Household Gods

“Look,” Nicole said, doing her best to ignore the stab of fear. “I didn’t mean to tease you. But just because I was glad – I am glad – to see my city back in Roman hands, doesn’t mean – “

She should have listened to her fear. She should have shut up, twisted loose, and run like hell. All that, she realized afterwards, when it was much too late.

The legionary listened to her just long enough to realize she wasn’t going to give him what he wanted. She was still explaining, in logical, lawyerlike, twentieth-century fashion, how a kiss didn’t necessarily imply anything more, when he shut her up for good and all: he kicked her feet out from under her and threw her to the ground.

She landed exactly as he wanted her to land. Afterwards – that word again – she decided that throwing people to the ground would be an important skill for a soldier to acquire in an age when fighting was face to face, up close and personal. In the middle of it, she had time for one startled squawk before he flung himself down on top of her.

By chance or by design – she strongly suspected the latter but could not have proved it in a court of law – one of his elbows caught her in the pit of her stomach. For the next minute or so, she had not a chance in the world of using the self-defense techniques she’d learned in another life. By the time she could think about anything but the agonizing struggle for air, he’d poised himself between her legs, yanked down her drawers, and driven deep into her.

It hurt. She hadn’t wanted him, and she was dry. He didn’t care. He didn’t care in the slightest. That was the worst part, worse even than the pain – and yes, it hurt like hell. In and out, up and down, his weight on her, the scales of his cuirass digging into her belly and breasts, crushing her, making it even harder for her to breathe.

When at last she did manage to suck in a quarter of a breath, she thrashed and writhed, arching her back, twisting and struggling, anything to get him off her. He grunted. It was, to her horror, a grunt of pleasure. “That’s more like it, sweetheart, ‘ he said. “Don’t just lie there – do something.”

She did something, all right. She hit him. Every part of him she could reach was covered in iron. Her fists throbbed with the pain of it, and he never even felt it. He pounded away on top of her, not caring that she didn’t want him on her or in her, not caring that he hurt her. Not caring at all.

There above her was the nose she’d kissed only a couple of moments before. She snapped at it. He jerked his head back – he’d stayed alert, damn him. Something caressed the side of her neck: the edge of his sword. It felt cold and very sharp.

“You don’t want to do that, sweetheart,” he said between thrusts: a word, a thrust; another word or two; another thrust. “It’s not friendly, you know what I mean? ‘

She knew. She hated him; she hated herself, for knowing it – and worse, for giving way to it. She lay still. It was small comfort that he wanted her active; that if she lay like one of the fish she’d thrown out the window this morning, he’d get less pleasure out of her. He didn’t stop or even slow down. Another dozen breaths, and he grunted again, shuddered, rammed home. She felt the hot gush deep inside her, in her most secret place.

He lay on top of her for a stretching moment, stiff as the armor he was cased in. Then, as suddenly as he’d forced himself into her, he jerked out – one last, small stab of pain, like insult on top of injury – and got smoothly to his feet. He was an athlete, of course he was, with an athlete’s grace and an athlete’s arrogant strength.

He straightened his pleated military kilt – no inconvenience of underwear in that uniform – and looked down at Nicole. His face was as impenetrable as ever: black beard, iron cheekpieces, gleam of eyes under the visor. “So long, sweetheart,” he said. “That was fun.” And then, as if she’d never interrupted him, he ran on up the alley, lifting again his ringing shout: “The Emperor!”

She lay where he’d left her till he was long out of sight. She would have lain there till Rome fell, but the flies were buzzing, tickling her lips and her eyelids. She slapped at them, hard enough to sting, and lurched to her feet. Every part of her hurt: the back of her head, her haunches, her solar plexus, her chest and belly where his armor had crushed and pinched. And worst of all, she hurt where he’d violated her, a throbbing, burning ache, as if he’d scraped the skin raw. She stood as she’d stood the night she lost her virginity, as if she’d been riding a horse all day and half the night. But that had been an almost welcome pain, a pain she’d bargained for and wore like a badge of pride. There was no pride in this. And the pain – that had been an ache or two, some chafing, and a tendency to walk spraddle-legged. This was pain.