said flatly, “One day, Heraculis, I’m going to grab hold of your insolent tongue and tear it from your mouth. Now order the servants to prepare my bath.”
The bath was of marble, set into the floor, warmed by air heated in a furnace. An expensive luxury, but one which I enjoyed. Now, wallowing in the steaming water, I felt myself relax. Even the momentary irritation caused by Heraculis’s play on words turned to a wry amusement. The man took chances and, one day, he would probably take one too many, but he had little to fear from me and he knew it. As long as I didn’t catch him cheating too heavily on the household accounts, I would tolerate his insolence—and none could better the ex-slave at the suggestive look and implied insult. Even when I had granted him his freedom after Verdalia had died, he had asked, with mock affront, how he was to live.
Leaning back, eyes closed, I could see his wrinkled face.
“You grant me freedom, master,” he had said. “Freedom to do what? To starve? How am I to live at my age? Who will employ me? What shall I do?”
I solved the problem by simply paying him a wage and allowing him to continue as before, but now with greater authority.
But other problems remained. Agonestes had worried me with his talk of storms. The ship on which my fortune depended was long overdue. Storms could account for it; a wise captain would have sought shelter, and Massa Longinus was skilled at his trade, but there were other dangers. Illyrian pirates hunted the seas like famished wolves, uncharted reefs could rip out a bottom, brigands could swoop down from the hills and plunder a crippled vessel that had put into shore for repairs. And always there was the threat of sudden, unpredictable squalls, mutinies, and sickness.
Risks that could not be avoided, but that justified the high profits to be gained from the business.
Tomorrow, I decided, I would make sacrifice to the appropriate gods: Fortunata, Neptune, Jupiter Stator himself. It would do no harm and the priests would be glad of the offerings.
A touch on my shoulder jerked me awake. I looked up into a round, moon-like face.
Heraculis had bought a new slave from Etruria, more for his own comfort, I suspected, than for mine. She was a well-built girl with massive breasts and hips and buttocks to match. Her best feature was the mane of thick, lustrous hair, which rippled like an ebon waterfall to her waist.
“What is it, Fabia?”
She touched me again as if I were fragile glass. “Master, Heraculis told me to attend you.”
He had dressed her for the part. She wore a short, loose robe, which fell just below her hips and gaped at the top to reveal the smooth curves of her naked flesh.
“What did that old goat tell you to do?”
“Simply to attend you, master.” She added, quickly, “I am skilled at massage.”
I doubted it. Her hands, broad, the fingers spatulate, looked more fitted to milk a cow, yet it would do no harm to let her try. I dried and lay on a couch and watched as she filled her palm with warm, scented oil. Deftly she began to rub it on me and then, as her confidence increased, her fingers gently massaged my muscles. Her skill surprised me.
“Where did you learn to do this, Fabia?”
“My old master at the farm used to suffer from cramps and he taught me how to ease them.” Her hands lingered in the region of my hips. “But his body wasn’t as nice as yours.”
“No?”
“No, master. Yours is hard and firm and nice, even if it is scarred.”
My scars didn’t seem to bother her. I felt her hands on my back and shoulders. Heraculis had done well even if unintentionally. The girl had assets and I would see that she developed them. Trained, groomed, and taught a few graces, she would fetch a good price from the owner of a bath that catered to a select clientele—one that would appreciate both her skill at massage and her femininity.
“Master.” She was breathing heavily, her fingers pressing hard. “If you would turn over and let me finish your stomach?”
It wouldn’t stop at that and we both knew it. As if by accident, her breasts touched my shoulder and I could feel their soft invitation. Turning, I looked up at her; her mane of hair fell about my face, enveloping me in a gossamer cloud. The breasts bulging from her robe were like oiled bladders suspended above my mouth.
“Master!” Heraculis called from beyond the door, his voice urgent. Suddenly he burst into the room. “Master, a tribune of the Praetorians has arrived and demands your immediate attention!”
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