Ex Fumo Gaudiam Read online

  Ex Fumo, Gaudiam

  From Steam, Comes Joy

  A Novella

  By Nobilis Reed

  Roma Fervens: Boiling Rome # 1

  Ex Fumo, Gaudiam

  From Steam, Comes Joy

  Roma Fervens: Boiling Rome #1

  ISBN: 978-1-905091-83-6

  Electronic version

  ©2011 by Nobilis Reed

  Published in the United Kingdom by Logical-Lust Publications 2011

  www.ll-publications.com

  57 Blair Avenue

  Hurlford

  Scotland

  KA1 5AZ

  Edited by Zetta Brown

  Book layout and typesetting by jimandzetta.com

  Cover art and design by Novaretta Reed © 2011

  Printed in the UK and the USA

  Ex Fumo, Gaudiam – From Steam, Comes Joy is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are entirely the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, transmitted, or recorded by any means whatsoever, including printing, photocopying, file transfer, or any form of data storage, mechanical or electronic, without the express written consent of the publisher. In addition, no part of this publication may be lent, re-sold, hired, or otherwise circulated or distributed, in any form whatsoever, without the express written consent of the publisher.

  To Dee, for understanding, to Ann, for insight, to Michele, for enthusiasm

  A Few Words About the Title

  Latin scholars may have noted that the title “Ex Fumo, Gaudiam” is not proper Latin. The correct translation, for Classical Rome, of “From Steam, Comes Joy” would have been something like “De Fumo, Gaudium.” The author would like to respectfully invite the reader to imagine that the title is one composed in a colony distant from the capitol, one in which engineers, soldiers and frontier folk are much more common than scholars. The reader may thus attribute the disparity between the title and the correct Latin phrase not to any lack of scholarship on the author's part, but rather to artistic license.

  Yeah, that’s the ticket…Artistic license.

  Chapter 1

  I DON’T LIKE to be below decks when we’re underway. The sound of the aeolipile whining away at a few thousand revolutions per minute sets my teeth on edge. The fact that the men under my command could see me on the prow of the ship, standing out under the same sun and weather as anyone else was a fortunate side-effect. As the rebel general Spartacus wrote in year 472 of the Republic, “Men who consider their leader above them, as a god, will follow as men do a god; that is, poorly. Men who consider their leader the best of them, as a man, will follow as men do a brother.”

  For this reason, I was the first to see the woman. She splashed into the river, calling to us. Ordinarily I would have just proceeded past, rather than risk an unseen shoal, but I ordered the helmsman come about, and for the legionnaires to put ropes down for her to board. I’m not entirely sure why I did this. In my recollection, it was her looks that drew me to save her, but my reason calls my memory a liar. She would have been too distant, I think, to judge merely by the eye. I can only conclude the Fates had intervened.

  I made sure to be the one to meet her at the gunwale and pull her aboard. Even soaking wet and exhausted she was beautiful. Clear, liquid eyes shone from beneath a crown of rich black hair. Still, she was cold and frightened. I lent her my cloak.

  Just as she was wrapping it around her, a great crowd of men came to the riverbank, waving war-clubs and javelins and shouting at us.

  “You, Stone Canoe Man! Give back woman!” one of them cried. He was tall with a gaunt face and wild hair that stuck out from his head in all directions. A jagged scar ran down his arm, pale white against his skin, and he bore a sword in his hand instead of a club. “I am Wotanake! Chief! I take revenge!”

  I was surprised that he was using the same trade language I had learned from the natives near Nova Lucotecia. It seemed quite unusual that it was spoken so far away.

  I pushed the woman behind me and called back, “I not take woman from you! I take from river! River want woman back, river ask!”

  Needless to say, they did not appreciate the joke and at the chieftain’s word the tribesmen launched their javelins. These projectiles were thrown using a long stick with a cup at the end, giving them considerable range and force. Even with their stone tips they could pierce a legionnaire’s armor on a solid hit. Having come near to the bank to pluck the woman out of the water, there was some danger, so I ordered my men to return fire from the steam scorpion atop the superstructure. As always, a stone was ready, and with a roar it shot across the water and smashed into one of the men on the bank. When that failed to quell their anger, I ordered the legionnaires to prepare their pressure bows. These weapons were not as powerful as the scorpion, but they were accurate and their reservoirs well pressurized. At my shout of “Parati!” they raised the stocks of their weapons to their shoulders, and at “Percute!” they pulled their triggers, launching a volley of steel-tipped bolts. Several of their warriors fell lifeless to the stony riverbank and the pursuers fled, dragging their dead and wounded back into the forest.

  I would have expected a woman to cower from the noise and chaos, but through it all she stood and shouted back at them. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but whatever it was, it wasn’t friendly.

  I ordered the screws engaged and we proceeded back down the river. While we cruised, I escorted the woman belowdecks to my quarters, giving orders to my first officer as we went. He was to go at best safe speed back downstream to Lake Ontarius and at that point take the most direct route to Nova Lucotecia.

  When we entered my cabin she turned her back and quickly stripped off her buckskin garments. In the narrow space, even across the room, she was close enough to touch. Propriety demanded that I leave her alone to care for herself, but I stood dumbstruck. The sight of her naked back brought a twofold reaction. On one hand, I couldn’t help but appreciate the curve of her buttocks, the lovely arch of her waist, and the full breasts that were visible even from behind. On the other hand, the bruises and welts on her back, some fresh and some faded, inspired sympathy. No one should abuse such a beautiful woman so. When she was free of the sodden leathers, she wrapped my cloak around her even tighter, and turned towards me but kept her eyes downcast.

  “I thank you, Pale King,” she said.

  And then she looked up. Her eyes were like polished obsidian, so brown they were almost black. The moment lingered long past its time, but ending it would be a sin more dire than murder. Then the corner of her mouth quirked, a warm edge of a smile, and the moment was over. She had seen the emotion in my own expression.

  I swallowed, composing myself, nodded in response to her thanks, and turned to look out the porthole at the water rushing past. “Tell me, where is your home?” When I looked back, her head was bowed again.

  “No home. Uncle sell me Wotanake.”

  I tried not to judge her intelligence from her simple vocabulary. The trade language did not have complicated words.

  “Sell you?” I scowled. As far as I knew, the native people in this area didn’t practice slavery. For my own part, the Emperor had forbidden it after the Fourth Servile War, and while there would always be laboring classes, with all the suffering and privation that entailed, at least they would be free to work wherever their skills could take them.

  “Wotanake pay uncle marry me. Wotanake bring me home. Wotanake have four other wives. Wotanake put me in house. Stop me go out. Wives make me work all day. I weave, I mend, I sew beads. I rest, they beat me. Wotanake lay in bed. I was tired, and...” She trailed off, b
ut I knew from the pain in her voice what she dared not say.

  My scowl deepened. Even with all of our differences, the woman’s situation struck a chord with my own. While the door had not yet closed on mine, she had escaped her marital prison. I had not suffered as deeply, no doubt, but I was trapped just the same.

  “No more talk,” I said, holding up a hand. There was no need to embarrass her. “Uncle know you not like marry Wotanake?”

  “Yes. He not have money. Uncle is not chief, like Wotanake. Not pale king like you.”

  I nodded in understanding. Calling me a king was inaccurate but there was no way to correct her with such a simple vocabulary. “Why did you come to me?”

  “I hear story of stone boat. I hear story of far away king. You go far, Wotanake not chase. I hear stone boat, I run to catch it.” She murmured something in her own language and rubbed the fabric of my cloak between her fingers. There seemed to be more that she wanted to say. She looked up again, eyes wide with hope and curiosity. I nodded, inviting more with a gesture.

  “Your life is full things not seen. I see them.”

  I stepped back, cocking my head.

  This was certainly a surprise! A mind so curious that she would leave everything she knew, putting herself at the mercy of mysterious strangers, to investigate. And in a woman, no less! My own curiosity was piqued. I had to learn more about her.

  “You come with me. Sleep in my house. You work. No man no woman beat you. Tell me your name?”

  “Makkitotosimew, Pale King.”

  “Marcus Amandus.” She nodded once and lowered her head again. I reached out to lift her chin. “Owned person looks at ground. You are not owned. You work; I give you food, a place sleep, things for trade. You not owned.”

  She trembled slightly at my touch, but did not flinch or look away. A faint smile touched her lips, and as our eyes met, I felt that warmth again, but stronger.

  “You want food, Makkitotosimew?”

  She smiled broader this time. “Yes, Marcus Amandus.”

  I took a chain from its hook on the wall and yanked twice. The bell summoned my secundus, and while he fetched some food, I folded the little table out from the wall. Makkitotosimew was fascinated with its operation, peering intently at the hinges and the latch.

  “You see?” she said. “Things not seen.”

  I pulled a seat from the wall and indicated that she was to sit on the bed. By the time we got settled, my secundus arrived with a loaf of crusty bread, some warm sausages on a skewer, cups of steaming spiced wine in conical cups, and a bowl of hot water with towels. He set them down between us and saluted. I returned his salute, glanced at the door, and he left.

  Makkitotosimew watched curiously as I washed my hands, and then took the bowl from me and did the same for herself without a word. I would have liked to have engaged Makkitotosimew in conversation over the meal, but as soon as I had taken my first bite, she immediately started in with such gusto that I couldn’t interrupt. After two sausages and a hunk of bread, she paused long enough to hold up the last sausage and ask, “What animal?”

  I chuckled. “Pig meat, herbs, grain. Sausage.” I gave her the Latin name for it, farcimen, as I knew no word for it in the trade language.

  She peered at it, and then her face lit up with a big grin. “Ah! Pig meat cut very very small. This gut, yes?” She poked the intestine casing with her finger.

  “Yes.”

  She took a big bite and smiled as she chewed.

  The evening turned into an impromptu Latin lesson. She pointed to things, and I told her the words for them. Bread. Cup. Wine. Table. Plate. Knife. Armor. Robe. She had a powerful appetite for learning. There were enough things in the tiny room for us to study like this for hours. I was happy to oblige. I had given up on finding such an agile mind among the women back home in Rome. To find one out here in the wilds of the Antipodes was beyond credibility—but here she was.

  As the meager light coming down from the overhead reflector failed, there was a pop-hiss as the ship’s artificial lights came on, bathing the room in a pale red glow.

  She started in surprise, and stood to get a closer look at them. “What is this?”

  “Carbolux,” I said, again giving her the Latin. I stood next to her, regarding the lamp. “It is very small fire.”

  “Where is wood?” She peered at the lamp intently.

  I searched for words, but they weren’t there. I shook my head and shrugged. “No words in trade-speech.”

  She turned back and looked into my eyes. “Carbolux make you look strong,” she said.

  I came around the table, taking her shoulders before she could get too close. I could see the hope in her eyes, hope for something that I could not give her. “Makkitotosimew,” I said, “No.”

  She laid her hand on the bed where she had been sitting. “What is word for this?”

  “Lectus.”

  “This is your bed?” she asked, confirming the trade language, with one eyebrow just slightly raised.

  “Yes.”

  “I am in your bed, this night.” It was not a question, it was a statement of fact, and I could see that there was great significance in her eyes.

  “It does not mean—”

  She silenced me, her fingers on my lips, and then pushed past my hands to press her body to mine. “Marcus Amandus, I see your eyes. You see mine. You feel this.”

  My cloak slipped from her shoulders, and in that moment, I was lost. My hands moved down her back, across the rippled scars. I winced in sympathy, but instead of flinching at the touch, she purred and snuggled in closer.

  The irritating whine of the aeolipile faded into the background. My attention was completely taken up by the warm, naked body pressed against my armor. “Makkitotosimew. I...I...” I swallowed. The words wouldn’t come. “I am not free.”

  “Not free?” I could feel a tug on my armor. She was working at one of the buckles on my back.

  “Another woman. I marry her one day.”

  “She angry you lie in bed with me?” she asked and I felt a buckle open, and more tugs as she worked on another.

  I had studied the trade language in great detail, but there just weren’t words for the relationships that complicated my life. I had to find whatever analogues that would convey my meaning. “Her father is my...king. He is very angry I put you before his daughter.”

  Another buckle opened. “I not say. You not say?”

  I could feel the heat of her body even through the plates of my lorica. I pointed to the deck above us. “My men say.”

  “Your men see now, Marcus Amandus. The one bring food? He see. He know. He can say.”

  The last buckle came free, and she bent to undo my belt and laid it aside, my sword still in its scabbard. I shrugged my shoulders to let the armor fall into her arms. She took its weight easily, and laid it across the table on top of our dinner dishes. Her logic made sense. My men would already have their suspicions about the time I had spent alone with her. I could trust them to keep my secret. What more harm could there be if their suspicions were true?

  I shook my head. I would know the truth. My religion required that I remain celibate until marriage. It wasn’t just my promise to the Imperial Legate; it wasn’t just my promise to Livia Ambrosia. It was a vow before my god. What divine curse was I risking, with this sin?

  But when she straightened up, and the dim light from the carbolux lamp fell across her breasts, my resolve melted away. “Mithras forgive me,” I whispered.

  She smiled, not understanding the Latin, and knelt to unbuckle my boots. “You are gentle. No man is gentle to me before.”

  Gentle. Yes. I could do that. I let her undo my boots and sat on the bed so she could pull them from my feet and set them aside. I stood again, now too far gone with desire to protest, and let her pull my red woolen undertunic over my head.

  When I was fully naked, she touched the ridge of puckered skin over my collarbone. “You in battle?”

  There
was no trade-speak word for “assassin” so I did my best with the words available. “Enemy shoot me from hiding.”

  “That man was coward.” She sat on the bed, and then lay down on her side with her head propped on one hand, pushed up against the bulkhead to make room for me on the narrow mattress.

  I sat and laid my hand on her hip. She was warm in spite of the chill coming from the iron behind her. She was by no means a classic beauty by Roman standards. Her skin was a dusky, brownish-red rather than pale pink, and her figure was voluptuous rather than slim. There was some hair on her arms and legs, a downy fuzz to be sure, but even in the dim light the black color showed against her skin, something no woman of quality would ever allow. There were blemishes here and there, places where she had cut herself in her flight through the woods, as well as older marks from a life that was far from easy. She was active, well fed, and robust. Men would judge her not beautiful but resilient, and consider her a good servant, a good worker. A wife for a man of the laboring class.

  Only I did not want to make her work. I wanted to make her laugh. I wanted to make her sigh.

  I wanted to make her cry out in ecstasy.

  I ran my hand up along her ribs and leaned down to bring my lips to hers. Her mouth wasn’t sweetened with spices or herbs, but the earthy scent of her skin, still holding leather and sweat and river, did nothing to deter me. I put my arm around her, pulling her in, feeling the suppleness of her muscles against mine.

  My cock, twitching and throbbing as it grew between us, began pressing against her thigh. She smiled at me and reached down to stroke it. I could feel slight calluses on her skin, but her touch was light and tender, and I let out a sigh of pleasure.

  “Show me things not seen.” Her voice was quiet, nearly a whisper.

  “I do not know,” I said. “I not lie with woman before.”