Wrath of the Furies by Steven Saylor

slapped his knees and stood. “But what sort of host must you think me, Gordianus, that I’ve not yet shown you to your room, or offered you a chance to wash your face and hands? Here, follow me. I think the little room at the southwest corner is still unoccupied. The door’s too narrow and the bed’s too hard for most of those big-bellied Roman merchants downstairs—it’s just a storage pantry really, that’s had the shelves taken out and a bed put in. Yes, here it is. Room enough for both you and your slave, I suspect.” He raised an eyebrow and smiled at Bethesda; he clearly took it for granted that we would both sleep in the bed, for there was no room on the floor for a person to lie down. “That little window up there doesn’t give you a view, but it should let in a bit of fresh air. There’s a basin of water and a cloth in that little niche there. Freshen up a bit, and I’ll see you at dinner.”
    â€œDinner?” I had hardly expected to merit the honor of dining with my host, with so many other and surely more distinguished guests in the house.
    â€œYes. There are some people staying here that I think you should meet. And I’m sure they’ll want to meet you, Gordianus.”
    With that, he left the narrow room and closed the door behind him. I heard a curious clicking noise and reflexively reached for the doorknob.
    Posidonius had locked us inside.
    I looked up at the little window he had mentioned. I could reach it if I stood on the bed, but it was too small for a grown man to climb through. With the door locked, I was now the guest of Posidonius whether I wished to be or not. Had it been a mistake to tell him of Antipater’s duplicity? At least I had determined that Posidonius was not in league with Antipater. His shock at the news had been genuine. A good actor can fake a fainting spell, but no man can will his ears to turn purple.
    I sighed at my predicament, then decided to do as my host suggested, and splash a bit of water on my face. With two people in such a small, narrow room, maneuvering proved to be a challenge—a comical challenge, for soon Bethesda and I were both laughing at the contortions we were forced into when stepping past each other. As I brushed against her, various parts of our bodies made contact, and I became aroused. On the crowded ship, sleeping alongside other passengers, we had never had a private moment. This was the first time in days that I had been truly alone with her, and not only alone, but with a bed that proved to be not nearly as uncomfortable as my host had suggested.
    Bethesda appeared to be as eager as I was, for she made quick work of pulling my tunic over my head, then undoing the loincloth from my hips. The happy task of removing her clothes she left to me.
    The room was warm. Soon we were both covered with a sheen of sweat; our bodies slid against each other as if we had been oiled like athletes. But every now and then the high window admitted a breeze from the sea, and the occasional drafts of cool air raised delicious goose bumps on my back and buttocks, causing me to grin and shout with laughter even as I was gripped by the most sublime ecstasy.
    As we lay curled together on the bed, dozing, our limbs entangled, the light from the high window slowly faded. I found myself staring up at the simple clay lamp suspended from a chain in the ceiling; as yet, no slave had come to light it. Had Posidonius forgotten about me? Even as this thought crossed my mind, I heard a noise at the door—a metallic clanking as the door was unlocked, then a voice calling through the wood.
    â€œThe master invites you to dinner, at your earliest convenience.”
    Bethesda was soundly asleep, and remained so, her lips slightly parted and her breasts gently rising and falling, as I extricated myself from her and pulled on my clothes. I covered her with the thin sheet, then opened the door as little as I could, stepped