Caroline Storer - The Roman’s Revenge

As he watched her, he had to acknowledge the sailors hadn’t exaggerated her beauty. She was indeed one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, and he felt his body harden in response. She was enough to steal any man’s breath away with her pale skin, clear and unblemished and unadorned by the powders and paints so often favoured by the rich women of Rome. His eyes were drawn to the rich mahogany of her hair which was a perfect foil for her wide spaced hazel eyes.

His gaze moved over her small straight nose, down to the fullness of her lips. Lips so tempting, he had to fight the urge to walk over to her and taste their sweetness, regardless of the older woman standing there shouting at her.

Reluctantly he tore his gaze from her face, and took his fill of her tall slim body, the thick silk of her stola unable to disguise the fullness of her breasts, and the irrational thought of how well they would fit together flashed into his mind as temptation clawed at him like a hungry beast. Something inside him jolted into life, feelings long supressed came to the fore, and he had the powerful urge to go over to her and kiss her anguish away. He imagined her without clothing. Naked. Writhing beneath him, her back arched in wanton abandonment, the ultimate in temptation, and he felt desire slam into him – hard.

As he watched her take the brunt of her tire-woman’s verbal attack her small white teeth worried her lower lip, and a frown appeared, a frown which momentarily spoilt the perfection of her heart shaped face. She stiffened, her back ramrod straight as she listened to the older woman, shaking her head at something the woman was saying, and Metellus’s eyes were drawn once more to the thickness of her hair, swept upwards off her face, so the abundant waves swung backwards and forwards across the slimness of her back. He wanted to wrap his hands in its thickness, test the weight of it, pull her forward and…

Metellus shook his head, annoyed with himself, and his wayward thoughts. There was no place for a woman like her in his life. Not yet anyway. Not until he’d had the revenge he had sought, and planned, for years now. Fifteen long years in fact, ever since his father had been arrested and taken away in the dead of night by Nero’s Praetorian Guard. And as he remembered that fateful night, his hand lifted subconsciously, rubbing the thin scar which marred his left cheek.

He’d been nine years old when he had been awoken by the shouting and screaming coming from inside the main part of their villa. Running out of his bedroom, into the atrium, he saw his father being clamped in irons by four burly soldiers. Furious, he’d charged at them, demanding his father’s release, but his strength had been futile against the sheer strength and number of the guards surrounding his father. Instead, he’d been thrown across the room like a rabid dog, where he’d hit his face against a sharp edge of one of the many marble statutes that lined the atrium . He’d been knocked unconscious, and the only thing he had to show for his attempt at trying to save his father was the scar.

A loud scream jolted Metellus out of his dark thoughts, and his eyes widened in surprise when he saw the old woman rush past him, her hand holding her cheek, a red mark clearly visible. It was obvious the patrician had slapped her, and bemused, his eyes swivelled from the tire-woman who was running towards the open hatch, and the sanctuary of the cabins below, back to where the younger woman stood.

He saw the glaze of shock in her eyes, as she stood there unmoving, until she finally blinked and refocused on the present. It was only then that her magnificent hazel eyes focused on him, seeing him for the first time as he stared at her.

Their eyes locked, the force of her gaze as powerful as a punch in the stomach, and for several long moments they looked at each other. He lowered his eyes to her mouth, saw the trembling of her bottom lip, and had to fight the urge to stride over and kiss her senseless. There was something about this woman that pulled at him, tested his resolve and demanded that he do something…anything…

Instead he raised an enquiring eyebrow. It had the desired result, when he saw hot colour suffuse her cheeks as she realised he had seen everything that had happened between her, and her tire-woman . Her eyelids fluttered, before she looked away, but not before he saw disbelief cloud her expression, as if she couldn’t quite take in what had just happened between them.

But then, as if she couldn’t control herself, her eyes once more sought his, as if she were unable, unwilling, to look away. She blinked several times, before her gaze lowered, taking in his tall muscular build, weighing him up as if he were a slave to be bought in the local market. When she realised what she was doing, her eyes snapped back to his, and this time she was bold enough to meet his gaze face on, her expression challenging.

Metellus took the challenge she offered, and stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Immediately he saw the boldness of her gaze disappear, to be replaced by uncertainty, fear even, her face losing all colour as she stiffened.

“May I be of assistance? Your slave seems…troubled,” he said, unable to keep the mocking tone out of his voice, as he came to stand next to her, so close, that her delicate scent, the slightest hint of roses, and something else, teased his nostrils and he felt his body harden once more. He watched, as hot colour once again surged into her face, and her magnificent eyes fell from his.

“No. No thank you. She will be fine once we set sail,” the woman said, her words stiff, brittle, refusing to meet his gaze. Then she turned her back on him, effectively dismissing him.

Metellus grunted to himself. What had he expected? True to form the woman had dismissed him out of hand. But he didn’t expect anything different. A patrician wouldn’t have looked twice at him, dressed as he was in a coarse, threadbare tunic of dark green. He would be beneath the likes of her. Spoilt, and feted, daughters of Senators did not mingle with men who worked on-board a ship.

Metellus frowned. Although he knew her to be the daughter of a Senator, equally she could also be married. An irrational burst of jealousy hit him as he contemplated the thought of her with another man. Annoyed with himself, and his fanciful musings, Metellus stiffened, and with one last look at the woman’s rigid back he walked away.

Livia gripped the wooden railings, staring sightlessly down at the busy dockside, her stomach clenching in anguish before she closed her eyes in mortification. Was he still watching her? She dare not turn around for fear of encountering his mocking gaze once again. Go away , she wanted to shout. Leave me be. Can’t you see I want to be left alone? To lick my wounds in peace.

The day had been an unremitting nightmare so far; and after Magia’s hysterical outburst a few minutes ago, the fact that a complete stranger had seen her slap her, had been the final straw.

Livia shivered as a gust of wind blew in off the sea. She wasn’t exactly pleased about being here either. If she had been told yesterday, that the gods had decreed she would have to board a ship at Ostia harbour, and set sail to Alexandria to marry a man she loathed, she would have thought they were jesting.

But the gods hadn’t been jesting. She really was here waiting for the trireme to set sail for the Egyptian city, and she was on her way to marry a man she had once threatened to kill if he laid his fat, sweaty hands on her person ever again.

She bit back tears which were in imminent danger of falling. She had to be strong – for both of them. There was no point in her becoming hysterical like Magia. But she couldn’t blame her tire-woman ; the poor woman was elderly, and fully deserved to live out her days in relative peace in Rome, not find herself on the way to an unknown city, and an unknown land, halfway across the Empire. But like Livia, she had been given no choice. Livia’s brother – her half-brother actually – Flavius had seen to that - again!