The Raven and the Rose (18 page)

She wished she could talk to Marcus.

The next market day seemed very far away.

* * *

“It’s very nice, Endymion,” Larthia said, examining the portrait he had done of her.

“I think so. I’m going to exhibit it in front of my shop for a month before the guild takes it.” The artist glanced at Verrix standing in the street and added in an undertone, “Are you sure he won’t pose for me?”

Larthia sighed. “Go ahead. Ask him.”
 

“With your permission?”

“With my permission.”

Endymion walked out of his stall and had a very brief conversation with the Gaul. When he returned he was wearing a chastened expression.

“What did he say, Endymion?” Larthia inquired, in an amused tone.

“He said that there were easier ways of earning money,” Endymion replied.

“So?”

“Apparently he thought that my intentions exceeded just sculpting him.”

“And didn’t they?” Larthia asked, laughing.

“I’m not quite as lascivious as you seem to think,” Endymion replied primly. “I would never dream of trying anything with someone his size, anyway. If he took offense he would kill me. I just thought he would make an excellent model, but I will now officially abandon that idea.”

Larthia giggled and rose, looping her diploidion over her arm. “I hope the portrait brings in some new business,” she said to the artist .

“It should. When I exhibited my painting of Cytheris I had them lined up in the street.”

“I’m hardly as popular as Cytheris,” Larthia said slyly, with a sidelong glance.

Endymion chuckled.

“Well, I must be off, I have to receive the manager of Sejanus’ mines in Numidia later this morning and get his report on the business,” Larthia added.

“That sounds like a fascinating encounter,” Endymion said dryly.

Larthia nodded. “I’ll be in next market day for those miniatures you’re framing for me.”

“They should be ready by then,” Endymion said.

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Lady Sejana.”

Larthia emerged to find Verrix waiting for her with folded arms and an expression of exaggerated patience on his face.

“So you found Endymion’s suggestion unacceptable?” Larthia said to him, smiling.

He made a disgusted face.

“He’s very interested in you,” Larthia added.

“I don’t know why you waste your time with people like that,” Verrix said darkly.

“What do you mean? He painted my portrait.”

“You see him socially too. He was at your party, I saw him there.”

“I like his company, I find him amusing. And I’m not the only one who feels that way. He’s invited to all of the best parties in Rome.”

“He’s a degenerate.”

“You are such a prude! Why do you care about his private life? I don’t.”

“Back home we drove such people from the tribe.”

“What an enlightened group you must have been! Though it hardly surprises me to find that you come from a warren of narrow minded bog trotters, since you are one yourself.”

“And what are you? A bored and boring rich lady who idles away her days with flatterers and tradesmen who only want to use you for your money or your late husband’s good name.”

They were standing in front of a vegetable stall, bickering, Verrix glowering down Larthia, whose balled fists were planted on her hips. When Larthia realized that she was having a public argument with a slave she bit her lip, turned her back, and stalked away, ignoring the curious glances of several passersby. She moved rapidly through the pressing crowd, careless of her safety, desiring only to put as much distance between herself and Verrix as possible. He bolted after her, but since she was small and swift and angry, she succeeded in getting away from him. Verrix shoved a boy out of his path, and the child’s tutor shouted after him, outraged. Verrix bounded around a corner just in time to see the gilded hem of Larthia’s azure gown disappear down an alley.

He broke into a full run, cursing her under his breath. What could she be thinking? The main thoroughfare during the day was fairly safe, but these side alleys were warrens where all sorts of ruffians lurked, passing the time until they could throng into the streets at night and claim them for their own. Verrix had panted to a stop and was looking around him wildly when he heard a woman’s cry. He saw a teenage boy dash from what looked like a tent and take off headlong for the other end of the alley.

Verrix followed the direction of the sound he’d just heard and discovered Larthia sitting on the ground next to the canvas tent, clutching her face, in shock.

“He hit me,” she said dazedly, when she saw Verrix. “He hit me in the face and snatched my coin purse.”

“I feel like hitting you myself,” Verrix said grimly, reaching down to help her. When she attempted to stand, her legs collapsed, and he scooped her up and carried her back toward the street, turning in when he saw what looked like a private home with a courtyard and small fountain. He set her on the fountain’s edge and said, “Let me see your face.”

She looked at him but didn’t move.

He reached up gently and pulled her hand away from her mouth. Her lower lip was already swelling and there was a purpling bruise at the corner of it.

“Why did you run away from me!” he burst out angrily, when he saw the damage. “You brought this on yourself! What do you think happens when a lady dressed like you wanders around alone in this den of thieves? You’re lucky all he took was your money!”

Larthia glared back at him mutinously. “Some bodyguard you are,” she retorted, a trifle thickly through her puffed lip. “Before I met you I was perfectly fine, since I met you I’ve been run over by a banana cart and attacked by an adolescent cutpurse! My grandfather would have done better to hire that criminal Spartacus to take care of me.”

“He would have been welcome to the job. If you listened to him as much as you listen to me he would have crucified himself before the Romans got to him!”

A housewife walked out of the stone cottage behind them and tossed the shells from a pan of peas into a pile of mulch by her door. She paused when she saw Larthia and Verrix sitting on the rim of her fountain.

“We’ll be off shortly, madam,” Verrix called to her. “We just paused to get a drink.”

She stared at them curiously, not answering. Verrix waited until she had gone inside again before saying to Larthia, in a low tone which struggled for calm, “Do you think you can come home with me now?”

She nodded and stood up, then put her hand out to him, to steady her.

“All right?” he said.

She nodded again, but then her face crumpled and tears formed in her eyes.

“I was so scared,” she whispered.

“Larthia, why won’t you just let me do my job?” he asked quietly. He didn’t even notice that he had called her by her given name, since he thought of her that way. “Why do you run away from me and make it impossible for me to protect you?”

“I don’t know. You make me so angry...”

“Why?”

She shrugged helplessly, biting her swollen lip, then wincing at the pain. She closed her eyes.

“I guess I can’t forget that you’re here only because my grandfather forced you into it,” she finally said.

He felt a sharp stab of sympathy for her. She was her own worst enemy. Her iron will and childish impulsiveness disguised an intelligence and kindness that might come to the fore if only she would let them.

“Does the reason for my presence make a difference?” he asked her. “I’m supposed to watch out for you and make you feel safe. Don’t you?”

“I feel...exasperated.”

“You might not if you co-operated with me instead of fighting me every day.”

She smiled thinly. “I thought I was co-operating...to the best of my ability, that is.”

Verrix considered that, trying to see their situation from her point of view. How could she be anything but difficult? Her father had bartered her into a loveless marriage and her husband had preferred the sexual favors of children to hers. She had plenty of reason to resent another man shoving his way into her life and ordering her around; although she was ostensibly the mistress and he the servant his daily warnings and constant looming presence had the effect of making her feel trapped and dominated. He put his arm around her and she turned her face into his shoulder.

“I’m just trying to make sure you don’t come to harm,” he said softly into her ear.

She stirred, and he pulled her closer, forgetting their circumstances for a moment in the heady sensation of having her in his arms. The softness of her body against his, the scent which clung to her clothes, the slight sound of her breathing intoxicated him. He was putting his hands on her shoulders to hold her off and look down into her face when the housewife came back outside and called loudly, “Be off now, the two of you! I don’t want vagrants hanging around back here.”

They sprang apart, and Verrix avoided Larthia’s eyes as he said, “Madam, this lady is not a vagrant. Does she look like one to you?”

The woman snorted. “Then what is she doing down here? We don’t exactly get the quality people visiting in the market district. Get lost.”

Verrix took a step forward but Larthia put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Don’t argue with her, Verrix, what does it matter? Let’s just go.”

He subsided, glancing back at the woman menacingly as they left. He took Larthia’s arm and held her close to his side until they were back on the main street with the market crowds swirling around them. Then he released her and walked behind her until they reached the litter and she climbed into it. When the bearers lifted it he fell into step with them, trying not to think too much about the incident in the alley.

It didn’t mean anything.

It couldn’t.

* * *

When Larthia got home she put salve on her bruised lip and stretched out on her bed, telling Nestor not to disturb her unless it was absolutely necessary. Then she replayed the morning in her mind, wondering why she was behaving like such an idiot.

She could not seem to stop arguing with Verrix, taking offense at everything he said or did, disagreeing with even his most innocuous suggestions. She knew that Endymion was a sycophant and had many reservations about him herself, but when Verrix criticized him she leapt to his defense as if the artist were her best friend in the world. And dashing off into the back streets of the market district dressed like Palatine gentry was sheer folly; when she thought about it now she shuddered at her own stupidity. Instead of providing for her safety, Verrix was provoking her into behavior that was almost guaranteed to produce the opposite result.

Larthia touched the corner of her mouth gingerly and then put her arm over her eyes. She knew it wasn’t his fault; it was hers. He was just doing his duty and she was acting like a fractious child. If she continued this way she would wind up bringing both of them to a bad end.

Larthia sighed restlessly. She should sell him, she knew that; if her grandfather insisted she would find another bodyguard. But already the thought of her life without Verrix loomed as an empty prospect.

She would miss him.

She wished she had never met him.

“Mistress, may I have a word?” Nestor called softly, tapping at her door.

Larthia groaned. “Is it an emergency?” she called back to him testily.

Nestor cleared his throat. “Atticus Marsalius is here,” he replied.
 

Larthia sat bolt upright. She had forgotten that the manager of her late husband’s mine was coming to the house! She shot off the bed and began to change her clothes rapidly, dropping the discarded items on the floor.

“Take him to the tablinum and give him a drink,” Larthia called through the door to the servant. “The Samnian wine. Tell him I’ll be with him shortly.”

“Yes, mistress.” She heard Nestor’s footsteps padding away down the hall and dashed to her dressing table as she adjusted the folds of a fresh palla. When she glanced into her mirror she moaned aloud.

She looked like she had been punched in the mouth, which wasn’t too surprising since she HAD been punched in the mouth. She reached for her pot of costly Egyptian makeup, a clay based foundation intended to conceal flaws, and dabbed some of it on the bruised skin. She covered the damage as well as she could and then paused to examine the result. That was better. The swelling was still there, but you had to look for it. She smiled at herself and saw that her grin was lopsided. Oh, well. She would have to do as she was. Marsalius didn’t have to fall in love with her, but she didn’t want him to report to her husband’s trustees that she was engaging in brawls. If she was deemed at all unsuitable to manage the Sejanus estate they would surely replace her and she would be completely at her grandfather’s mercy once more.

Larthia rose, affecting a calm she did not feel, and left her bedroom to face her visitor.

* * *

“And when you’re finished with that you can carry the trash down to the alley for the collectors. They’re coming through tonight,” Nestor said.