When they came to the limits of the City of the Seven Hills, she came to a halt by the side of the Via Appia. The others in the group stopped as well, drawing together in a small huddle behind her. Anthony, the oldest of them, was quietly explaining to them why she had stopped, why she looked upon the Eternal City with such trepidation.
"Before she was with us, you see," he was saying to them, "Lydia was in the Colosseum. She was a Christian before it was allowed in the Empire. They put her in a prison in the bowels of the Colosseum and they were going to feed her to the lions. That is why she has stopped, I've no doubt. She has some long-standing fears about the place."
But he was wrong, Anthony was wrong. She was not afraid, she had no reason to be afraid now. Christianity was no longer considered a threat to the power of Rome, it was tolerated by the authorities. There were deep-seated memories within her, though, revulsion mixing with horror, and the memories of fear. Just the memories. The strong feeling within her now was that of guilt.
Because she had survived.
1
Many Romans believed in Fate, they believed that life had already been pre-ordained, that no matter what you did or where you went, it was already written in the stars. Now that she was looking upon his face again, it was tempting to believe that. But there was no Fate. God granted Adam and Eve free will, to do as they wished, to go as they pleased, unrestricted by the boundaries of Fate.
But the Lord God Almighty did influence life from time to time.
"We're a group of travelling actors," Anthony was saying to him, the grey-haired manager of the guesthouse. "We're in Rome for only a couple of weeks."
When she had paused at the edge of the city, looking upon it for the very first time since her escape, had she sensed him then? She had certainly remembered him - ever since she'd last seen him, she'd never stopped thinking about him. But how in Heaven's name had they now come to be in this guesthouse, out of all of them in Rome, how were they here?
"You can have the first floor," he was saying back to Anthony, and merely the sound of his voice sent shivers down her spine. "Though one of you will have to take a room on the ground floor, I'm afraid."
What chance that they come to be here? Why had the Lord brought her to this place? Was it a reward or a punishment? Was she supposed to be here to regain what she'd lost or to remember the pain and feel guilt?
He did not notice her - why should he? It was ten years on, and she was almost completely covered in her shawl. But also, he did not look at his guests. He looked briefly at Anthony while he paid and announced the group's plans that we obviously of no interest to the handsome, aging guesthouse manager.
Marcus. The years had not flushed out his striking looks, though they had greyed his hair slightly and lined his face here and there. It had only been ten years, mark you, but though ten years seemed to have been kind to his appearance, it had not been kind to his career.
"Who is going on the ground floor?" he asked.
"I will," she said, for no other reason than to test him, to see if he recognised her voice.
He didn't. It had been ten years. "Go through there, miss, and turn right. You'll see the room at the end of the corridor - number seven."
She looked at him, her body torn by confusion - did she want him to recognise her or not? Because blended in with the good memories, there was much pain. She had joined this troupe of wandering actors as a way to get away from it all - the acting of all the wild and wonderful bible stories allowed her to escape the past. But now it had brought her back here, back to him.
The pang of guilt was strong inside her, but also now, as she looked upon his face, she felt the clear tingle of desire flowing through her veins and aching deep within her vagina.
"Good night," Anthony said, and the others wished her a pleasant evening as well, their smiles kindly yet full of pity, for none of them had ever really been persecuted for their faith, they did not know what it had been like.
"Good night," she said back to them, a fragile smile trying to reassure them that she would be all right.
Marcus didn't notice her. Or at least, he didn't seem to notice her. Ten years ago he'd noticed her.
2
It had been dark when they'd been brought to the enormous round building at the heart of the city, night fall kept the show closed until the morning. But still, somehow, the smell of death hung heavy in the air.
There were twenty of them in that group, all of them captured from the other side of the Tiber when their secret church had been raided by the authorities because the landlord had grown tired of receiving his rent late. Why was it that the odious man had turned a blind eye to their gatherings only so long as their money was free-flowing? But they would not hate him for it: they would pray for him, pray for his soul. That was what the Lord Jesus would have done.
"Strip," that had been the first word she'd heard from his mouth.
Their chains were removed, but none of them even thought about escaping. There were just too many guards around. Besides, they were all to be martyrs. They knew when they were captured that it would be this way. It was the risk they had taken in pledging allegiance to the true faith.
"Put all your things over there in a pile."
She'd been with these people for five years or so now, praising God in secret since she had slipped out of her father's house when she was fifteen with a boyfriend who had seen the light. The boyfriend was now long-gone, but she was still with this group. It seemed odd to be stripping in front of them, though. They had never been that intimate, these Christians. They had always preached modesty and self-control. Leave the orgies to the heathens, let them burn in hell.
But now they were under the yoke, they had to do as they were told. She pulled off her clothes as the others did, and stood there in the darkened hallways, the flickering orange light of the torches coating her naked skin as she stood there among the others.
There were six guards, standing around the edge of the room, and all of their eyes were ogling their nude prisoners, lust and amusement dancing through their faces. The Chief of the Guards, though, he walked among them, casting his eyes over the various naked forms, over breasts and stomachs, bottoms and thighs, cocks and mounds.
He stopped in front of Flavia - a girl a couple of years younger even than her - and his hand ran his hand delicately over her small breasts and down to the triangle of dark hairs between her thighs. There was no lust in his eyes: they were the picture of reserve and self-control. There was some degree of cruelty there, though, she thought. But then, was it him or the job that was cruel?
