Roman Flames

Chapter Twenty-Four: Almost Damask

Hi guys! So I decided to change around chapter twenty-four just because I wanted it to go in a different direction that will hopefully be better to the overall story. Sorry for the inconvenience, and thank you for reading!

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Chapter Twenty-Four: Almost Damask

Marcus

“Marcus!”

I ran to Odoacer’s study swiftly. “Yes, sir?”

Odoacer sat in his chair behind his desk, folding up a letter and tying it with ribbon. “Will you please do me the favor of delivering this to Octavius Marius?” He handed me the letter.

“Of course, sir.”

“And when you return, take note of our expenses and profits.”

“Yes, sir.”

Odoacer chuckled. “I’ve told you time and again to call me Odoacer; there is no need to call me ‘sir.’”

I smiled back. “Pardon.”

“You have been working for me for a little over a year. When will you learn that we are nearly equals?”

“You are my employer; therefore, you hold a title of respect. In my opinion.” I bowed my head slightly.

“Marcus, you are strong willed,” he laughed. “Go and deliver my letter. I see I cannot change this habit of yours.”

“Not at all,” I smiled. “I’ll be back soon.” I left his study to go deliver the letter to Octavius, a business partner and friend.

Odoacer was the family friend of the man Ephrem, whom I had met on the ship here. After the introduction, I was hired nearly immediately (though first I had to prove my mathematical skills). He was an older man—he was in his late fifties—but he had vigor and drive. He was a banker, and though I had reservations for working with a wealthy man…this was the best opportunity I had. And if I could make a life for myself here, I could prove to myself that my past did not define me. I worked hard for him, especially since he had treated me like a son. I had a room in his home and I ate my meals with him. And within a few months, I had traded my plebeian’s threads for a fine linen tunic and toga, though this made it obvious that I was Roman, even though Damascus was part of the empire. On everyday occasion, I dressed in more traditional Damask clothing, though there wasn’t too much of a difference. Today I wore green, which had become my favorite color. Damascus was a city of color, and it was beautiful. The architecture was unlike any that I had ever seen, with Greek influences, but Eastern grace. The people here were wonderful to look at too, and I felt like they were much warmer than those back in Rome.

“Good afternoon, Marcus,” called a voice from the corner brothel. I glanced over and saw a woman leaning against the doorway. I waved.

“Good afternoon,” I said. I knew her, but not because I frequented the brothel. Odoacer was one of her patrons, and I had seen her sometimes around Odoacer’s home. Her name was Iva, and she was young—twenty-two, only three years older than I. She flirted with me often when she saw me at Odoacer’s, but I usually ignored her advances. She had long brown hair that cascaded down her back in gentle waves, lovely hips, and a friendly smile. I often wondered why she was a courtesan and not a princess.

“Are you coming to visit me?” Iva winked, her red painted lips curling up into a smile.

I chuckled. “Not today, Iva. I’m on an errand.”