Roman Flames

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Fall

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Fall

Marcus

“This way,” I said, leading the courtesan through my new home. I tried to avoid glancing at the strewn wine cups that were once filled to the brim as we walked briskly to my bedroom.

“You have a lovely place,” she said melodically. I paused and looked at her, her face carefully painted and her clothing a little more transparent than a modest woman’s.

“Thank you,” I replied, confused as to why she would make such a random comment when there were other things to attend to.

When we made it to my bedroom, I made it my mission to light at least a few candles; I was still getting used to the place, and in the dark I had a tendency to use my shins to find my way around. And now that I had downed my fair share of drinks, it was even more imperative.

“Are you nervous?” she asked. I turned, and she had a faint smile on her lips.

“No,” I lied.

“I’ve never seen a man nervously light candles,” she laughed. I blushed red, and she stood up, her hips swaying slightly as she walked towards me. “It is okay,” she said, her hand brushing my face, “to be afraid.”

To this, I smiled. “I have seen many things in my lifetime. You do not scare me.”

“Good,” she said, leaning into me. I grabbed her waist and kissed her, my heart bouncing off of my sternum wildly. I’m going to do this, I thought. Though perhaps my wine-muddled thoughts weren’t so rational. As I led her to the bed, we lost layers—her veil, my toga, both of our shoes—until I lifted her and we fumbled down.

I paused for a moment and looked at her beneath me. “Um.”

She arched her eyebrows. “Yes, Lord Marcus?”

I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again. She was still there.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Y—yes.” I hesitated again, and then I pushed myself off of her. “No.” I sat up next to her, and she looked up at me.

“It is all right to not be ready.”

I glanced at her, feeling my thoughts swim in and out of drunkenness. “I can’t do this.”

She sat up next to me. “Then do not.”

I buried my face in my hands, trying to see if I could find my rationality. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

“It is fine. Do not apologize to me.” She pulled my hands away from my face. “Sometimes, when there is something wrong, wine and pleasure are not the ways to solve it.”

Just what I wanted in the middle of the night in my drunken state. A lecture. I cleared my throat. “Thank you anyway.”

She leaned over and kissed my temple. “Good night, my lord. If ever you change your mind, let me know.” She grabbed her veil off of the floor, tied her sandals, and left. I rubbed my face, wondering what I had been about to do.

The next morning, I woke up in the middle of the afternoon with a mild headache. I had been too drunk last night to dream, but ever since I had returned to Rome, my dreams had gotten worse. I slept in fear every night, seeing Nero in every shadow, every alley, and behind every column. I didn’t want to go to the bank—which hadn’t officially opened—and I had begun to drink more. Wine had become my comfort; it soothed my dreams and calmed me down. I had stopped praying entirely, though I had never stopped believing. I had started to feel like I was simply troubling God now. Like I needed to rely on myself. Though I seemed to be leaning more against the wineskins than anything else.