The Roman

She did neither. Instead she merely stood her ground. A shiver ran through her, trickling down her spine like ice cold mountain water. Eventually she found her tongue, and silently cursed the husky tone of her voice as she said, “You have come.”

The words once blurted out, now sounded stupid, and she blushed in mortification. It didn’t help when she saw Marsallas’s mouth quirk in a slight smile at her gaucheness.

"So I have.”

Those three words held a wealth of meaning, and Justina looked away as an awkward silence fell between them.

"Is Quintus in there?”

Turning her head back to him, she became aware that he had moved closer to her and her lips were now no more than a whisper away from his. Her stomach plummeted as she fought the urge to fuse her lips with his. To taste him. All of him.

“Yes,” she finally answered.

“Can I see him?”

Justina nodded. “He was still awake when I just left.” For a moment she wondered whether she should mention the conversation that had just taken place. Making up her mind quickly, she blurted out, “He wasn’t in a very good mood, I’m afraid. He was questioning me about you…”

Her words trailed off. For a long moment Marsallas said nothing, just stared down at her, his eyes expressionless. Then he walked past her and stopped in front of the door, before he turned to where Justina was still standing, “Will you come in with me?”

For a moment she hesitated, unsure. But then she saw a glimpse of uncertainty – fleeting – but none the less there – enter his eyes before it was blinked away. “Yes. Of course,” she said, making up her mind.

* * *

“Quintus? Marsallas is here,” Justina whispered, unsure whether he was asleep or not, as his eyes were now closed. For a few moments silence reigned in the room until Quintus’s eyes suddenly shot open, causing Justina to jump slightly with the unexpectedness of it. His eyes bored into hers briefly, before they swivelled to where Marsallas stood on the other side of the bed.

For an indeterminably long time both men stared at each other, each of them taking the others measure.

Considering how ill Quintus was, Justina was surprised to see anger and hatred radiating out of Quintus’s eyes, before his lips, parchment thin, curled in disgust as he looked his nephew up and down.

Eventually Quintus spoke, “Well, what a surprise. My long lost nephew returns at last.”

Justina held her breath, amazed by the vitriol she could hear in Quintus’s voice, and she glanced over to Marsallas awaiting his response.

“Uncle,” Marsallas nodded in greeting, his tone neutral. But the word held a wealth of feeling, and Justina ached with pity for him. Inwardly she was annoyed with Quintus. Hadn’t Marsallas come to see him as ordered? And now that he had, Quintus was still angry with him! It seemed that nothing Marsallas could do would ever please his uncle.