Taken by Rome, Training Myra (Book One of The Emperor's Obsession) Read online

  Copyright © 2013 Alex Carlsbad All rights reserved.

  No part of this text may be reproduced, in part or in full, without express written consent from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote short passages in a review. All characters depicted are above the age of eighteen. This is a work of fiction and in no way condones acts of violence, sexual or otherwise.

  Adult Reading Material

  The material contained within this book is for mature audiences only. It contains graphic sexual content. It is intended only for those aged 18 and above.

  Except for the characters of Marcus Aurellius and Emperor Commodus, whose historical personae have been modified to suit the narrative of the exposition, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales, is purely coincidental.

  A Foretaste of Things Ahead:

  *****

  She tried to swallow and for the first time realized that she liked the way the praetorian moaned when she did. She blushed furiously and was grateful that he couldn’t see the redness spread across her chest.

  "That's a good slave. Now take it deeper. Relax your throat and try swallowing again. Let us see how much of me you can take."

  Myra felt rather than heard his voice grow huskier as she pushed her thighs forward and forced another inch into her desperate throat.

  "Breathe through your nose and try for me. There you go, here," he capped her jaw and put a hand on the back of her head guiding her before thrusting…

  *****

  Chapter One

  The sex the night before had been delectable, exquisite even. The girl had moved with just the right amount of restrained deliberation. He had to give it to the Majordomo, the fat bastard had trained her well. Yet there was something missing. He wasn't sure what it was but Commodus had felt it lingering there in the air amidst their intertwined bodies like a craving for an unknown food that just had to exist somewhere.

  The emperor almost tripped sideways. He lifted an arm to stay the praetorians, one of them, Vergilius he thought his name was, had taken a couple of steps forward and unsheathed his sword, eyes forward, focused on the opponent, who equally surprised by Commodus' slip, just stood there like a breathing statue of some ancient Greek god of war. Beautiful. And stupid.

  The emperor rolled his shoulders and moved forward. His steps were not too deliberate, not forced, just a determined stride ahead. His mentor, the old gladiator Valerian had always instructed him to be more circumspect in his movements.

  "For two reasons, Commodus: One, you never want to deny yourself the benefit of surprise, and two, the audience love it when the gladiator works against their expectations."

  He didn't slow his stride but when he was two paces away from the slave who by now had prepared to parry, he simply crouched, and at the same time executed a flawless pirouette, his sword arm outstretched. Old father's Nubian dancers would have been proud of such perfection. A sliver of the tip of the blade found flesh and carved a crevice in the abdomen of the gladiator, a look of pure bewilderment blossoming upon his face. Commodus stood, turned and bowed toward Vergilius who put back his own sword.

  "See Vergilius, you worry too much. You should try to relax."

  "Yes, Sire," the giant of a legionary murmured his eyes still focused on the slave who by now had dropped to his knees in a pool of blood that had blossomed at the spot where he stood.

  "Would you like to finish him off? Or should I do it, Sire?"

  Commodus turned to gaze back on his opponent.

  "Uhm… no... Just leave him there. He'll die before they come to clean up, I'm sure."

  "Yes, Sire."

  "And tomorrow, please make sure you find me an opponent with a tad more verve. Will you? This one was just… too easy."

  "Yes, Sire." The gruff praetorian watched as the slave dropped his sword and slowly slid to one side, his arms ineffectually clutching at this abdomen doing their best to prevent his intestines from spilling out.

  The girl last night had been too easy, just as this dumb slave. Commodus found the bounce in his gate return as he realized the source of his previous dissatisfaction. The girl had been trained too well. She wanted to please him. There was nothing that he could do to her that she wouldn't accept or even expect. He'll need to have a chat with Majordomo Julius about that.

  He almost collided with the bulk of the man as he turned the corner out of the arena.

  "Sire," the fat man bowed shallowly.

  "Majordomo Julius, just the man I need." Commodus was incessantly amazed at the proclivity of the old Majordomo to appear almost the instant he thought of him. He smiled inwardly, so poetic — the fat bastard and me share a connection. He saw the man try for a deeper bow, he almost heard the vertebrae crunch.

  "Enough with that, Julius. Stand up. I have some questions, of a philosophical nature, that I want to talk to you about. Come, walk with me, let’s take a stroll in the gardens." Commodus handed him a clutch of grapes.

  "Tell me, Julius, what do you think of happiness?"

  Shit! The little bastard wasn’t kidding. He really means to have some inane philosophical debate with me. Either that, or more probably it's a ploy: he's displeased with something and is going to try to make me dig my own grave.

  "Happiness its too lofty a word for a simple peasant as myself, Sire. All I can say is that I know I'm happy when you are happy."

  Commodus stopped and shot the man a long wry stare that made the Majordomo’s flesh rise in goosebumps regardless of the hot July sun.

  "I'm... just not sure I understand your question, Sire."

  "Let me put it another way then: The girl last night, do you think she was happy to be with me?" Now the emperor was pleased. He could see all the blood drain from the fat man's folds.

  "If she displeased you in any way, master, I promise you I will have her punished with utmost severity. Please forgive me, master, if she caused you any discomfort. I only aim for your complete..."

  "Just shut up, Julius. I’m not playing with you. I'm just honestly curious if you think the girl actually had fun with me last night?"

  Commodus turned and continued walking. He stretched his arms and enjoyed the feel of his muscles as they stretched and rippled along his back, a faint echo of pain from his exertions last night and this morning coursing along his shoulders and hips.

  "But of course, Master. It is any woman’s, or man's, dream to spend the night in your chambers. You know that. Last night was this girl's achievement of a lifetime. I am certain she will remember those moments with pride and fondness for as long as she lives..."

  "Well, that is the problem right there." The emperor froze and Julius almost stepped into a rosebush in an effort to avoid colliding with him.

  "Please, I most humbly beg that you forgive me, Sire. But I’m not sure I understand."

  Commodus pivoted and his stare bore down into Julius’s beady eyes. "This girl, last night, was living her dream. Fucking the emperor, watching me derive pleasure from her, seeing me depend on her for my ecstasy. But what was in it for me? There is nothing I could have done that she wouldn't accept or expect me to do. Her soul was at peace no matter what I did to her body. In fact, the more I did to her, the more her satisfaction would grow."

  Julius saw an idea begin to form and felt a glimmer of light. "And you wish someone who resents you, Sire?"

  "My father, the great Marcus Aurelius once said, happiness in life depends on the quality of your thoughts. Yes, Julius, I want someone who despises me, hates every instant of being with me. Most importantly, I want someone who hate
s herself for wanting to be with me."

  Julius took a deep breath and sat on a marble bench as a large smile spread across his face.

  "I believe I know the exact person that fits your desire, sire."

  Chapter Two

  The boy ran as fast as his legs would carry him. He ran over the hedges that separated the farms, down the road and across the river, the sound of his sandals slapping the souls of his feet mingling with the rasp in his throat. He finally reached her at the field. His sister was standing still like an ancient statue of Aphrodite, her back to him gazing at the waist-high stalks heavy with grain as they languidly obeyed the wind.

  "Myra!" A coughing fit doubled him over. He needed to breathe. She hadn't heard him. "Myra!" he took a breath, as deep as he could and screamed, his unbroken voice washing over the hills and echoing back. She turned. Her dress, the blue one, the one she loved so much, almost torn from hem to neckline. She was clutching the fine material in one hand doing her best to keep the garment from flipping open in the hot summer air. With the other, she shielded her eyes as she stared back at him. He could see them clearly even from the other side of the road: Big and black. And wet, she had been crying.

  "You need to come, Myra… It’s father… He’s dying," the boy doubled over and broke down in a series of hacking coughs as she burst into a run toward him.

  By the time they arrived at the farm, it was already too late.

  Father was dead, his body almost the temperature of the candle wax caked around the dark candelabra.

  Not that she could have done anything to delay the inevitable. Two hours ago she had hoped otherwise but now she knew better. Back then she had decided that she still possessed one thing they could barter. One last resource that she could use to convince the old medicine man on the outskirts of town to come and work his miracles and rescue their father.

  She wouldn't tell Silvanus. He didn't have to know. She had put on the sky-blue dress; the one she knew made all men turn their heads in her direction when she passed. If she told Silvanus, it would brake his heart. So she would be strong for the both of them; and her brother.

  She had taken her mother's sandals; the pretty ones. Perhaps they could still serve her, rather than linger in the closet, painful memories of happy times gone the way of smoke in the sky. And then she had ran, the wind in her face, her tight blue dress up around her knees, as fast as her lithe legs would carry her. She had ran down the ancient cobblestones up the road, to the house of the old quack, coal-black hair waving in the wind.

  She had tripped by the end of Lucrecius’ field, right at the juncture where Via Apia intersected the old gravel road going south to Naples. The strap of her sandal had ripped and the next instant Myra's foot caught in a stray twig that sent her tumbling down the side of the road.

  "Pretty dress, little girl," a gruff man said, his head in the heavens high above her prostrate body. "Nice material. Too bad you ripped it like that. Not worth much now I'm afraid," he said a lascivious smirk spreading across his grimy beard.

  "Tell you what though, how about I give you three dinarii for it, hmm? But only if you take it right off and hand it to me this instant. How about that?" Someone cackled and someone else whistled.

  Myra looked down, past her grimy cheeks, across her chest to see her dress as it lay almost ripped in two from the hem above her knees almost all the way up to her chest. A hint of an areola was peaking from behind the destroyed garment. For the moment she felt too terrified to notice anything else but the pavement, her ripped dress and the gruff merchant ogling her from above. Then she felt out of the corner of her downcast eyes another person approach.

  "Tullius, you insolent son of a bitch," the woman bellowed, her voice not unlike a blade upon a whetting stone. "Why don't you help the girl instead of slapping your toothless gums? Can’t you see the lady is well borne and might have us all flogged for your insolence. Here dear, come up."

  Myra hiccuped and slowly pushed her weight onto her arm, her struggle obvious as her arm shook under the strain.

  "Good lady, there, allow me to help you." They helped her get back to her feet and after a few words of apology and praise, left her standing there by the road, by the field, all alone and utterly helpless.

  She wanted to cry for not being able to get to the house of the medicine man. She wanted to cry for the things she was going to allow him to do to her, once she got there. Am I a whore? Would another woman in my place have even conceived of doing what I intended to do? But mostly, she wanted to cry for being so horribly, tragically, pathetically useless.

  Soon after she came back, everyone had made for bed. Thanks be to the Good Gods, no one had noticed the sad state of her dress, the scratches on her hands, the bruises on her knees. Her young brother Marcus had just curled up to sleep in the cot by the door, his hacking coughs slowly echoing to silence. The servants all left as if instantly dissolving into the growing shadows. The cattle would all still need to be fed, and taken care of in the morning, the cows milked before dawn, bales of hey put into their stacks, the pens cleaned. No matter that the Master was dead, the work was here to stay, and survive them all. She sighed, and sat in the chair by her father's bed.

  The door behind her suddenly flew open almost slamming into the wall, but a big steady hand grabbed it and held it. Silvanus!

  "Myra! I ran as fast as I could when they told me. I'm so sorry." He knelt at her feet and kissed her hands. She nuzzled her face against his hair. He smelled of summer sweat, of hay and oats, but mostly of safety.

  "What will we do, Silvanus? Now that father is gone, nothing will stop the creditors from taking over the farm."

  "Has your father not made any payments on the debt?"

  "Not since he fell ill with the cough almost two months ago. You know that. He was saving any money he got at the market to pay for our wedding next month." Silvanus hung his head, his fingers slid down her graceful calves to her toes that he caressed gently.

  "You're bruised. I can feel dried scratches. What happened?"

  "Nothing. I tripped. My sandal ripped when I ran home after Marcus told me about dad."

  They stood like that for some time, her cheek leaning on his brow, his form by her feet.

  He looked up at her. She was so beautiful! Even when sad, she looked like an ancient goddess in distress. "I think we will have to postpone the wedding, Myra." He could see the desperation in her eyes.

  "Just for an year. No more, I promise."

  "An year... One whole year?" Her voice was quiet, not accusatory, but the voice of someone that had given up. He didn't want to dwell, to explain, to wallow in self pity, he couldn't afford to, or he might just give up himself — on her, on the farm, on life, on hope, on everything right here, right now. No, he couldn’t surrender; not with Myra’s existence on the line.

  "It will take time until I'm allowed to bring you along with me. And besides, I don't know where they'll send me yet." He saw the question in her eyes and started talking fast. He would tell her everything, it was his only choice. This was their only chance to make it out of this accursed situation alive and free.

  "I have spoken with Marinus, you know, the centurion who returned to take care of his elderly sister's farm recently. Well, he said it usually takes a legionary two to three years to dock enough money to be able to bring over his family. In some cases, however, the commander can make an exception. In cases of exemplary service, he can choose to reward a soldier with a stipend. Then I'll have enough to bring you in right away. But it will take at least an year until they take notice of me."

  "You want to join the legions?" Myra's eyes had grown the size of saucers. "No, Silvanus, no. Don't do that to me. Not now. You cannot!"

  Myra hated herself. She always cried when she got angry, overwhelmed by emotion, she couldn't control her tears, or her mouth.

  "Fuck you, Silvanus. You cannot do that to us. Not after dad died. I cannot be alone. I just..." she broke down. He stood up and put his cheek to
hers. Her cry had become one continuous sob. "I just want us to be together. To have just enough to not be hungry, to have what we need. I'm sick of paying for dad's mistakes — I didn't do anything wrong."