I glance up every now and again, to keep track of the young man in front of me. His long legs have set a brisk pace and I try to keep up without running. It takes courage, for I would like nothing more than to run. I can feel the heat of eyes upon me, gazing at me and my state of undress. The onlookers do not feel abashed by their crude stares and comments. My beautiful riding dress, which had been torn from my body had been left on the auction block - more riches for the slave traders to redeem - my new mistress had not deemed it important enough for me to collect.
We walk through a maze of streets, turning this way and that, across cobbled roads and narrow pathways. We pass hobbled houses cramped together so much so, that they almost appear to lean on each other for support. I move around people nimbly, watching my step as the stones become uneven and muck covers most of what I can see. I feel like I am passing through the poorer section of a city, for punters with stalls, seedy looking taverns and whores all occupy the same packed space. I should feel less on show, as many of the women we pass are wearing scantily clad clothing, revealing skin and more.
The young man that I follow is a few years older than myself. He wears a plain white outfit, in an almost transparent material. It reveals the outline of his body, which is well built and holds defined muscle. I can see when he walks, the line of his calf and the straight of his back, which all suggest a toned, well physicked body underneath. In truth he is more exposed than me, even in my current state of dress. He is handsome too, with short dark hair, and strong facial features. He is at ease with himself. I can not say the same, for I know my cheeks are burning in shame and it is taking all my self-control to keep my tears at bay.
We carry on walking and the hustle and bustle of the crowds subsided. He is taking me further into the city, where the streets are quieter and the grounds more levelled and cleaner. I know from instinct, that we are now approaching the wealthier part of the city. The cat-calls from punters fade off and we are allowed a semblance of peace. It is within this time that I dare voice a question.
Straightening my back, I gathered my composure. "Tell me please, your Mistress, what kind of establishment does her husband run?" He did not look back at me. "You have to tell me something. I can see she is young, she must be a young wife selling her husbands wares, or perhaps, running a busy household?" I ask.
A short laugh escaped the young man. " You will find out soon enough, do not wish your fate to come along quicker, as one like you, shall not like this life."
His response is enough to put such fear into me. To suggest a life I will not like was enough to suggest the worst. He only remains silent when I try to voice more questions. A sharp left brings us into a tight alleyway, which leads us away from the dusty city streets. I feel confined, trapped, as bricks brush against my skin. He leads me on and I just cant grasp how we have stepped from the open into enclosure, my breathing deepens into gasps until suddenly we reach open space, air. I take a breath, and It takes me a moment to realise and adjust to my surroundings.
I was not expecting such beauty when I stepped out onto the other side of the alleyway, into a large garden. It was a vibrant green which seamed so heavenly when compared to the sandy cobbles. It would need due care every day to make it thrive in such a hot climate. I could not help but stare at the unexpected scene before me.
The young man walked across the grass towards a huge stone house which laid in wait at the end of the garden. "This is a fine house, the garden itself is paradise." I spoke.
"It is beautiful. The whole house is something of a master piece, you will see it is designed to be extremely enticing, in such a way, that you would never want to leave and always find a reason to return. You can call me Mars." He said.
I looked at the young man. "'Mars as in the mighty God of war? That is absurd." I could not help but laugh, he was a handsome man but it was not enough to be graced with a God's name. "Tell me your real name."
He hesitated for a moment. "Tom. My old name was Tom. You should not laugh at such things, I was given this name and you shall soon receive one too. I shall not even ask for tomorrow, it shall be different." He retorted.
"She changed your name, to what purpose? So, will I be called Venus?" I replied sarcastically, trying to hold in the laughter.
"Perhaps." He replied sincerely. "We have a few girls who have her name but I think you will be the most deserving of it."
YOU ARE READING
The Sold Courtesan
Historical Fiction"A whore will lie on her back and spread her legs, counting the roof panels, clutching at her bronze coin until the deed was complete. A courtesan is different." Brought up in an established family, her fortunes are quickly turned, kidnapped and sol...
