“And who is this fresh, new delicacy?”
I looked up and saw a man bending over me. Instead of a purple fringe, his toga was trimmed in gold braid.
“General Fullanus!” (Yes, that really was his name.) “Always a pleasure to see you, General.” Bonia’s emphasis on his title was clearly for my benefit.
“And you, Bonia, and you.” He addressed her with perfunctory respect. “I heard rumors that the house had acquired a novica. She seems in need of some assistance. Permit me.”
He knelt and began to lick the olive and grape juice that had spilled onto my breasts. I saw Bonia make a hurried signal to the cashier; then she turned back to me and made silent gestures I didn’t understand—or chose not to. Having my body tongued by a total stranger was apparently part of my job description, but I just wasn’t used to it. Then—I couldn’t help it—staring down at his shining crown while his Roman nose tunneled between my breasts, I yielded to temptation. As subtly as I could—no one could say I spat—I dropped a fleshy olive pit on his pate.
Before the general could figure out what had happened, Bonia swooped in and whisked away the evidence of my insolence.
“The flies,” she explained. “They’re dreadful at this time of year.” She narrowed her eyes at me, her lips disappearing in a tight, grim line.
“Oh, yes,” he said vaguely, surfacing for air. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance she’s a virgin?” He spoke to Bonia but he kept his lusty little eyes on me.
“I’m afraid not, general. It’s almost impossible to buy a virgin these days. You have to raise them.”
“Ah, well,” he sighed. “At least at the Vine and Fig Tree you know you get honest wares—no fakery, no stitches and chicken blood. I don’t suppose any of the current crop are ripe yet?” he persisted.
“No,” said Bonia. “Not presently. You know how strict Domitia Tertia is. But you can put your name on the list of bidders and we’ll send you word when there’s an auction.”
“The last time you auctioned a virgin I was away on a campaign. Of course, to afford one of Domitia’s virgins I’d need to conquer another territory.” He turned his attention back to me. “Tell me about this one.”
“I hardly know what to say, general. Fresh off the block, untried.” Bonia sounded hesitant, reluctant. Then she leaned closer to him and whispered, “I’m afraid she’s a bit of a savage, sir.”
I felt sick: Bonia wasn’t protecting me. She was pitching me.
“She’ll need a firm hand then,” said the general, as if he were buying a battle horse. “Do I understand correctly that I will be her first in what we all hope will be a lucrative career in this illustrious house?”
Bonia beamed and signaled the cashier. “There’s an extra charge for that privilege as I’m sure you know, sir.”
“Of course,” he shrugged. “Though by rights you should pay me for breaking her to the saddle.”
“No doubt we should, general,” Bonia laughed. “But that’s how it works.”
“Well, I don’t come to the Vine and Fig Tree unless I’m prepared to bleed gold.”
All during this exchange I hadn’t said a word. I was cornered. Outnumbered and outmaneuvered. If I fought, I would be raped again and sent back to the slave block for worse. I was running out of options. I prayed to the goddess Bride for inspiration.
“So where is this barbarian beauty from?” the general inquired.
“She’s a Gaul, sir.”
I opened my mouth to correct her, then stopped myself in time. It would be very stupid to let on that I came from the unconquered Celts and could have intimate knowledge of a druid stronghold. I might be an exile, but I would not be a traitor.
“Ah, the Gauls. An undisciplined and unruly people.” He licked his lips. “Has she any Latin or Greek?”
“Very, very little.” Bonia skewered me with her eyes. I got the message. Keep your mouth shut.
“Good. I rather like it when they can’t talk. This one reminds me of a wild mare.” He was very unoriginal. “Yes, Bonia, I believe I’ll take a ride.”
“Very good, general. Bone will have someone escort you to her chamber while I have a brief word with her.”
“You speak the barbarous tongues, eh Bonia?” He was sharper than I’d thought.
“The language I speak, all the girls understand. I’ll send her right up, sir.”
As soon as he was gone, Bonia grabbed my arm, pulled me to my feet, lifted my toga and smacked my bottom—hard. “Now listen, you silly little twat, you try anything like that again and you’ll be back on the slave block so fast this place will seem like a lost dream. The only good way out of here is to fuck your brains out, that is if you have any. And if you play your cards right, there’ll be plenty of opportunity to spit on men—and to piss on them, too, but they have to ask for it, and they have to pay for it.
“All right, then, dearie,” she softened slightly. “Don’t be afraid. He won’t rough you up. House rule, and all our gentlemen respect it. Just do whatever he wants; that’s good enough for now. Your room is upstairs, third on the left where the blank plaque is hanging. When we find out what your talents are—if you have any—we’ll write ‘em up. Remember any woman can spread her legs—a classy whore knows how to put on a show. Speaking of that, wait a minute.” She turned away, rummaged in a wooden chest, then returned to me with several lengths of rope. “You might need these. Do you know how to tie a knot? Good. Off you go then.”
I walked across the atrium and up the stairs as slowly as I could, the sound of the fountain lost in the noise of general carousing. As I passed Succula and Berta on the stairs, they giggled at the sight of the rope.
“Oh, I bet she’s got the general. Don’t worry, Red. You’ll be all right. Have fun.”
Fucking a Roman pig? Fun? I fumed as I climbed the rest of the way and came to the door of the room Bonia called mine. It was veiled in gauzy material and strings of beads. Inside, the general belched. I closed my eyes for a moment.
It’s not just before death that your whole life flashes before you—or maybe it is. Crossing that threshold would be a kind of death. All the life I had known before rushed in with one breath and sang in my blood. The woman-shaped isle of Tir na mBan, my mothers, the druid groves, my classmates, my kind foster-father King Bran, the black-robed priestesses of Holy Isle. Yet all that dear life was just a mist that swirled around a boy with eyes dark as the well where the salmon of wisdom leapt. When I breathed out, I let it all go. Back. Down. Deep under the hard layers of Rome, to bedrock, molten rock, dark rivers.
I stepped though the veil, so to speak, into a tiny chamber. By the light of a lamp—whose base depicted a coupling so complicated that it could put your back out for life—I saw the general waiting for me. He no longer wore his gold-trimmed toga or anything else that would distinguish him from any other body. He lay spread out on the bed—a shelf built into the wall with a mattress and several layers of removable coverings—arms behind his head, legs splayed, all his vital organs exposed in what I found a confusing mix of arrogance and vulnerability.
I had seen naked men before but never one so utterly on display. So I inspected him, from his hard face with the softness of dissolution just under the surface, to the muscular arms and chest, just beginning to lose their tone with age, his still-trim waist and, of course, his appendage.