Then her breathing quickened, and I realized: no one sleeps that artfully. She knows I’m here. This is a test. The mistress spread out, seemingly vulnerable in her sleep; what will the slave do? I sat down, leaned against the wall, and narrowed my eyes to slits. If she was going to fake sleep, then I would, too. For quite a while we each regarded the other through a thicket of eyelashes.
“Red.”
She gave up first. Score one for me. No, wait. I am not playing.
“Red.” Her voice was plaintive when I didn’t answer. “Don’t make me cross. Look at me.”
When I opened my eyes, she pulled up her shift the rest of the way, shifting her legs and parting her thighs to reveal her swollen, glistening sex.
“Now we’re back where we started,” Paulina said. “Only I’m not going to make a grab for you this time, and I don’t think even you would be stupid enough to raise your hand to me again. Why should you? You’re a whore. My whore. Mine. You know what to do. Do it.”
I looked at Paulina spread out like an oversweet pastry on a baker’s tray—one of those pornographic ones so common in the Subura. I wondered fleetingly how that dry, tight stick of a man could have spawned someone so round and lush. From an aesthetic point of view, she was lovely, near flawless. But nothing about her moved me. She was like a painted Roman statue, vibrant and vivid on the outside, cold stone underneath.
“And if I refuse,” I said, “what then? More luncheon floggings? The salt mines? No, I know, you’ll tell Pater.”
I saw a spasm of fury rip through her. If she’d been on her feet, she would have struck me, or plunged a knife into my heart. There was that much force in her for an instant. Then, just like that, it was gone. She crumpled, making herself small, pulling her knees up to her chest, hiding her face. Her shoulders shook, and I heard her sobbing—not loud theatrical sobs, but the kind you try to swallow. I stayed where I was, still wary. When the sobs subsided, she sat up, disheveled and puffy-eyed. I rummaged in a chest and found her a handkerchief.
“He won’t let anyone,” she said at last.
“Won’t let anyone what?”
“Touch me.”
“What do you mean? You’re a married woman.”
She shook her head. “Appius Claudius doesn’t sleep with me.”
“Ever?”
“Never. Not that I want that repulsive old satyr, but I can’t have… I’m guarded all the time. I wasn’t going to tell you, but…” She paused and looked away.
“Tell me what?”
“I’m a virgin.”
Shit. I stared at this child-woman with her pouting lips, her sumptuous breasts, her little, wet twat now drying in the breeze.
“Please, Red.”
She was almost meek. I couldn’t take it. A virgin matron with a split personality.
“Can you do it…I mean, so no one will know? I mean…”
“So your hymen won’t rupture?”
She nodded. Her eyes welled with tears again.
“Sure,” I sighed, “I’m a pro.”
Paulina was right about one thing. I did know what to do; I’d had plenty of experience at the Vine and Fig Tree with the other whores, though I’d never had a female client before. There wasn’t much to it. Paulina just lay there with her eyes closed and received my ministrations. She did not touch me at all, except—typical of her—to yank my hair when she climaxed. One thing puzzled me, though. Not that I’d had experience of any woman’s virginity but my own, but I couldn’t see or feel her hymen. Had she been lying to me? I wouldn’t put it past her, yet she had seemed genuinely concerned about preserving the evidence of her virginity, which was also odd, come to think if it.
Something smelled fishy, and it wasn’t just Paulina’s twat.
When it was over I sat back down on the floor while Paulina cooled, so to speak, re-congealed. If she were a man, and I was still a whore in the traditional sense, she would toss me a tip and leave. If she were my lover, we would lie in each other’s arms and talk and drowse. But she was neither. I was stuck with her, and I had nowhere to go.
“Get me my stola,” she said, sitting up. “Quickly, stulta.”
Clearly she was giving me my cue. I was to act as if nothing had happened, as if she had not been a mass of quivering nerve-endings a few moments ago. I decided to see what would happen if I didn’t get the hint.
“So, Paulina,” I said handing her the stola, forgetting that she wouldn’t have the slightest idea of what to do with it herself.
“What did you just call me!” She handed the stola back and stood up, gesturing for me to dress her.
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. Domina, delight of my eyes.”
She bit her lip. To keep herself from laughing? It was hard to say. Clumsily I put the stola over her head. Neither of us knew what to do with her arms. The dresser was supposed to move them for her.
“So, domina,” I said, fighting my own impulse to give in to hysterical laughter. “What in Hades is going on here?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
We’d finally gotten her arms through. She sucked in her breath while I tied the ribbon under her breasts.
“I’ll tell you what I mean.”
“Fix my hair,” she interrupted. “I suppose I’ll have to hold the mirror myself.”
She snapped her fingers as if she expected the mirror to jump into her hands. That’s what slaves were for, to give their masters and mistresses the illusion that the world was at their command. I ignored her and began to brush her hair. After a moment she picked up the mirror herself. I didn’t know a thing about dressing hair, but I enjoyed brushing Paulina’s. It was thick as a horse’s mane but softer; its texture made me think of water—smooth, almost cool. If I knew nothing about hair styling, I did know something about sex. I knew something Paulina didn’t. That orgasm had blown her wide open; her petals hadn’t folded back yet into a tight-fisted bud. She was relaxing into the sheer sensual pleasure of my hair brushing.
“All right,” she said. “Tell me what you meant by your question while you still have a tongue.”
“To begin with,” I said not breaking the rhythm of my strokes, “why are you married to an old man who won’t fuck you? I can understand why you wouldn’t want to fuck him, but that doesn’t usually cut any ice. Doesn’t he want to get heirs by you? As repellent as you find him, don’t you want children?” I fought to keep the wistfulness out of my voice. “I thought Roman matrons who produced three or more children got direct control of their property.”
She pursed her lips, frowning at her reflection in the mirror.
“Why should I tell you any of that? You’re just a slave.”
“Yes, just a slave,” I repeated. “Like all the other slaves who are watching and listening and whispering.”
Her knuckles on the mirror’s handle turned white. No doubt she would hurl it—what was another shattered mirror to her—but then she sighed, and all her muscles went slack.
“This mirror is too heavy. Just fix my hair, and I’ll look afterwards.”
“I don’t know how to fix hair, domina. I’m not a tontrix.”
“Just keep brushing it then. The other slaves will be back soon.”
So