wake up for dinner and I thought it was better to let him sleep, but I left some food on the table by the bed, just in case he would wake in the night and feel hungry.

Later in the evening, I joined him in bed, spooned behind him and fell fast asleep...only to be awaken a couple of hours later by my husband's thrashing.

I lit the bedside lamp and rolled away from him just in time to avoid him hitting me with a fist. I watched almost in horror as he writhed on the mattress, his face twisted in a grimace of pain, his brow covered with sweat.

I knew I had to wake him and free him from his nightmare, but it was not easy to get close to him for fists and kicks were flying in every direction, as if he was fighting something. I tried to rouse him by calling his name, but it was useless. He kept on thrashing, until...until...

He spoke.

"No...the flames...no...my home...the fields...No!"

I stood there, my mouth open.

He had spoken!

I had never heard my husband's voice before- just the moans and the groans he emitted during our lovemaking.

But I had not dreamed it, he had talked. His voice had been raspy, rough, perhaps because he had not used it for a long time, but the words had been clear, both in the pronunciation and the meaning.

In his nightmare he was seeing his home burn...but was it just a bad dream or, or was it a memory of past, unleashed by the fire we had seen?

As he writhed on the bed, now making sounds of distress, I bit my lower lip and tried to decide what to do. His obvious pain was breaking my heart, but perhaps waking him was not the best thing to do. Perhaps I had just to let it go on because, maybe, that dream would help him to break out from his mental prison.

So I stood still, tormenting the fabric of my nightgown with my fingers as he endured his pain until, finally, his eyes snapped open and he sat up on the bed, gasping for breath, as he looked at his surroundings. His gaze focused on me and I could swear I saw relief in his eyes- relief and recognition.

My husband reclined back and patted the mattress, silently asking me to join him. I slipped beneath the covers and was immediately engulfed in his embrace, as he buried his face in my hair and sighed.

I gently caressed the arm hugging my flank, brushing the golden hair covering it, until his heartbeat slowed down and his breath deepened in sleep. 

Only then I relaxed and without bothering to blow out the lamp, I allowed myself to fall into an exhausted slumber.

 

The next day my husband behaved as usual, and I could not say if I was relieved or disappointed by it.

On one hand I had hoped to see him more aware or to catch some sign I might look at as an improvement; on the other, I had been afraid to get the opposite reaction and to see him return as he was when I had bought him. So, you can say that I was mostly content with the status quo.

However, everything changed two days later- and from that moment there was no way back.

 

We had just left behind Paraetonium, the last big town before we reached Alexandria when a flock of birds flying in circles at the horizon attracted our attention. They were ravens and vultures and their presence caused uneasiness to our group, for all of us knew they were messengers of death.

The road climbed slightly uphill and when our party reached the top of the plateau, we were greeted by a horrible spectacle.

Along the road had been risen several crosses and from their wooden arms hung the rotting bodies that had attracted the birds. The stench of corrupted flesh was so unbearable covered my nose with the fabric of my palla, as I commanded the driver to speed up our pace. He pushed the mules to trot, and we quickly left the crosses behind, but not fast enough for me to not notice the last two corpses were whose of a woman and a child.

I was shocked. Never before I had seen such a thing.

They had nailed a woman and a child. Truly there was no pity left in the empire?  I knew these people had probably been rebels- but a child?...What kind of crime could he have committed?

I was thinking about it, when one of the men comprising our escort galloped past me.

"Domina!"

"Yes?" I said, returning to the present.

The rider reined his horse to fall in step with the wagon.

"My lady...your husband..."

My head snapped up. "My husband what? Speak!"

"He stopped, domina. We have left him behind."

"Halt!" I commanded, even before he stopped talking. I leaned out of the wagon and looked back at the road we had just covered, paling when I saw what the guard was indicating with his hand.

My husband had dismounted his horse and was now kneeling in front of the line of crosses. Even from that distance I could see his head was bowed...as if he had not the strength to raise it.

"Stay here," I ordered to my servants, before stepping down from the wagon and calmly walking back along the road to where my husband was.

The more I advanced, the more the stench of rotting flesh filled my nose, almost suffocating me, but I forced myself to ignore it and the birds banqueting on the poor remains, to concentrate on my husband and the words he was saying, bowed in front of the crosses.

The crosses with the woman and the child.

"Selene...Marcus..." I distinctly heard him say, "my loves...why it had to be you? Why I was not able to save you? Why...why...WHY?"

His voice rose to a roar, the desperate roar of a lion losing his mate and pup, then he broke in tears, lowering his head until his forehead touched the ground.

I stood there petrified, the smell enveloping me now forgotten, unable to do anything but watch as he cried and sobbed and waves of desperation assaulted me.

After a while my husband rose to a sitting position and stood there in the dirt, still sobbing, his head bowed, his strong, proud shoulders slumped.

My heart screamed at me to do something, to help him, and so I walked to him and slowly knelt at his side, gently putting an arm around his back.

His head rose and I met his reddened, swollen eyes.

"He was just eight...innocent..." he murmured, desperate, as his trembling arm stretched toward one of the crosses.

"Who?" I asked in whisper.

"My son. Marcus. They killed him along with his mother...but they were innocents. I-I was the guilty one... not them...not them..."

He buried his face in the fabric of my dress as his tears started anew, and I wrapped my arms around him, cradling him as if he were a child, offering him the comfort of my touch- too caught by his suffering to realize I had had a conversation with him.

I caressed his back and murmured soothing words, mourning with him and for him, my chin resting atop his head.

I don't know for how long we stood there, kneeling on that dusty road. I only know that his sobs gradually subsided and his body slumped against mine, won by grief and exhaustion.

I gestured to one of the servants that had silently moved closer to check the situation, and ordered her to tell the wagon to trot back where we were. 

When it arrived, I commanded to the driver and another man to transport my husband inside and put him on my travelling bed. Then I stood up, grimacing at my sore knees and climbed up too, and gave the order to resume our march, deciding to reach Alexandria that day, even if it meant continuing to travel well into the evening.

 

After his crisis, my husband slept for one day and half and when he woke up, it took me just a glance to understand the lion was finally back- and in unspeakable pain.

During the time he slept, I had put together what I had learned by his behaviour and his words and came to the conclusion he had lost his wife and son in the most horrible of ways. They had been crucified and he felt responsible for it. Probably his home had been also set afire when his family had been killed and maybe it was then he had received the wound at his arm...

These considerations made my heart constrict at the pain he must have felt upon seeing his beloved crucified, and I did not find it difficult to understand how the shock and his fever might have reduced him in a mentally damaged man. How many times had I felt like I was going mad in the months following my late husband's and son's death? How many times I had wished to forget everything? To fall asleep and never wake up again?

I also spent time wondering about what he could have done to deserve such punishment...and prayed the gods that I would never regret the decision I had made regarding him when I would learn the truth. Inside myself, I harboured the conviction my husband was a good man, but I would never relax until I got from him the answer I so badly needed.

So, when one of the servants reported to me he had heard some noise from the room where he had been sleeping, I wrapped my shawl and my courage around myself and went to visit him.

 

I found my husband sitting on the mattress and looking around the chamber. I had not slept with him the previous night for I did not wish to disturb him nor I was sure how he would react should he get up and find me in his bed.

I sat down on a chair and observed him. His eyes were no longer blank or distant, but vigil and alert. A soldier's eyes.

Most of all they were haunted.

We studied each other in silence, then he said, his voice low and deep.

"You are Vera." It was not a question.

"Yes, Vera Claudiana." I confirmed, a little surprised. I had often told him my name, but I had never been sure he had understood my words. "And you are?" I posed my question and waited breathlessly for his answer.

"Maximus Decimus Meridius."

I smiled. It was a good name. A strong, noble name- just like him. "It is a pleasure to know you, Decimus Meridius. "

"Maximus. Nobody call me Decimus Meridius." was the quick reply.

"As you wish." I was surprised he went just by his first name, but I did not comment on it. Perhaps it was just because his first name was so rare it could be considered as unique and distinctive as his family names. Whatever the reason, there were more important things I wished to know.

"Are you aware of what happened to you in these last months?"

A shadow fell over his eyes before he lowered his head.

Yes, Maximus was aware of what had been going on as he had seemed lost in his world- and he was ashamed by it.

A part of me told me not to insist and to leave him alone. The other instead wanted - needed- answers. I needed to know who he was- the man I had married and made my heir. The man I loved despite of everything.

"Who are you?" I asked and after a moment he nodded to himself and said, "My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander on the Armies of the North, General of the Felix legions III and VII. I served on the German frontier for ten yeas, under the direct command of Caesar Marcus Aurelius. When...when he died, his son asked for my loyalty, but I could not give it to him because...because of various reasons. So Commodus ordered my execution- and my family's. I- I was able to escape but I could not save my wife and son..." His voice broke and he squeezed his eyes shut to stop the tears, and I could not help but reach out to touch the back of his hand. He turned it around and took hold of my hand, gripping it so tightly it was painful, but I did not protest, so relieved I was he was accepting my gesture of comfort. Somehow I knew Maximus was a man more used to offering comfort than accepting it for himself.

"They were burned and crucified still alive," he finally continued, his voice reduced to a mere whisper. I nodded and reached out with my other hand, posing it on his own. "I took them down off of the crosses and I buried them...then I think I fainted...I had been wounded by the Praetorians when I had escaped and the cut had become infected..." He looked at his left arm and observed the scar there as if he had never seen it before.

I nodded again, every piece of the mosaic was going into place. Now I knew what had caused my lion's fall in his private Hades.

"You were then found by slave traders," I went on for him and it was his turn to nod, "And sold as a gladiator."

"Yes...No...I think. I don't remember everything. Just flashes...fragments of memories..." Maximus' eyes took a faraway look. "I remember the crowd chanting a name...Spaniard...An old man with a grey beard...the stench of blood, urine and fear...the darkness of the cages...and then the light...the light of your home..." He fell silent.

"But you know I am your...friend? You know you can trust me?"

Maximus' gaze rose to meet mine. His blue green eyes were shining, full of unshed tears. He smiled weakly. "Yes, I know. That's why I told you my story, lady Claudiana."

"Vera for you," I corrected him with a quick smile. I studied him for a moment and saw the deep lines around his eyes and on his brow. I was ready to swear those line had been not there two days ago. "Why don't you try to rest for a while, Maximus?" I suggested him. "You seem exhausted."

"Yes... I am."

I stood up and he let go of my hand. "Sleep then. We will talk again later, when I will be back with some food."

Maximus nodded again and reclined on the bed as I left the room.

 

I felt thrilled after the first conversation with my husband- with Maximus.

I was happy my perceptions of him had not been wrong. He was truly what I had reputed him to be.

A powerful soldier- the commander on the Armies of the North under Marcus Aurelius! And to think he looked so young! I was sure he was not lying for a detail like this one could be easily checked with a few questions to my contacts in Roma.

My enthusiasm decreased when I thought of his wife and son and of the way they had been killed. It was typical of Commodus and the cruel way he ruled the empire. Maybe he had had his reasons to sentence Maximus to death, but certainly not to kill his wife and son in such a horrible way. In time, I would learn that Maximus had indeed been "executed" for treason, but some people believed the real reason was Commodus had wanted to get rid of a fair, honourable man who would not have tolerated his cruelties and who could have posed a threat for Caesar, should he have decided to intervene with his army backing him.

At the present time however, I cared little about the political implications connected with Maximus and his being still alive. I was not concerned about the general he had been, just about the man who was now my husband. I felt sad for him, for everything he had gone through, but hopeful regarding our future, although I was still nervous about how he would react when he would know or remember we were married, or recall the nights we spent together.

The nagging fear he might accuse me of abusing him nipped at my conscience as a pack of hounds nips the hooks of a boar and I prepared for the day when Maximus would have demanded some explanations.

 

 

In the following months things did not go as I had predicted, hoped or dreaded.

As I got settled in Alexandria and resumed my social relationships with old family friends, Maximus never tried to get close to me or to come to know me better, nor did he confront me about my actions regarding him.

He simply avoided to any contact - aside from what was strictly necessary - with me or with the other members of the household.

He was polite, exchanged greetings with me as we met for meals, and spent almost all his time closed in his room or pacing in the gardens.

I was aware Maximus knew we were married, but we never touched on the topic- aside from a brief reference.

One day he came into my study and asked if it was possible for him to have some money. 

"Of course," I answered, watching how rigid he was while standing in front of my desk, his eyes fixed on the wall behind me, his legs firmly planted on the ground, his arms clasped behind his back. "You are my husband, and what is mine is yours too."

Maximus' swallowed hard at the mention of our marriage, but he did not comment on it. He simply nodded in acknowledge and said a very rough "Thank you" before bolting out of the room as if it was impossible for him to stay there a moment more.

When I saw him later that evening, he was dressed completely in black- as he would be for the next months.

He was mourning, of course.

More than a year had passed since his family's death and his subsequent enslavement, but for him it was like time had never elapsed.

His pain - which had been buried as he had been kept prisoner by his damaged mind - was as fresh as if his loss had happened the day he had broken down in front of the crosses on the road to Alexandria.

Maximus had not yet mourned the death of his wife and son, had not yet experienced what it meant to miss your loved ones knowing they will never return...and there could not be any healing until he did so.

I knew it- I had been in the same situation and, just like him, I had refused any offer of comfort, wishing only to be left alone with my pain and my despair. 

Now that I had been healed, both by time and my love for him, it was difficult, when I met his haunted eyes, to ignore my desire to reach out to him, to try to help him, but I always bit my lip and suffocated my instinct.

Maximus was a proud, reserved man, who did not like to appear weak and who, I suspected, did not want to be confronted with the people that had known him when he was not himself.

One day he would have to face and accept his past- but not yet, not yet.

However, the fact that I understood what Maximus was going through did not make the loss of his companionship easier to bear. It was not just his absence from my bed and the lack of intimacy. I missed his presence at my side and the quiet comfort of his protective glances, of his gentle smiles, of the warmth of his arm around my waist.

A couple of times I even caught myself wishing things would return as they used to be and berated myself for my selfish thoughts. It was unjust, unfair and unworthy of me to wish Maximus would again behave as my lap dog. If I loved him - and I did - I had to accept him for who he was and rejoice for his return to normality.

 

After several weeks there was a change in Maximus' behaviour as desperation was replaced by bitterness and anger, directed to the others, but also to himself, I think. I believe he felt guilty for causing his family's death, for it had been his refusal to swear loyalty to Commodus that started everything.

He became short tempered with the servants, while with me he remained coldly polite and distant.

He also started to spend a lot of time outside the villa, roaming the streets of Alexandria like a lion on the prowl, and the only time I enquired about his whereabouts, he curtly responded they were not of my concern.

I was hurt by his tone and wondered if Maximus was now resenting me for have taken advantage of his previous condition. I wished so badly to have a chance to explain to him why I had done what I did, but it never came up and I had not the courage to force the issue.

 

Then, one evening, I heard a knock on the door and when I went to open, I found Maximus on the threshold. 

"May I come in?" he asked, but from his tone and his posture I understood he would not take a "no" as an answer.

I opened the door more and gestured him to come inside, as I wrapped my robe closer to my body and wondered what he might want.

Maximus entered the room with the sure stride of a man in command of himself and the whole world. 

He was dressed in a black tunic, as usual, and it did not disguise the power of his physique. Indeed, his arms seemed even more muscled than I remembered. Had he be attending a gymnasium during his trips outside the villa?

Maximus stopped in the middle of the chamber and scanned it with the eyes of a soldier intent on discovering enemies or searching for possible escape routes. He had always done so, even when he was not himself, but back in those days there had been fear in his eyes, while now there was none.

However as I stood in front of him observing him, I became aware he was not as determined as I had thought. He was also nervous, and my own anxiety increased at this realization.

"I have some questions for you." he finally said, looking at me.

"Voice them and I will answer," I replied with a calm I did not feel.

"I need to know why you bought me at that slave auction. Why you freed me- and why you married me."

I took a deep breath and looking straight at his eyes I decided to be completely honest.

"I bought you out of pity." Maximus grimaced at my bluntness, as I went on. "I bought you because I could not stand how people mocked and insulted you. As for why I freed and married you, I did so to ensure you would be well cared for had something happened to me. I was concerned about how the lanistae in Zucchabar kept asking me to sell you and afraid someone might even try to kidnap you- and when I realized not even marrying you was enough to keep you safe, I decided to leave the province and come here in Alexandria."

"But why did you do all of this?" Maximus insisted and his fists clenched at his sides.

"That's simply," I said matter of fact, "I did it because I love you."

"Love me? How can you love a man you don't even know?" He asked, rising his tone and narrowing his eyes. It was like he could not believe what I was saying.

"I don't know why it is so. But I know I loved the man you were, the man I saw peeking from the prison your mind was- and the man you are now." My voice cracked on the last words, so pent up were my emotions. Everything I had done so far, everything I had hoped and dreamed was at stake in that moment and I knew I could not afford to give him the wrong answer. Maximus' eyes bore at me, almost burning me with their intensity, but he did not speak.

I felt panic rise in me. He had to believe me, he had to! He had trusted me enough to tell me he was considered a traitor by the empire- so why he should not do the same for this?

"You know I love you!" I cried when the silence become too hard too bear. "I have told you so many times! I have called a physician to examine you, I have comforted you in your pain, soothed you in your nightmares...I even had a secretary create a new identity for you as Verus Hispanus, so that you would be protected by my name and my wealth..." Frantically I tore open a chest and showed him the bronze diploma, my arm shaking. "You must know I love you!"

"Yes, I do." His heated rumble invested me as a warm breeze coming from the desert and I stood there, looking at him, my breath hurried as my eyes tried to read his face.

Maximus was on me in two steps, pulling me against his chest as his mouth descended and plundered mine.

I was taken by surprise, but not so much I could not respond him.

The bronze diploma fell on the carpet as my arms rose to wrap around his broad back and my tongue mated with his.

His kiss stole my breath away and he tore a moan from my throat when his lips traced a damp, hot path from my mouth to my neck. His big hands were not still but cupped my buttocks, fingers digging in my flesh as he pressed me against his hips.

My own, shaking hands, went for his belt, and I hurried to free him from his clothes as he worked to do the same with my nightgown. I heard the fabric tear under his impatience, but he was not forceful or brutal in his actions. He was demanding and insistent, so completely, utterly male I felt myself melt with desire.

When we were finally naked, we stood in front of each other, both of us breathing harshly, both of us staring at the other.

I had been right, Maximus had been working out, for his muscles were now even more delineated than before, bulging under the silky expanse of his skin.

My eyes studied every inch of him, from his strong neck to his manhood and then returned to his face. I gasped when I saw the fire burning in his eyes. They were ablaze with passion and lust, and it made my knees tremble, but also filled me with pride to know he wanted me with such intensity.

Maximus moved forward, knelt and before I could realize what was happening I was scooped up in his arms. He took me to bed, put me down none too gently, and crawled over me on hands and knees, like a big, powerful lion, making me ache with the need to be taken by him.

Now.

I spread my legs and raised my hips, offering myself, shameless in my need.

Maximus stood poised over me, his heavy erection bobbing between us, as he studied my body and one of his hands came down to fondle my breasts. I moaned at the possessiveness of his touch and writhed under his predatory gaze.

I tried to wrap my arms and legs around him, but he pushed them away and continued with his explorations of my flesh. It was like he wanted to make it clear he was now in control of himself and our lovemaking and that we would move at his pace.

Maximus lowered his head and sniffed at my neck before kissing and licking a path of fire to my heaving breasts and the valley between them. He was slow, deliberate, taking time to observe my reactions to his touch, seemingly enjoying each of my moans, groans and sighs.

"Please," I begged, when the ache between my legs become unbearable, "take me..." I reached out to grab his erection and use it to pull him down, but he slapped my hand away.

Maximus sat back on his heels and his fingers started a journey that, incredibly slowly, brought them to my moist core.

I was so far gone it took only a couple of his calloused finger pads over my pulsating little bud to precipitate my orgasm.

"Maximus!" I cried out in pleasure and then again, when my mouth was captured in a bruising kiss as he moved atop of me and impaled me in a quick move. He did not give me time to get used to him, but started a rapid pace with his hips. It hurt a little, but a look at his hooded eyes told me he would not stop or slow down- and my desire burned anew at his total mastery over my body.

This was the man, the lover I had always known he was going to be. Passionate, aggressive, but not rough, not violent...not uncaring, as the slight rubbing of his fingers where our bodies joined confirmed. He was intent on chasing after his pleasure but he never forgot I was the woman who loved him.

Maximus' thrust became harder, quicker and deeper, each of them punctuated by a moan or a groan, before he went completely rigid and a roar of pure, male triumph echoed in the room, covering my own scream of pleasure.

Afterward, he collapsed over my body, but managed to roll away before crushing me. His arms pulled me with him and I was pressed against his sweaty chest as we both struggled for breath.

No words of love or affection were exchanged that night, but as sleep crept over me, I was sure something important existed between Maximus and me, and I know I smiled before exhaustion claimed me.

 

The next morning I woke up late, feeling well rested and content. I rolled on my back, and the slight soreness between my legs brought a smile to my lips as memories of the previous night returned.

My hand reached out in the bed, searching for Maximus, but found only fabric and air. He was not there.

I sat up, pulling the sheet to my breast and looked around, disappointed because I was alone. We had so many things to tell to each other...

The light filtering from the shutters I had no time to close the past evening told me it was almost midday and I stood up and put on my robe before going to call my maids.

On my way to the door, I noticed a scrap of papyrus resting on the table and I picked it up with a frown.

I was a message from Maximus.

 

 

I felt blood leave my face as blind fear gripped my heart. I ran out of the room still clutching the papyrus in my hand and called for my steward.

"Domina!" Aulus exclaimed arriving at once.

"Where is my husband?"

"I have not seen him this morning, mistress."

"Search for him, I need to find him. Quickly!"

"Yes, domina."

He hurried away as I returned to my chamber and looked around the place as I had never seen it before. In my agitated state it seemed impossible it was the same room where, just a few hours before, I had experienced such pleasure and joy.

Almost distractedly I knelt to retrieve my discarded nightgown, then I moved to close the chest I had left open when I had taken out the bronze diploma... the diploma!

I looked around the room. It should have been on the carpet near the chest, but it was not.

Only Maximus could have taken it.

My fears grow even stronger.

 

I dressed by myself that morning. I did not feel like having my maids fuss over me- or notice the love bites peppering my breast. I touched one of them with a trembling finger and my eyes filled with tears. Maximus had given me a night to remember and then he had gone...but gone where?

I went to his room and found the confirmation of my worst fears and the open, empty chests I saw. He had taken with him all of his clothes and the money he had been given for his expenses. The room felt impersonal, as if nobody had ever lived there... but his bed still retained a whiff of his scent, and it was laying on it, my arms hugging his pillow that I waited for news.

 

It was late evening when Aulus softly knocked on the door and asked to be allowed inside.

I granted my permission and stood up to face him.

"I know where your husband is, domina," he began, and my eyes brightened- but just for an instant for Aulus' solemn expression told me I was not going to like what he had to say. "He is on a ship directed to Ostia."

"What?" I asked, feeling slightly lightheaded.

"Yes, domina. I personally enquired at the harbour and I know from a trusted source a name called Verus Hispanicus convinced the captain of the last commercial ship for Italia to take him on board."

The last ship? 

My eyes widened and my hand rose to stifle a desperate "no" when I remembered the navigation would stop for the winter pause in a few days.

"T-thank you, Aulus." I murmured. "Now go."

"Are you all right, domina?"

"No...but there is nothing you can do for me. Now leave, I wish to be alone."

"As you desire, mistress." He bowed his head and walked away, as I stumbled back on the bed.

Ostia.

What was Maximus going to do there?

Did he have a family there? I did not think so. He was from Hispania and his family had been killed by Commodus....Commodus!!!

In a sort of illumination I understood what he had gone to do in Roma- and it was not a pleasant realization.

The mourning, the work-outs in the gymnasium, the bitterness and the anger in his eyes, the  words on his message, There is something I must do. ... He had gone to kill the emperor and avenge his family- and he knew he would not return, for he would most certainly die in his quest.

The previous night had just been his way to thank me- and to say goodbye.

I burst in tears and abandoned myself to grief.

I was alone another time.

Maximus had gone.

 

 

The following months were as sad and hard for me as the one after my first husband's and son's deaths. 

I completely lost any interest in life and nothing of the things that had filled my days before seemed to have a meaning any longer.

I seldom left my house, for news and gossip travelled fast in town and I did not want to meet people offering me false sympathy or pointing at me with a smirk that said "Look at the pathetic, foolish woman: she lost her head for a slave and watch how  he thanked her!"

I came alive only when a messenger arrived to the house with a letter, but my enthusiasm was always short lived, for they were just communications from my administrators in Africa.

The rest of time was spent mourning and consuming myself with worry. Where was Maximus? Was he still alive? Had he tried to kill Commodus?

Being winter, the communications were slower and more infrequent and there was nothing I could do about it.

 

Then, one day, one of my slave boys returned from a trip to the market with stunning news.

"Caesar has been killed!"

"How? When?" I asked him, my heart beating faster.

"I don't know, mistress. I just heard Commodus has died."

Frustrated, I ordered my steward to arrange for my litter and within a few minutes my Nubian litter-bearers were trotting along the streets directed to the Prefect's residence.

When I arrived, the courtyard was already filled with citizens - mostly patricians and rich merchants, more concerned about the possibility of a civil war and its effects on economy, than about the causes of Caesar's demise - all waiting for the Prefect to show up.

The governor did not make us wait for long and after ordering the crowd to be silent, he unrolled a scroll and read:

 

 

My heart skipped a beat upon hearing that beloved name, and I had to concentrate so as not to miss the rest of the proclamation.

 

 

The Prefect rolled up the scroll and added, "That's all for now. More news will be made public in the next few days, as soon as the dispatches arrive from Rome."

He turned around and disappeared inside the palace, as the crowd started to go away or form small groups intent on discussing the latest news or wondering who had been appointed as Protector of Rome.

As for myself, the joy I had first felt had quickly disappeared at the lack of more news about Maximus. The fact Commodus had been called "tyrant" made me hope no action would be taken against the army - and its commander - that had trapped and killed him, but it was not enough to reassure me about his well being.

 

Luckily for me and my peace of mind, more dispatches arrived in the following days- and they brought good news.

The Protector of Rome was no other than Maximus himself.

It turned out the late Marcus Aurelius had always wanted to be succeeded by his trusted general, but his immoral son, the tyrant Commodus, had tried to eliminat