She stared at him in awe. “You have lived through centuries,” she breathed.
David met her eyes in silent affirmation.
The night had stretched into the early hours of morning. Their tar had long run out, yet the owner of the den knew better than to disturb them, even to inquire if they needed more. His companion was seated upright, listening to his story with the rapt attention of a child, any trace of intoxication absent from her pale eyes. “But when did you become what you are?” she asked. “Did it happen at the villa?”
“It would be several years before I would change. The years with her, as a young man, were some of the happiest I’ve ever known. I guess that’s why my story begins with her.”
“You loved her.”
“We were inseparable,” he nodded. “She was my first romance, that sort of naive and dreamlike experience only few are fortunate to have before the harsh realities of life take hold.” He slowly rose to his feet. “We should leave this place. The hours grow into morning.”
“But you’ve only told me the beginning!” she objected, nearly sending herself into another fit of heaves.
He lifted his hand to silence her protests. “I would be honored if you’d join me at my home,” he offered, surprising himself. “I will make sure your companionship is compensated for,” he added for good measure.
She delighted, starting to jump up before realizing the unsteadiness of her gait. He reached out to stabilize her, waiting until she had regained her bearings before he gently took her arm and linked it around his own. Her eyes met his in silent gratitude. Without further ado, they withdrew together from the stale room.
They brushed past the openly shocked woman from earlier, not allowing her the opportunity to make a comment, and pushed open the front door of the den, releasing a hazy cloud of smoke into the night air. The scent of foreboding daylight immediately reached David’s nostrils, a silent warning to find refuge soon. Not a soul roamed the streets at this hour, save for those involved in racketing and chicanery, and his personal coachman who, as per their evening ritual, had been patiently patrolling the area to collect him.
“Good evening, Jacob. Or shall I say good morning?” he greeted him, pleasantly.
“Sir,” the older man nodded back, peering at him beneath the rim of his hat. “Good evening and good morning to ya, sir.”
Jacob had been a remarkably loyal manservant over the years, content with minding his own affairs while residing in the gatehouse of David’s manor. He acted as groundskeeper, coachman, or personal servant, depending upon request. He never questioned his employer, satisfied with the generous payments left each week under his shabby doormat and the free, commodious lodging.
Now he pried open the coach doors, politely averting his eyes past David’s companion as he gestured her inside. She gathered up her plentiful skirts before hoisting herself in, settling into the plush, cushioned seats as David climbed in after her. The carriage lurched forward as she admired the richness of the fabric, the horses springing rapidly to trot.
She pointed excitedly out the small carriage window as they rode, thoroughly enjoying the view of the rolling landscape as they traveled out of the city. He left her to her excitement, leaning comfortably against the seat. He felt a few stubborn hunger pangs, but the malaise that had settled over him was less about needing to feed as it was daybreak fatigue. He sighed, letting his body rest as the last of the opium worked its way out of his pores. His mind drifted back to his story. It had been so many decades since he had thought of her, his lovely Gaia. He closed his eyes, trying to remember the sweet floral smell of her skin and the feel of the warm Italian sun on his face. ANCIENT ROME, 49 B.C.
“Davius!”
From far beyond where he could see, her voice called to him.
The marketplace was spun with chaos, the bustle of frantic Romans preparing for the Festival of Neptunalia drowning out the sound. Yet her arm branched out from the throng of bodies, waving for him to come.
Although Davius had adjusted to the brutal Roman sun, the summer months proved almost unbearable. He was not alone in his vexations; because of the scorching temperatures, food vendors only kept their carts open until midafternoon, forcing citizens who desired fresh fruit or meat for their evening supper to come at daybreak. This only added to the frenzy of today’s feast day preparations, bodies pressing him at all sides. Gaia finally pushed her way through them, her cheeks pink from the exertion.
As the years passed, he had grown fiercely in love with her. Like him, she had been transformed by adulthood, the age difference between them now hardly apparent. Her rose golden hair still bounced around her narrow shoulders as she spoke, but most of it was now kept fastened behind her head in a delicate gold clip, the rest falling beyond her rounded breasts and settling into the small of her back. Her hips had grown generous as she aged, offering ample room for legs that were long enough to drive the hem of her tunic up around her thighs. Gone was the spritely girl who had met him in the marketplace, her replacement a voluptuous Roman goddess.
It had been nearly a decade since Davius first arrived in Rome and into the care of Gaia, becoming another personal slave to Eridus Acacallis Aganus, the winemaker. The wealthy patron took a liking to him immediately, eventually treating him like he did his closest slaves. His only household duty was to tend to the stables, but it was a task he enjoyed rather than toiled at.
He learned the new language easily, his accent gradually diminishing as he acclimated to his new home. He had also grown accustomed to Roman culture, even embracing the religious practices they upheld. Eridus allowed him to visit the Forum when time permitted, and it was there that his mind blossomed as he spent hours listening to the musings of the great philosophers who orated from behind stone pedestals. He broke away only to explore the surrounding temples dedicated to various Roman gods, finding solace and inspiration within their walls. It was there that he discovered his calling, enthralled by art in its various forms, gliding his fingers over the marble sculptures and across the heavily painted frescoes that covered the walls. His obsession soon evolved into passion, inspiring him to create art of his own. He concocted his own paint by smashing bits of fruit or insect shells into paste, adding them to drops of leftover olive oil. He experimented with other materials, such as resin for black and cinnabar for red, until the entire spectrum was represented. He would then spread the colors on flat stones he found in the woods or on scraps of old cloth, painting everything from images of deities, old and new, to scenes from nature, to that which he cherished most, his Gaia.
He moved towards her now, pushing a wooden cart heavy with loaves of bread, jugs of honey and poppy seeds, and baskets of figs. He had yet to purchase the requested pork and bird, but the heat prevented him from doing so until the final moment before their departure. Not only was today a Roman feast day, but it was the day of Eridus’s birth, and he had sent him to fetch as many delicacies and seasonings as he could carry for a lavish banquet to be held that evening. He sent Gaia to accompany him, her task to barter with Vaticus Marcaoneus, a rival winemaker, to trade some of his fine wine for a jug of Eridus’s best. She held a jug of it now in her dewy arms, the afternoon heat wilting away her countenance. “The forum is unbearable today,” she remarked.
“Hopefully all this worship of Neptune will bring rain,” he agreed. “Let us head to the meat market so we can return home.”
She nodded, adjusting the wine jug into a more comfortable position in her arms.
The meat market was easy to find, its telltale stench radiating from the far end of the forum. Although it was purposefully shaded, butchers were still forced to take desperate measures to keep the meat fresh, trickling continuous cool water over the slabs while warding off tenacious flies with traps of honey. Davius and Gaia weaved through the crowd towards it, conversing excitedly about the approaching events. Feast nights offered them rare moments of freedom; Eridus had the habit of growing far too drunk on his own wine, his excessive merriment extending out to his slaves. He allowed them to celebrate after all his guests had either left or fallen out from over-indulgence, often joining them in their quarters, lest he be forced to end the celebration entirely. Gaia loved to regale the other slaves with the story of how she found him one morning, face down in the middle of the atrium, snoring, still clothed and spotted with food.
They passed the main body of the forum where Davius often frequented, the amount of lounging Romans as excessive in number as in the marketplace. A group of patrons stood crowded together, their conversation animated by wild gestures and raised voices. Davius recognized the elder who stood in the center, aware that he was not only a respected Senator, but regarded as one of the greatest philosophers of the forum. “They found her on the shore,” the man recounted, “the wound on her neck so deep that it nearly severed her head from her body. I have never seen anything so tragic. It is truly a warning from the gods.”
“Neptune would never allow it. Not on his feast day,” one of the younger men scoffed.
“But it is true, young man. She was found this morning.”
“This is truly the work of the gods!” another man interjected. “We must make sacrifices to Pluto and repent! We have not served him enough! He enacts his vengeance upon us!”
The crowd erupted in fearful banter.
Davius felt cold horror wash over him, prying its fingers into the bowels of his stomach. He had not thought about the day of his arrival for many years. Could it be…?
Gaia slipped her fingers into his hand instinctively, giving it a firm squeeze. “No,” she whispered. “This was not you. Old men love to hear themselves talk. Let us go.”
Grateful to be freed from overhearing more of their troubling words, he obeyed.
They reached the butchery where Gaia produced her pouch of coins to purchase quail, dormice, snails, and pork. Davius helped her stack the cuts neatly on the cart, then covered them with a straw mat to ward off the flies. “We have only moments before it starts to spoil,” she reminded him. “Let us hurry.”
Davius nodded absently, still unable to meet her eyes.
“It was not you,” she repeated firmly, pushing her face near his so he was forced to look into them.
“It was not me,” he echoed.
They took turns pushing the cart until their villa came into view. Already the smoke from culinary fires billowed up from the kitchen, the commotion coming from behind its walls audible from the outside. They burst through the door, immediately assaulted by the clamor of frantic preparation, the cooks shouting at each other over the noise of chopping knives and clanging pots and pans. Davius felt as if the wind had been sucked from his lungs, the temperature of the kitchen far exceeding the outdoors, its open windows no match for the oven’s giant flames. The cooking slaves paid the oppressive heat no mind, dancing from pot to stove to butcher’s block dressed only in meager strips of tunic cloth which were soaked with sweat and discolored by grime.
“I brought more!” Davius called over the racket, setting down his cart. They immediately attacked the spoils, reminding him of ants swarming madly over freshly dropped fruit.
