His portrait of a happy family life that she had never had disturbed Lucilla more than Gaius realised. ‘Stop whiffling. You got me a dog?’
‘His name is Terror.’ Gaius acting blase failed to convince. ‘He is a guard dog. His father was a brutally expensive hunting hound from Britain, terrific, beautiful animal, ran like the west wind, breathtaking pedigree — ’
‘His mother?’ Lucilla asked astutely.
‘We suspect,’ Gaius admitted, ‘his father bollocksed an old fur muff. That was the only reason Fortunatus could afford him, because admittedly Terror is a bit of a mixed pickle. My brother suggests don’t make any sudden movements.’
‘That scares me.’
‘ You have to feed him. So he will be devoted and will protect you.’
‘What does he eat?’
‘Raw bloody meat.’ Lucilla’s face was a picture. Gaius pressed on. ‘And really big marrow bones, smelly ones are his favourite. Never, ever try to take one off him, not even if you gave it to him. Ready to meet him?’
‘I don’t want him.’
‘Yes, you do.’
Terror was medium-large, with chunky shoulders, little more than a puppy, still lanky-legged. A wide leather collar hung heavy on his neck, full of metal studs. He had a dribbly snout, long tangled fur, pointed ears and no visible confidence. Fortunatus had washed him, so now he smelled damp. He was sitting up on his own rush mat just inside the front door, looking sorry for himself.
‘He has been a night watchdog, guarding tools and materials on a construction site. Fortunatus has to get rid of him. Terror can’t bear to be left by himself, so he barks and whines all night and the neighbours complain. He should be fine with you for company.’
‘I do not want him.’
‘We covered that. He is protection. I paid for him and he’s no use to Fortunatus; I can’t take him back. You must call him “Terror” out of doors. Let people hear it. Let them feel scared.’
‘Does that mean — ’ Lucilla nervously patted her unwelcome pet, who shrank away from her — ‘he has some other name?’
Gaius looked coy. ‘I believe that in the privacy of a home environment, this dog likes to be called “Baby”.’
Baby was sitting on his tail, but managed to wag it when he heard his private name.
The dog lay down and went to sleep. Gaius began to fuss around providing the animal with a bowl of water, then generally clearing up. He said it was late; he told Lucilla she should get some rest too. ‘You’re safe. I’m here. Leave your door open so you can call if you are worried.’ Lucilla was not moving. ‘Go to bed, woman.’
‘Will you come too?’
‘Best not.’
She had made a horrible mistake. Lucilla had acknowledged her desire honestly, but now hot shame rushed over her. Vinius answered at once, as if he had been dreading her request. He was a picture of a man who had taken a decision to distance himself from a woman whose interest in him was becoming tiresome.
He stood well away from her, arms folded defensively. ‘Look. I just spent all afternoon pointing out morality laws to your mother’s despicable lover. So, beautiful creature, although of course I want to rip your clothes off and throw you over the cooking bench — if I did it, I would be the same as him.’
Lucilla remained still.
‘You are very sweet…’ Gaius at last seemed awkward. ‘I am honoured to be asked — and heartbroken that you look so disappointed.’
Gods, I sound pompous.
You must be very proud of that.
Head high but stricken, Lucilla spun off to her room.
She still half supposed he would weaken and come to her. Stoically, he did not do so. She had closed her door. Even so, she remained so alive to his movements she heard him pottering for some time — a long time, in fact — he chinked bowls, washed his face, checked door locks; he blew out lamps; she heard him speak to Terror. She reckoned he left his own bedroom door open, but she also knew he then lay chastely in the darkness alone.
All night neither of them slept much. Stentorian snores filled the apartment, but it was the watchdog.
Dawn came. Creeping out to use the facilities and run herself a cup of water, Lucilla had thought the Praetorian was gone already. But he must have been waiting until she moved about.
He was by the front door. ‘I’m off to the Camp.’ He paused. ‘Friends?’
‘Of course.’ That was a lie. She had humiliated herself so much she would never be in the same room again if she could help it.
He came up to her. Placed his hands upon her shoulders. Dropped a light farewell kiss onto her forehead, the way people did in families. Fatherly. Brotherly. Unbearably.
From the look in his eye, he then changed his mind and was about to kiss her in a different way. Lucilla was about to let him.
The dog went mad. His bark, as promised, was scarily loud. The moment he saw two people even mildly embracing, he jumped up in frenzied jealousy and put a stop to it.
‘Bad boy!’ Gaius was appalled, mostly at the dog suggesting he had devious motives. Terror wagged his tail, simply entranced to be spoken to.
‘Good doggie,’ murmured Lucilla. ‘Good Baby!’
Gaius left for the Camp.
Flavia Lucilla curled up back in her bed and thought about men’s fallibility.
She was profoundly aware of the legal position regarding adultery. As a hairdresser for ten years, her clients had often lamented aspects of the legislation which was, to put it mildly, one-sided.
A wife whose husband cheated on her could not prosecute him; she might divorce him and return to her father, but otherwise she had to endure the situation.
Women’s adultery was a crime, however. A man whose wife cheated on him not only could take legal action, he had to. There was a special court for sexual offences; it was always busy.
A betrayed husband must immediately divorce his wife. If he tolerated an affair he was guilty of encouragement and, as Scorpus had told Orgilius, he could be accused of pimping. If a husband delayed, after sixty days anyone could lay charges against the lover or the adulterous wife, as a public duty.
The law aimed to protect families from illegitimate children; hence the bias against loose women. Penalties were severe. An adulterous wife lost half her dowry and a third of her other property. A convicted woman could not remarry a free citizen. Her lover lost half his property and suffered public infamy, which meant he lost his rights to give evidence in court and to make or inherit from wills. Both the guilty wife and her lover would be exiled — though to separate islands. Nice touch! thought Lucilla grimly.
She buried her head under her pillow and thought about the added wrinkle that she knew applied to Vinius. A soldier who committed adultery with another man’s wife faced dishonourable discharge. All over the Empire soldiers were sleeping around with enthusiasm, but the law was there, if anyone ever made an accusation. A betrayed husband might. So, when Gaius Vinius made love to Lucilla at Alba even though he was married, it was tough on his wife Verania, yet legal. If he slept with Lucilla now she was married, it was a crime. Vinius could lose his position, its accrued financial rights, his good name, his legal standing, his ability to receive bequests, his capacity to remarry and, therefore, his right ever to have any legitimate children.
This, Lucilla bitterly decided, accounted for the man’s swift rejection of her gauche invitation.
She tried to forget what had happened, yet she went over the incident obsessively.
Vinius had no need of her. For sex he could freely associate with any prostitute, waitress, actress, gladiatrix or slave. If he wanted a regular arrangement, he could remarry.
Neither of them had mentioned Alba. Lucilla never supposed Vinius regretted that. Yet for him, it was a once-only. An opportunity to grasp, but a relationship to shun. He might still speak of Lucilla as attractive and beddable, but men always defined women in those terms. A man with a strong will, who guarded his position and was particularly careful about his money, would not repeat the experience, however powerfully he gave himself up to it at the time.