THE USED VIRGIN
Zara Altair
Copyright © 2016 Zara Altair
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher
This is a work of - fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used - fictitiously.
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Author's Note
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Enter the world of Argolicus.
With few exceptions, the western world was at peace in the year 512 after Christ’s birth. Warlords were plotting in the Balkans either for the East or the West, but mainly for their own power. Rumblings in Persian borderlands perhaps threatened the Roman Empire as seated in Constantinople. The most recent disturbances—betrayals, if you will—of the Frankish kingdoms had been settled some five years. Bishops and clergy squabbled over textual interpretations of the Gospel, patristic writings, or Patriarchal proclamations, as usual, some in a huff, others with conciliatory leanings. Vandals had controlled northern Africa for almost 100 years. The Visigoths ruled Spain and traded with avarice. In Italy affairs of concern were mainly internal—the parallel Roman law and Ostrogoth legal systems ran under the regal Edicts guided by a sense of civility, providing structure for dispute resolution.
Table of Contents
Author's Note
Politics No More
The Horse Trade
The Search
A Bath And A Letter
Thank you!
Preview: The Peach Widow
Author Bio
Politics No More
Argolicus was finished with Rome: rumors, innuendos, back-handed back stabbing. He was finished with politics.
At home and retired, he was enjoying the afternoon sun at his farm in Squillace. He gazed at the tranquil bay of the Ionian Sea beyond Squillace. Trade boats bobbed in the water waiting to carry oil, wine, cattle, or horses up either coast to Ravenna or Rome. A lone horseman cantered up the road from the bay. From the kitchen, he heard voices and murmurings as his mother held her daily counseling for the slaves. Perhaps someone was pregnant, or a grandfather’s hips hurt too much for him to walk. Close at hand Nikolaos was reading Herodotus expounding on the origin of Egyptian gods. Soon it would be Argolicus’ turn to read aloud to his lifelong tutor and receive the usual slight corrections to his pronunciation.
It was a deceptive false spring day in Februarius. The sun was out, the sky blue, light puffy clouds floated across the sky in a gentle wind. The hills were green. The horses, sheep, cattle and goats grazed and browsed soaking up the sun. In the pruned vineyards he thought he saw light shining through a few red leaf buds. Let those Roman patricians suffer in the snow. This was the place to be.
Nikolaos continued on about the possible origins of Zeus and Herakles and the belief systems in Athens and Egypt.
A sudden clattering on the stones of the courtyard jerked him from his doze. He had just enough time to compose himself before the doorman came through his study out under the portico to announce… But there was no announcement. A tall young man with very intense blue eyes rushed past the slave to greet Argolicus.
“Ebrimuth!” Argolicus immediately recognized his childhood friend by his intense blue eyes. “How is your Third?” He asked with a smile.
The man was about his age of early thirties, a Goth but dressed in a Latin tunic. He was just as large as Argolicus and towered over the doorman who had been robbed of his traditional protocol. Their fathers had been friends and somehow he was related to Argolicus’ mother, but he wasn’t sure how. Now both of them were fatherless.
“The estate is quite prosperous, thank you. I heard you had returned from Rome. I am so happy to see you after your years in Rome,” he enthused in the Gothic language. “Have you returned to bring civitas to the south?”
Argolicus chuckled. “I have no such intention. I’m here to run the estate and take care of my mother. Perhaps I will find a new wife. Do you know of someone?”
“No, not that I can think of.” Ebrimuth paused and then continued. “But I need your help. Rather, my neighbor Adeodatus needs your help.”
“I’m a little rusty on the farm matters but I’m certain Nikolaos can find something in his herb garden to help. Is it a mare having trouble? A goat whose milk has gone sour?”
“No, no, no. Nothing like that. This is serious.” Ebrimuth turned his blue eyes to gaze far out across the sea. “It seems impossible, but it is true.”
“Ebrimuth, what is it?”
He paused, fiddled with the belt around his tunic, gulped and then stated, “Adeodatus has been accused of raping a virgin.”
Nikolaos looked up from his book. The doorman who was retreating stopped still. Silence filled the small garden.
“Adeodatus?” Argolicus was stunned. Adeodatus was renowned as a conservative who imitated the old Roman virtues trying in a slightly judgmental way to bring culture and civility to a south far from Rome. Argolicus had quick flashes from childhood: a slingshot, a wounded rabbit, Adeodatus sending him to make amends, meeting a sobbing Julia who later became his wife, and having the courage to tell her he had wounded her pet. Adeodatus had taught him responsibility and justice from an early age. No wonder he had been his father’s friend.
“But this is unthinkable. Even politicians in their most evil intent refrain from this accusation. It is like deliberate murder. It is so black an aspersion it taints the accuser. Who could make such a claim?”
“Well, that is why I came to see you. There is no normal recourse. It is the Governor himself, Venantius, who made the claim and holds him prisoner.”
“I’ve retired,” Argolicus claimed with a sigh. Nikolaos folded up the book.
The Horse Trade
On the inland road the next morning, Argolicus along with Nikolaos who went wherever he went and Lucius, the estate overseer who was a fine judge of horses, plodded along on three horses under the unseasonable warm winter sun.
“Do you think Ebrimuth understands that I really have no power, no official capacity?”Argolicus asked his tutor.
“He knows that you are retired. He understands that you will use observation and judgment as you did as praefect.”
On the pretext of needing a breeding stallion for the estate, they were on their way to the local governor’s estate.
Venantius was the son of Liberius but Argolicus had never met him. He remembered tagging along with his father to visit Liberius who arranged for the distribution of the Thirds to all of the Goths and was renowned for his fair dealing. He remembered an old man, but everyone is old when you are five. He remembered many trees.
They topped a steep hill. Argolicus looked out over an expansive estate—villa, barns, stables, outbuildings, fields— which covered the opposite hill. Horses grazed in various pastur
es or stood in small groups under trees. As far as he could see everything was neat, well-ordered, and in good health—animals, plants, fields, trees.
Venantius turned out to be anything but old. He stood by the paddock on a low wooden podium in a silk toga woven in an intricate and colorful eastern pattern. He was much younger than Argolicus, perhaps twenty and gleamed with youth and beauty. His hair was cut so that his brown curls tumbled about his head heedless of the smooth fashion in Rome. Behind him was a table laid out with cups and small plates of silver tended by two servants who dispensed wine and gustum of fried squash, olives, mushrooms, cheeses and bread at the slight wave of Venantius’ hand. Venantius was commenting on the next stallion.
“Now, this one is from the same line your father bought some years ago. We keep records of all the horses that leave, especially the stallions.” He spoke to Argolicus but it was Lucius who would make the decision. Argolicus’ idea of a good horse was one that went a long distance with smooth gaits, comfortable.
Lucius was silent so Argolicus followed his lead. Venantius gestured several times more for other horses to enter for viewing.
“Well, if that one doesn’t please I’ve saved the best for last. Bring in Mercury’s Flame.” Venantius motioned to the handlers. Chestnut was too mild a word for the gleaming red color. The horse gleamed red in the sun. He pranced around the paddock shaking his head. If beauty was any criteria this was the horse. And if beauty was any criteria, Argolicus