Vespasian sighed. ‘Very well, have her shown to my study. What’s her name?’
‘That’s the odd thing, quaestor, she claims to be a kinswoman of yours; her name’s Flavia Domitilla.’
‘And it’s now a month and a half since he went southeast and he promised me that he wouldn’t be gone more than forty days.’ Flavia Domitilla sobbed into a silk handkerchief, then dabbed her eyes carefully so as not to smudge the thick line of kohl that outlined them.
Whether she was genuinely upset or just using her feminine wiles to the full, Vespasian could not tell, nor did he very much care; he was transfixed by this elegant and immaculately presented young woman. Tall with curved hips, a thin waist and high, rounded breasts, her body was sumptuous. Her intelligent, sparkling, dark eyes, a slender nose and a full mouth were framed by a mound of high-piled black hair with braids falling to her shoulders on either side. Apart from a few slave girls he had not had a proper woman since he last saw Caenis; and Flavia Domitilla was undoubtedly a proper woman. Her clothes and jewellery spoke of wealth and her coiffure and make- up told of the time that she had to enjoy it; she was exquisite. Vespasian stared at her, inhaling her feminine scent, heightened by the heat and augmented by a delicate perfume, as she whimpered softly into her handkerchief. He felt the blood pulsing in his groin and, to cover any embarrassment, adjusted the folds of his toga, grateful, for the first time since arriving in the province, to be wearing the garment. In an effort to tear his mind away from carnal thoughts, he raised his eyes to study her features. Other than a slight roundness of the face he could make out nothing that would suggest a close kinship; however, her name was irrefutably the feminine form of Flavius.
Suddenly realising that he had been too busy admiring her to take in what she had been saying, he cleared his throat. ‘What was his name?’
Flavia looked up from her handkerchief. ‘I told you; Statilius Capella.’
‘Oh yes, of course; and he’s your husband?’
‘No, I’m his mistress; haven’t you listened to anything?’ Flavia frowned. ‘His wife is back in Sabratha in the province of Africa; he never takes her on his business trips, he finds that my charms work much better on his clients.’
Vespasian could well believe it; they had certainly worked on him and, dizzy with desire inflamed by her sensual scent and ripe body, it was as much as he could do to keep his hands clamped on the arms of his chair and concentrate on what she was saying. ‘And what was his business again?’
Flavia looked at him exasperated. ‘You’ve just been sitting there staring at my breasts, haven’t you, because you’ve evidently not heard a word I’ve said.’
Vespasian opened his mouth to deny the accusation — he had been staring at more than just her breasts — but thought better of it. ‘I’m sorry if you think that I’ve been inattentive, I’m a busy man,’ he blustered, his eyes involuntarily resting again for a moment on the magnificent swell of that part of Flavia’s anatomy.
‘Not too busy to sit and stare at a woman’s body rather than listen to what she has to say. He’s a wild-beast master; he procures animals for the circuses in Sabratha and Lepcis Magna. He was making a trip out into the desert to try and get some camels; they don’t put up much of a fight but they look funny and make people laugh. We don’t have them in the province of Africa but there’s a tribe here that does.’
‘The Marmaridae.’
‘Yes, that sounds right, the Marmaridae,’ Flavia agreed, pleased to have his full attention finally.
‘So your er… man has gone to try and buy camels off a tribe that doesn’t acknowledge Rome’s hegemony in the area because we’ve never been able to defeat them in battle as they’re nomadic and almost impossible to find?’
‘Yes, and he should have been back five days ago,’ Flavia added, quivering her bottom lip.
Vespasian bit his, trying to banish thoughts of where that lip might go. ‘You should hope that he hasn’t made contact with them.’
Flavia looked at him in alarm. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Because they’re notorious slavers; they take whomever they can find and sell them, hundreds of miles away in the south, to the Garamantes, who apparently have massive irrigation works that enable them to grow crops down there; it’s very labour intensive.’
Flavia burst into fresh tears.
Vespasian fought to resist the urge to comfort her, knowing that once he touched that body he would be lost. ‘I’m sorry, Flavia, but it’s the truth. He was absolutely mad to go out there. How many men did he have with him?’
‘I don’t know for sure, at least ten, I think.’
‘Ten? That’s preposterous; there are thousands of Marmaridae. Let’s pray that he hasn’t found them and that his water hasn’t run out yet; how much did he take?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, if he doesn’t turn up in a couple of days then I’m afraid you’ll have to fear the worst. If he’s gone southeast then the first place that he can get water — if he hasn’t taken a local guide to show him where the wells are hidden — is the oasis at Siwa just before the Egyptian border; that’s over three hundred miles away and can take between ten and twenty days to get to, depending on the conditions.’
‘Then you’ll have to go and find him.’
‘Find him? Do you have any idea how big an area we’re talking about and how many men I’d have to take just to ensure that we’d get back?’
‘I don’t care,’ Flavia snapped. ‘He’s a freeborn Roman citizen and it’s your duty to protect him from slavery.’
‘Then he should have asked me for an escort before he went off on that idiotic trip,’ Vespasian retorted, aroused even further by the spirit that she was showing. ‘For a reasonable price I could have provided him with some cavalry.’
‘Then provide him with the cavalry now instead,’ Flavia insisted, rising to her feet. ‘I’m sure that he will prove generous when you find him.’
‘And what if I refuse?’
‘Then, Titus Flavius Vespasianus, kinsman or not, I will go to Rome and let it be known that you sat by and did nothing as a member of the equestrian order was abducted and sold into slavery. And I will furthermore allege that the reason that you did nothing was because you wanted to bed his woman.’ With that she turned on her heel and stormed out of the room.
Vespasian watched her go appreciatively, drew a deep breath and exhaled, shaking his head; she was certainly right about one thing: he did want to bed her. But she could give him more than just pleasure and, as his heart continued to send the blood racing around his body, he knew that he would risk anything to possess her.
Reacting out of instinct, Vespasian punched his left arm up, catching the lightning-swift downward cut of a
‘So we may get some lion hunting in after all,’ Magnus said, pulling away from the embrace that the move had ended in. He was looking pleased for the first time since arriving in Cyrenaica; sweat glistened on his scarred torso.
‘I haven’t decided whether or not to go yet,’ Vespasian replied, taking the on-guard position: standing crouched, almost square-on, gladius low and forward with his pugio to one side and slightly withdrawn.
They were exercising next to a pomegranate tree in the courtyard garden at the heart of the Governor’s Residence, taking advantage of the cool of twilight. A couple of slaves worked their way around the colonnade lighting torches; the smoke that billowed off the freshly lit pitch-soaked rags contrasted sharply with the clean, fresh smell of the recently watered garden.
Magnus feinted to the right and then brought his gladius back-handed slicing towards Vespasian’s neck; parrying it with his pugio, Vespasian launched a series of criss-crossing strokes, forcing Magnus ever back as he struggled to counter them. Sensing victory he lunged for Magnus’ throat; Magnus ducked under the stroke and, thrusting his sword down onto Vespasian’s dagger, blocking it, he pushed his right shoulder up under Vespasian’s extended sword arm, knocking him off-balance while curling his right leg behind his opponent’s left, sending him crashing to the ground.
‘You were too anxious to win there, sir,’ Magnus said, pressing the blunted tip of his practice sword against Vespasian’s throat.
