The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (19 page)

The reprieve was brief. Her newest little Lacerta darted from its hiding place behind the flask of scented oil where it had been tied. Seeing the lizard, Drusus seized Pinna, raising the lamp so he might see her clearly. “You!”

His hand gripped her upper arm. She tried to ease herself from his grasp, perspiring, skin prickling. “Please, my lord, you’re hurting me.”

“
I did not recognize you without the ash and grime. And yet you still ply a grubby trade. What happened to the bronze I gave you?”

“
Stolen.”

“
Squandered, more likely.” His long bony fingers pressed into her flesh. “Don’t think you will get any more.”

“
Of course not, my lord.” She’d not thought of finding him to milk him further. “Please let go.”

He released her only to take her face between thumb and forefinger, squeezing her cheeks. “Who’d have thought there could be comeliness beneath such filth?”

Knowing her past, Pinna hoped he would not want to take her. She was disappointed. He pulled the army cape over his head, letting it fall to the floor, and as he stripped she saw that he was hard.

She wiped herself with vinegar and oil, hoping it would be enough to moisten her dryness as much as protect her. Then she lay passive, outwardly calm, inwardly churning. Standing at the end of the bed Drusus dragged her by her thighs towards him. As he thrust inside her, he leaned forward, one arm straight, his hand flat upon the bed to balance him, and then deliberately covered her face with his other hand.

Struggling, she kicked out, thrashing her head from side to side. Her cries were muffled. Still covering her face, he slapped her hard upon one thigh to force her silence.

She heard the leno at the doorway but the bawd did not enter. Instead he inquired politely if all was well. He did not like his girls being beaten unless he administered the punishment himself
.
Yet he could not prevent the unexpected blow being struck before an alarm was raised.

“
Tell him to go away.” Drusus lifted his hand enough for Pinna to utter assurance to the brothel keeper to leave.

Chest heaving, Pinna tried to calm her breath, believing he would smother her if she resisted. When she was still, Drusus lessened the pressure so that she could breathe a little easier. “That’s better.” His voice was composed but she could sense his eagerness.

She flinched as pain shot through her womb. Quiet and unmoving, she prayed that his excitement would make him finish swiftly. Instead, he took his time.

His palm smelled of rain and grime as it pressed against her nose and mouth. He had been drinking, wine thick upon his breath as he leaned over her. And yet he did not seem drunk. Seemed to know exactly what he was doing. What he wanted. She could feel the touch of every finger pressed against her forehead and cheeks. It was a large hand. Broad and bony. Warm and clammy. She closed her eyes and counted to five, her knowledge of numbers ending at that figure. She counted again and again until panic rose that there would be no end.

He labored, his breathing strained, sweat, not rain, dripping from his hair and beard.

Thoughts edged into her terror. Was it the image of Aemilia Caeciliana he sought to obliterate? Or was it a punishment for the traitoress deserting him? Did he do this to all women that he took? This spite, this cruelty. Or was it reserved only for whores?

He shuddered, groaning. She gasped and coughed as he removed his hand. He continued to lean over her, his face looming above hers in the gloom. “Don’t forget our bargain. Do you understand?”

Pinna nodded. He released her. Numbed, she lay watching him as he dressed. Her thigh hurt from where he slapped her. She was exhausted, empty. It was then she felt eyes upon her. Turning to the doorway she saw Marcus staring at his friend. How long had he been there? How much had he seen? It was not like the bawd to let another man into the chamber before a customer had finished. And she had never known soldiers to want to share a woman at the same time, not when it meant one must wait his turn. Warriors did not like to defer to the other when it came to claiming a woman.

Drusus noticed him also. “Ah, good,” he said, smiling, “you’ve changed your mind.”

Frowning, Marcus’ gaze swiveled to Pinna. “Did you have to treat her like that?”

His friend glanced at her, his look showing a confidence that he no longer needed to fear her. He shrugged then collected his cloak from the floor. “What are you worried about? I was just taming a she wolf.”

Marcus stepped inside. The room was so narrow Drusus had to edge past him to reach the corridor. He punched him lightly on the arm. “I’ll meet you outside when you’ve finished.”

After Drusus had left, his friend seemed unsure what to do. “Are you harmed?”

Pinna’s cheeks were burning. Drusus had not left marks on her skin but she was wounded inside. What use was there in telling this man how she thought she would die? How she’d been made to feel like nothing. What use was there in complaining? No whore had the right to sue for rape.

When she didn’t reply, he leaned closer. “Perhaps I should go.”

She shook her head, resigned to continuing her work. Even if he left, others would take his place. There was no time to cry. She would have to wait for daybreak for that.

She studied him for a moment. A scar puckered the corner of one eye, the other blackened. A patch of blood was seeping through a bandage on his neck. The skin on his cheeks was faintly pockmarked above the line of beard. His bottom lip split. And yet there was pleasantness to his features, the cowlick in his hair appealing. And he had soft dark eyes that made a woman take notice. His kindness was unexpected.

She pointed to his cape. “Aren’t you going to get undressed?”

He looked over to the door as though checking Drusus wasn’t listening. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She flushed with anger. “Is that right? So just because I’m a whore you think he can abuse me?”

Marcus shifted away. Surprise upon his face. A sense of his discomfort filled the tiny room. It was clear he’d not expected her to lash back. She would not forgive Drusus. Nor forget what he had done.

“
Don’t use that tone with me.” His tone hardened, sympathy ended. “I owe you no explanations.”

She edged off the bed to stand beside the small table, impatient to be finished. “Do you want to do this or not?”

At the sharpness in her voice, his mood changed again. He was impatient now, but when he pulled his cape over his head his movements were stiff. After he’d unfastened his belt buckle, he was slow to remove his tunic as well. While his arms and legs were darkened from the sun, his torso was pale. There were shadows upon him, too, not caused by the play of lamplight.

The injury to his body made her wince. She remembered Genucius praising him for standing fast while others followed Sergius’ orders to retreat. Bruising spread across his chest and forearms where his armor had not fully protected him from enemy blows, a gruesome rainbow of colors. Black and purple, green and yellow, the contusions melding into the dimness of the room.

“
Come on,” he said, confusing her with his haste after all the hesitancy and conversation. She was not about to be hurried though. His early appearance at her door had prevented her usual routine. She poured some vinegar and oil into the ewer, but when she picked up the small cloth he grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?”

Pinna frowned, noticing how his cock was stiffening as he stared at the trickle of Drusus’ semen running down her thigh. “Washing him off me.”

“
No.” He strengthened his grip. She yanked herself away but not before spotting a row of neat cuts scoring the inside of his wrist. His rough treatment, though, quelled any sympathy she once felt for his injuries.

Marcus gestured to the bed. “Turn around and bend over. I can’t wait much longer.” Then he blew out the lamp so they were plunged into darkness.

There was no sound other than that of their rutting. No groans of pleasure or satisfaction. Just a quiet concentration, his fingers gripping her hips. Luckily he was the briefest that she’d had in a long time. It was a blessing after the effort of his friend. She barely felt his breath upon her back until he expelled it noisily, spending himself in what seemed an explosion of relief.

Then she heard him scrabbling for his clothes in the dark. Again, no words spoken as he left the cell.

Pinna lay on her back upon her bed. She stared at nothing in the blackness, trying to empty her mind of what had happened; thinking she couldn’t bear to let another man touch her, and despairing that she had no other choice.

*

After the slave boy lit the lamp again and she had finally washed herself free of their seed, Pinna noticed a glint of metal on the floor.

It was the Aemilian’s belt buckle. Iron. Heavy. A horse embossed upon it. She turned it over and over, instinctively turning her back to the door to shield her actions. She felt no urge to run after Marcus to return it. No obligation to give it to the leno.

Hearing the pimp calling, she looked around for a place to hide it. She was naked, her tunic and toga hanging on a hook upon the wall. The room was sparsely furnished. Only the little table for flasks, ewer and pitcher. She hastily wrapped the buckle in the washcloth. Then, sliding it into the toe of one of her sandals, she tied Lacerta to the laces, knowing the slave boy did not like to touch the lizard. It scampered to and fro, waiting for Pinna to let it climb across the bedding to feast on fleas while its mistress slept. It would be hours before that would happen.

The leno poked his head through the doorway, his oiled hair combed over his bald patch. “Why are you dawdling, Lollia. Come back to work. There are men waiting. It seems a brothel is a good place to shelter from bad weather.” He laughed at his own wit. He was not above giving her some praise though. “What a night so far. We don’t often see two officers and a people’s tribune. You were popular with them, too. Other girls were available for young Marcus Aemilius to choose. He was most insistent that he wanted only you. Impatient, too. Demanding to visit you before his friend had even finished.”

Aware that the leno would drag her out if she disobeyed, Pinna steeled herself to once again take her place upon her stool. She glanced at the sandals and the treasure hidden under Lacerta’s guard. As far as she was concerned, the belt buckle was compensation for what she’d suffered. Drawing aside the curtain to the cubicle, she spat on the floor, cursing the two patricians who’d made her feel more soiled than any scum who’d claimed her beside a tomb.

Glossary

Cast

The odor rising from the Tiber was overpowering. The river had flooded, swilling out sewage and rubbish from the Great Drain, leaving tracts of stinking mud on the plain of the Campus Martius as the tide receded. To Pinna, the stink of the ooze was Rome. It had been one of the distinctive smells that assaulted her when she had first arrived in the great city, gripping her mother’s hand, feet dragging from exhaustion.

The tombs in the Field of Mars were once her workplace, but beyond them there was open space nestled within the bulge in the river: a grassy stretch with copses of trees losing the vividness of the turning season, drifts of brown and blackened leaves rotting beneath them. Cows and sheep could graze there until room was needed for holding elections and mustering armies. Ignoring the stench, and glad to have found somewhere quiet to think, Pinna stood gazing at the brown churning water, pretending she was once again in the country.

Palm sweaty, she clenched Marcus’ large iron belt buckle, too afraid to slip it into the sinus of her toga lest it fall out or prying fingers steal it. Weeks had passed since he had fled the brothel. Weeks had passed since his friend had raped her.

She’d slept little in that time. When she did, nightmares assailed her. Smothering again under Drusus’ hand, his mouth whispering to her through his fingers, commanding stillness, demanding silence. And when she was awake she felt dirtied.

When she did push aside thoughts of her assailant they were replaced with suspicions about his friend. The image of the cuts on Marcus’ wrist would not leave her.

She pondered the Aemilian’s need to joylessly follow where Drusus had been, not even letting her wipe off her rapist’s residue. How she’d overheard that the last woman with whom he’d lain had also been shared with his friend. And the leno had said Marcus refused the chance to take one of her sisters, preferring to wait for her. She could not forget his expression when she’d caught him watching—as if he saw no one else but Drusus. His concern for her had only emerged after the degradation had ended. And then there were the strange nicks carved into his flesh resembling self-inflicted marks rather than battle wounds. Had he cut himself? Why? As punishment for being unable to take a woman unless he’d watched his friend have her first? Or was it worse? Did he hurt himself because he desired Drusus?