Mastered By Her Slave. Greta Gilbert

In its center, a decorated pillar spouted water into a small concrete pool. The water trickled continuously, as if by magic.

      Artair had seen Roman fountains before, but none so grand as this. It was like a spring bubbling up in the middle of a city. He ran his tongue across his parched lips.

      “Please, go,” the woman said suddenly, motioning to the fountain. “Neptune awaits you.”

      Artair could hardly believe her words, but she nodded vigorously, a playful smile materializing on her crimson lips. “Drink.” When he did not move, she slipped her soft hand into his and gently led him toward the fountain.

      Her touch sent a wave of warmth through his body. Were all Roman noblewomen so bold? At the lip of the fountain, she released his hand. “Please, satisfy your thirst.”

      And what of my hunger?

      Artair glimpsed the curve of her waist as he bent to cup his hands in the small pool. Then he closed his eyes and drank his fill.

      When he opened his eyes and stood, she was there, smiling curiously, the low sun casting a rosy glow on her cheeks.

      By the gods, she was beautiful.

      He forced his gaze to the ground. The cobblestones beneath his feet appeared to throb, and his head pounded. He steadied himself, feeling as a satyr in a Greek play—drunk not on wine and song, but on clear water and sunshine...and an ethereal woman just beyond his grasp.

      In truth, he owed his life to her. The mango himself had tagged Artair for the arena, but not for glory. “It will take a heavy coin to keep you from the lions,” he had said with a laugh. And that’s just what she had offered—the largest bag of coins he had ever seen.

      He kept his eyes upon the ground. He would have to guard himself from this woman. He could not lose his will to escape. A life spent in bondage was no life at all, he reminded himself, no matter how kind or beautiful the master’s wife.

      Chapter Three

      When they reached her house atop Palatine Hill, Clodia summoned the slaves to the atrium. “Please welcome this man to the familia,” she instructed. “He is my new bodyguard.”

      Forty sets of eyes surveyed the man. The women of the house seemed especially pleased. They smiled shyly. “Where are you from?” they asked in Latin, then in Greek. “Have you a wife? A family? A trade?” But the man remained wordless.

      “Let us give him room to breathe,” said Clodia, wondering if she had made a mistake. Did this man loathe his situation so deeply that he would withhold his protection, or refuse the grave favor she would soon require of him?

      Time was running short. Paulinus’s sister, Maevia, had already paid Clodia several visits since the funeral, the most recent just a day before. She had run her fingers around the rim of Clodia’s silver goblet and smiled wolfishly. “How vulnerable I would feel if I were you, Clodia,” she commented, “all alone in such a big house, and without my late brother’s Praetorian Guard to protect you.”

      Clodia had practically felt the woman’s hands around her throat.

      But Maevia’s words had inspired a revelation. If Clodia could find the right bodyguard, perhaps she could command him to help her escape. Or perhaps she could strike a bargain: the man’s freedom in exchange for getting her—and her dowry—safely out of the city. It was an idea that surely not even Maevia could imagine. The challenge would be to find the right man, the right bodyguard.

      Clodia summoned Tira, her ornatrix. The lithe, beautiful young woman was her best hope for softening the man.

      “Please see that he eats. Discover his name. Then groom him for duty. And find someone who speaks his tongue. I cannot own a bodyguard who is deaf to urgent times and matters.”

      “Yes, Domina,” Tira said, her face brightening.

      As Tira led the man up the stairs, he glanced back at Clodia briefly, perhaps in gratitude for granting him the company of a woman as lovely as Tira.

      Good, Clodia thought. The man deserved a bit of pleasure, and perhaps some necessary goodwill would come of it.

      Still, as she watched his bare feet ascend the stairs, she remembered that fleeting moment at the fountain. With his eyes upon her, she had felt for a moment as a bird diving high above the city, dizzy with the fall.

      The menacing clank-clank of the knocker brought Clodia instantly back to earth. Two guards were pushing their way past the doorman and into the atrium.

      “We bring an invitation from the house of Flavius. And a message from your father.” One guard stepped forward and began reading from a tablet. He read that she and her father were invited to a banquet at the home of Emperor Titus himself, to be held in honor of the new amphitheater.