Chapter Text
The soldiers storm the front gates; their palace is compromised in mere minutes. The senator’s wife, bearing the ill-fated name of Lucretia, locks herself and his daughter, Pomponia, a plump beauty of sixteen years, into the anti-chamber of the senator’s private suites. She knows it is hopeless, but it is instinct for the prey to run, so she does. The soldiers employ sweet language, coaxing her to debar the great doors. Pomponia trembles in a corner of the room, her skin is flushed a brilliant pink, her blonde hair tumbles dishevelled over her round, guileless blue eyes. She is not the girl’s mother; she is too young, not even ten years older. She is no one’s mother.
The soldiers have traded sweet words for a battering ram. Perhaps they think the senator is inside? They shout in a blur of Volscian and Roman; her keen ears pick up the words ‘husband’, ‘here’. So he is outside, with the Volscian soldiers, those barbarians. The ambush on the town is no surprise; Ardea is surrounded by Volscian territory on all sides, save one: Rome, to the north. Not that the Romans are much use, too busy squabbling among themselves; patricians and plebeians slitting each other’s throats. It seems to her that if the Volscians simply bide their time, Rome will destroy itself. But then, she isn’t supposed to know, or think, anything. Politics are for her husband.
She is frantic, searching for a weapon in the room. A poker from the fire. Not impressive, but better than her own hands. Pomponia sobs into the crooks of her elbows, hiding her pretty face. She grips the poker tighter, ready to skewer any man who touches her sweet daughter. She cares little for herself; she is too uncomely to attract attention. The ornate doors splinter; soldiers begin to emerge, crashing and tearing through the lacquered wood. The metal slips in her damp palms, but she holds it aloft, sharp point aimed at the intruders. They are dirty and unkempt, typical soldiers, but not so weary, she thinks. They have not travelled far.
The soldiers eye her with some amusement, but none step close to her. They fan out, creating a half circle by the doors, now hanging in tatters on their hinges. A tall man strides in, authority written in every movement, in every line of his body. She grips the poker tighter, gritting her teeth. His eyes flicker first to the heap of linen and crying girl in the corner, second to the scrawny, sallow-skinned tigress in the centre of the room, every sinew ready to pounce. He grins, sheathing his short sword. She notices her husband, old and deflated, standing behind this man, this leader. Ah, we have found your wife at last, remarks the man in sharp Roman syllables, not taking his eyes off her. She longs to stab them.
He walks toward her slowly, in a circular motion, as if approaching some wild, but non-lethal animal. She turns to follow him, edging back closer to Pomponia, lest he strike too fast. He stops dead, she does the same. He calls her his ‘hostess’, as if he was a guest, not the leader of a garrison conquering her household. His troops are in need of bathing, and sustenance. His accent is pure Roman, and she wonders why he is at the head of a Volscian army. He steps forward, suddenly, and she flinches, as if struck. Pomponia wails loudly. She complies to his demands. He nods, but as he walks away, she says see that your men harm none of my household, traitor. Her husband, the ancient fool, gasps in shock. She is a Roman lady now, but she was born on the isle of Sicily and her blood burns hotter than most. The intruder turns back, looking at her properly this time. His mouth curls in amusement, but he does not respond to her insult. Yet.
*
Dinner is a torment. The General, as he calls himself, forces the host family to eat dinner with him- and his troops, of which there are over a hundred. They have conquered the entirety of their small walled city in a single afternoon, and they are ravenous. Her servants attempt to behave as normal, but they jitter and twitch, fearing attack at any moment. The soldiers sit at separate long tables in the great hall, shouting over one another, banging their fists and guzzling food like savages. The General sits at the head table, in her husband’s position. He is relaxed, content with the day’s work; he sits in the rich high-backed chair as if it is his due.
As they wait for the food to be served, she takes her chance to survey him more carefully. He is fair; light-skinned, but sun-weathered, with cropped golden hair. She has only seen him move a little, but she thinks his body is lithe and quick and strong, like one of those Afric cats, the size of small horses. His face is made of sharp features- nose, jaw, cheekbones, all.
His eyes are sharp, too. She flinches when they snap to hers. He beckons her with two long fingers, crooked. She swallows, looks to her husband. He stares fixedly at the table beneath his fists. She slowly rises, and in tense silence, walks around to stand beside the turncoat general.
“Serve me”, he says. It is not a request. She carves scraps of bloody meat and places them before him. She fills his goblet with wine, struggling around her voluminous sleeves. The servants watch anxiously from the edges of the room. Even his soldiers seem to have paused to view the show.
He speaks again, in a deep, low voice. She must have misheard him. He doesn’t repeat it. His arm winds around her middle, pulling her down to sit side saddle across his lap. She burns scarlet; the soldiers cheer. She feeds the general with her own hands. He bites and licks at her fingers, his dark blue eyes flashing. She has never been so humiliated. Her husband cannot bear to look at her. The general’s hands sear through her garments, burning her hip and leg, holding her tight against his hard frame. He smells of sweat and blood and man.
When the food is done, the General announces that he will retire for the night. She swiftly slides off his lap, relieved to be freed. He catches her before she has taken a step; his arm around her waist again, anchoring her to his side. He looks to her husband. You are a gracious host, to gift a man with your wife, he says lowly, brooking no argument. Her husband’s mouth opens and closes, beyond words. Pomponia begins to cry anew. It is a rather puzzling turn of events. She is not beautiful, not by Roman standards; she is too thin, like a plebeian, her hair is thick, blue-black, her narrow eyes are the colour of coals. Pomponia is the beauty, fleshy, with an angelic face, and pink and white skin. The General does not appear to be concerned with Roman standards. He commands her to lead him to her husband’s bedchamber. He growls at a servant who attempts to attend upon his mistress.
She tilts her head up (though she feels like crying) and walks with dignity from the hall, even as the soldiers laugh and applaud their leader raucously, even though she knows what awaits her in the bedchamber. The General follows her, a constant shadow straining over her own.
She lights the candle stubs with shaking hands. There are dozens littered around the chamber, but the General commands her to stop when she has lit only a few. He is impatient. Or he prefers the dark; she is unsure which is more true.
He sits at the edge of their marital bed, his long legs splayed wide apart.
“Come here,” he commands, pointing at the spot between them. She moves stiffly, standing where he wishes, staring at the wall behind his head. He gestures downwards and she flushes, biting her lip to fight back furious tears as she lowers onto her knees, bracketed by his legs.
“Do not sit idle. Undress me.” His gaze is disconcerting as she fumbles with the lacings on his boots, the supple leather breastplate, his worn undershirt. She stretches up to unravel the faded scarf wrapped around his neck, her insides jumping at the sight of the long white scar that slices from jugular to collarbone. She wishes it had killed him, that blade- she would have been spared this humiliation. He would not be here, and nor would she; she would be at the dinner table, eating quietly and pointedly ignoring her husband’s arduous complaints about his rivals. An easy life, it was, a boring life.
The hot hardness of his member makes itself known as she gingerly unlaces his breeches. She promises herself that she will not scream, nor cry, nor run from him. She will be iron, cold and inflexible.
He grasps her wrist, pressing her hand against the eager flesh. Anger bubbles in her gut and she wrenches herself free, striking his face with all of her might, her knuckles breaking across cheekbone. So much for iron. She let the fire win, as always.
The general is on his feet, no less intimidating for his lack of clothes. She knows her mistake now, knew it the instant her palm connected with his cheekbone. Her back presses against the stone wall, but she has nowhere else to go. His eyes glint in the dark, like hot flints.
She prepares herself for pain as his hands reach for her, but he does not rend skin, only fabric, tearing her gown in half and wrenching it from her shaking body. He presses up against her, his bare skin burning against hers. A hand winds in her hair, wrenching her head back until she is all but staring at the ceiling. His breath tickles across her temples, down towards her jaw.
“That… was… very…foolish,” he hums, saving each rough word for a drawn out breath. His teeth drag across her throat and she panics, for a split second fearing that he intends to bite her until her blood flows out in rivers. There are stories- whispers- of such daemons; she looks at him, and thinks he could be one. It’s the eyes.
She holds her hands by her side, fighting her nature to strike out, demand that he release her. She knows that the fire won’t work on him- he is akin to a block of ice, solid and impenetrable.
His fingers tighten on her scalp, forcing her to walk with him or lose a fistful of hair. He positions her at the end of the bed, crowding behind her until her body is pressed up against a bedpost. He releases her hair, catching both scrabbling hands in one of his and stretching her up, up, farther than she can reach. She balances on the tips of her poor toes as he ties a thick pelt of fabric across and around her wrists, immobilizing her in this strange shape.
She cannot see him, more’s the pity, but his breath caresses softly across her shoulders, telling her where he is, one ghostlike hand mimicking the shape of her from ribs to hips, dipping in at her narrow waist.
His touch and the deep, slow sound of his breathing almost relax her. It only makes the shock worse, when his wandering hands find the scars lashed across her buttocks. His breath starts, a small grunt of surprise.
“You have earned yourself these stripes before,” he comments, thoughtfully. ‘Before’?
The grain of rough leather – a familiar sensation- grazes her lower back, trailing down over the existing ridges and scars. Her heart plummets to her straining toes, her gut boiling with hot, icy terror. He is going to whip her, Gods be good, she swore to herself last year that it was over, that she would never live through that again. It had taken so little – ah, if only she had known all those years of suffering!- to cow her husband, to quell his wrath. What fool thinks beating his wife will produce sons? The harder he beat her, the harder Lucretia grit her teeth and swore that she would never bear his spawn, the harder her beat her…on and on. Circles.
Right back to the start.
“I am your master now. You will learn to obey me, in time. But for now, I must needs punish you,” the General purrs, his lips almost kissing the shell of her ear. His calloused fingers grip her chin, pulling her face back to his. “This will hurt. I want you to scream.” His face blurs as tears bud in the corners of her eyes, betraying her fear. What use in hiding it? He can likely smell it off her, read it in the tense lines of her shoulders and buttocks, awaiting the first hit.
He gets his wish, immediately. A ragged shriek wrenches from her throat as the pain of the first hit registers in her nerve-endings. The belt licks at her flesh a second time, a third, a fourth…fifth…Gods be praised for small mercies, he held the buckle tight in his fist. Her husband had always used the buckle most cruelly, allowing the bejewelled gold to tear through her tender skin.
It is over so quickly, yet so slowly. It may have been a mere minute, it may have been an hour.
She falls limp as he unties her, his strong arms curving behind her knees and shoulders, lifting her and placing her –almost gently- in the centre of her bed. She doesn’t beg for mercy; her mouth is dry, tongue frozen with fear. Her blood throbs beneath her, drawn to the apex of her pain. Their fine bed sheets are rough and grainy to her now.
The General pushes his breeches down over his slim hips, watching her with a heaving chest and hooded eyelids. He climbs onto the bed, positioning himself between her legs. She pretends to be a corpse, even stilting her breathing for full effect. Better dead, than living through this.
He touches her more than she likes, more than she thinks is proper. She has heard of violations before, hideous crimes so frequent in the streets of the Capitol; in the stories they are always swift, always violent. No hesitating, no fearful anticipation.
Her husband never touched her like this, never ran open palms along her thin arms, across her sharp collarbones, seeking out her small breasts, stroking her ankles, up the length of her legs. Being touched like this, she thinks, it could be nice. More than nice, it could be pleasurable. If not for him- if only it wasn’t his hands doing it.
Hurry up! Do it now! She thinks, screaming in her head. She wants it to be over, a past tense. She wants to curl up and cry and pity herself, but she has to be alone. She won’t let him see. Corpses don’t cry, after all.
She comes back to life when he touches her, in that secret place that only she knows about, the one that makes her gasp and moan like a whore. She touches herself there, sometimes, when the palazzo baths are empty of prying eyes; her mind falling away as her fingers pump under the warm water, her cries of pleasure evaporating in the heavy clouds of steam.
Her eyes catch his; they smile, knowingly.
But Gods be praised, he does not violate her in more ways than one. He surges forwards, fast and vicious, hips snapping, teeth snarling.
She is still, unmovable; she makes no sound, gives him nothing else.
The pain is bearable, she thinks dispassionately, certainly no worse than the lashes from the belt.
He must not have had a bedfellow for many days. It is over so swiftly, like a breeze tearing through a room, seeping out the cracks. His large frame looms over her, every sinew tensing as he roars to the heavens. She stares up at the ropes of veins on his curved neck, thinking: this is it, this is the moment I would do it. Ecstasy to tragedy before you can blink.
He rolls away, lying spread eagle on his back. She wriggles to the edge of the bed, knowing better than to try and leave. She heard the key turn in the lock, when they first entered the chamber. She presses her cheek into the pillow, her eyes leaking as she shuts them tight.
Somehow, she sleeps. Drifting from one nightmare into another.
She stirs, groggy, unsure as to whether she slept or no. The candles have burned a little lower, but no daylight has breached the drapes, as yet. It is still night.
Her ears prick, listening for her bedfellow. His deep, steady breaths mingle with the occasional snore. She listens for a long time, ensuring it is not a trick. But no, he is really asleep. A deep sleep, deeper than any wise soldier would indulge in, while in enemy territory.
What threat is a lone woman?
She keeps her back to him, gradually guiding a trembling hand to the bureau, her polished nails digging into the drawer, carefully easing it open. Her fingertips grope around, settling on metal scales. Her hand returns to her, bearing a slim gold collar, shaped like a serpent. She grasps the snake’s head, its emerald eyes glinting up at her, flickering in the candlelight as if it lives.
There are only two living things in the chamber. Soon to be one.
The blade sings a mournful melody as it slides from its sheath; the flexible, slender metal reconfiguring when it is free of its confines. It is her favourite possession- a pretty necklace, with a wicked stiletto hidden inside.
She sets the snake skin down on the bureau, cautiously rolling onto her back, the blade held firmly in her sweating palm. She stares at the canopy above the bed, counting his breaths again. Still sleeping. It is a merciful death she is giving him, he will be dead before he realises it. But it is an inglorious end, she muses, inglorious for a Roman-turned-Volscian general to be stabbed in bed, by the woman he had violated only hours before. Justice.
She twirls the blade, thinking how best to do the deed. It is not a dagger, nor a parring knife. It is meant to stab, not slice. She will need to cut off his life’s blood, with the very first strike. No room for error.
She martials her courage, her anger, her fury, and rolls towards him, rising up on her knees, reaching one leg over until she kneels above him. She watches the timely thump of his artery, entranced by the fluttering movement. There, right there…
His breath stutters, a whimper like a child’s erupting from his thin lips. She stills, the tip of the stiletto a hair’s breadth from his throat. He looks different when he sleeps- less cruel, less fearsome.
Don’t be a fool! He is cruel, he is fearsome. Remember what he did to you!
The momentary weakness passes. She grits her teeth, the muscles in her arm contracting, drawing back, like an arrow strung in a bow. Aiming for the target…