Guest authors: R. Paul Sardana & Trisha Garcia

R. Paul Sardanas and Tisha Garcia, co-authors of Torera, from Passion In Print Press

Do you have a favorite author/authors?  
R. Paul: There are hundreds of course, but if I put it in terms of who would I want to have with me to read while stranded on a desert island, I would choose Yukio Mishima (his Sea of Fertility tetralogy, which he committed suicide after completing, as he believed he had reached the zenith of his literary life), and Don McGregor (his book Dragonflame and Other Bedtime Nightmares – and Don is very much alive).
Tisha:Wow lets see that list is rather extensive. I've been a voracious reader since I was like eight. My list is a little eclectic. I would have to say that one of my major influences would have to be V.C Andrews (the original NOT the army of ghost writers). Even today you have to genuflect when you reread Flowers in the Attic. That was some seriously dark stuff right there, yet so deliciously great!  For erotica I get high on Anais Nin—without her I don't think any of us would really be here. I could only hope to ever write something half as amazing as Delta of Venus. I've been obsessed with horror since I was in Nursery School. I've always been fascinated by the dark and macabre, the more grotesque, the better. One of the reasons I like writing horror so much is that you can do anything with it. I think that as a genre it has the most freedom. You can explore the dark heart of humanity and disturb the hell out of people or you can make them laugh hysterically. With horror, pretty much anything goes. So Dan Simmons and Robert R. McCammon, Graham Masterton, Thomas Harris of course Dean  R. Koontz, and I've just recently fallen in love with Joe Hill ( Steven King's son) if you haven't read Horns yet you're missing out!  For the classics Charles Dickens I can't even say how many times I have read Great Expectations. And lastly but certainly not least  Nabokov & Ayn Rand.
What is your writing day like?
R. Paul: I generally write during the long bus trip I take every weekday morning, hitting the road at about 6:30 AM and writing book chapters, poems, and other works in longhand on loose scraps of paper. At home in the evenings and on weekends I transcribe these nearly indecipherable scribbles to type on my laptop computer. This adds upto between a quarter and a half a million words a year.
Tisha:I'm a night owl so I usually don't go to sleep until anywhere between 2-4 AM most nights. It's against my religion to get up before noon. I don't especially enjoy breakfast food and since it's so late—I usually will pick up some fast food (Five Guys anyone? Umm the burger place not...perves!) or just pack whatever is left over in the refrigerator and eat it in my local bookstore Half Off Books. I don't know about other writers but I can't manage to type more then fourteen words without music or some really good coffee. I try to use the music I listen to off my play list to get me in the mood. I'm currently listening to a lot of Flyleaf and The Dodos. I always work off of a chapter list that is pretty detailed and as I go along I mark it off. Since I usually co-write I just split the work up and go back and forth in e-mails as the novel is written. I'm rather prolific and can write for hours and hours until they kick me out. I go home walk my dachshunds make some decaf and climb in bed and edit and revise the rest of the night.

What is your favorite movie?
R. Paul: The last time I was asked this question I chose three separate film versions of Hamlet – one with Laurence Olivier, one with Kenneth Branagh, and one with Ethan Hawke. I'm going to cheat a little again and pick the collaborative films of far and away my favorite screen couple: Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor.  Dr. Faustus, Cleopatra, The Taming of the Shrew, The Sandpiper, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf – nobody matches Burton and Taylor for pure intensity and passion.
Tisha:I hate TV but love the movies. Top 5 would have to be Hard Candy, High Tension, What Dreams May Come, Children of Men and the ultra quirky Matilda.

Who are your favorite musician/s?
R. Paul: I'll go with John Lennon in his immediate post-Beatles career, Beethoven, Diana Krall, Jimi Hendrix wailing "All Along the Watchtower", Madonna doing her "Like a Prayer" video, and Tom Waits singing "Waltzing Matilda".
Tisha:That's like asking which of my daughters I love more.( if you're reading this mommy loves you!) I really love all kinds of music, except Polka—the beat's just too damn hard to dance to. So like my reading choices its just as eclectic and unbelievably LONG. LAUGHS so I'll just stick to what is always on repeat in my headphones, Top and foremost: Madonna. She's my girl. When I really wanna sit down and get in the mood to write some hot sex scenes I only listen to Chris Isaak. His song, Cant Do A Thing To Stop Me makes me go commando in a hurry. Oops that was another question .Depeche Mode, Garbage, The Beatles, Jill Scott (I love it when she says "toast two scrambled eggs.") Damien Marley, Sade, The Police, Sting, Sara Evans and Fiona Apple. Just discovered Basia Bulat—she's really amazing.

What is your favorite color?R. Paul: I'll say the color of my wife's dress on our first date: black. She was breathtaking.
Tisha:Pitch black.
What is your current project?
R. Paul: I always have more than one. I'm working on a mainstream novel called The Fount, about the Lebensborn  movement in wartime Germany and its aftermath in a woman's life in postwar 1950's America; a poetry/art collection with David Cuccia about the women of ancient Rome, called The Daughters of Minerva; collaborations with some fine co-writers (including Tisha, we are doing a story called Beneath an Elegant Moon, based loosely on The Satryricon) – and the latest installment of the Siobhan Bishop Erotic Underworld series.
Tisha: Well besides the erotic novel Torera, and Beneath an Elegant Moon with Paul, I'm sort of a mixed bag. I am working on a screenplay adaption of Sartre's No Exit which will be a lot darker then the original as I think Sartre originally intended. I'm co-writing a dark psychological thriller with my good friend David C. Strickler titled Submission. I've also just started a solo project that I hope to have done by this Winter titled Black Milk—dark horror erotica which definitely will be in the scorching category.

Do you have any series out? And if so what are they about?
R. Paul: The Siobhan Bishop Erotic Underworld series from Passion in Print Press revolves around a book expert who is drawn into unique paranormal adventures. The books have a lot of intense sexuality, and have included themes like a secret society based on rituals of sex and death; the fierce techniques of Aztec vampire sensuality; andLilith-inspired Kabbalistic domination/submission. Though the books comprise an ongoing series, each can stand on its own and be read individually.
Tisha:Not out officially. But, I'm co-writing with my friend David Strickler a novel called Crossing Over— it spans twenty centuries in the lives of two immortal vampires. The story will come to a conclusion in On the Other side.

Where do you see yourself in 5 years?
R. Paul: Creating in very much the same way I am now – balancing classical and scholarly works with intense creations of pulp fiction (as I love both ends of that spectrum), as well as continuing my career as both a mainstream, speculative and erotic poet.
Tisha:Ideally I would love to have a handful of my books wedged on a shelf between Susie Bright's Best American Erotica and Anais Nin. I would like to be making enough as a writer that I can afford to shut myself away in some gingerbread-style cabin in the country somewhere happily writing like the female Nabokov. Then that song by Aloe Blacc—I Need A Dollar— wouldn't have to be David's and my theme song any more.

Do you have a day job? And if so what do you do?
R. Paul: Yes, I do have a day job (which explains that long morning bus ride mentioned earlier). I've worked as a printer now for over 30 years. If printing was good enough for William Blake, it's good enough for me.
Tisha: I own a wedding cake business and when I'm not doing that I serial kill on the side .Although technically that's just a hobby...

If you could go on a date with one of your characters who would it be and what would it be like?
R. Paul: Well, I am devoted to my beautiful wife, but as this is the purest speculation, I would have to choose Siobhan Bishop: a bibliophile and mystic, who is proof that the sexiest of all literary women are those with the keenest intelligence. We could sit on the balcony of the Algiers Coffee House in Harvard Square sipping Karkadale Hibiscus tea and chatting about the influence of Lilith in male/female relationships.
Tisha:It would have to be the super sexy alpha male Diego in Torera. In my mind he's Alejandro Sanz (who's extra yummy. If he was a sweater I'd wear him on my head) We would go horse back riding in the country and share a picnic of all of my favorite Spanish foods and he would tell me tales of the bulls he had mastered and then I would end up ripping his clothes off and having sex with him on the grass. Look- I usually don't put on a first date as a rule, but for him we could make allowances.

R. Paul Sardanas' website: www.rpaulsardanas.comTisha Garcia's website: www.onedirtyword.weebly.com
I want to thank both R. Paul Sardanas & Trisha Garcia for taking the time to do this interview. Read below for their co-author story, Torrera & Beneath an Elegant Moon!

Torera spans thirty tumultuous years in the life of a woman bullfighter.

Lucretia Maria Calderon turns her back on a dance career, plunging instead into the wild and dangerous life of the Spanish bullfighting circuit. Filled with honor and tradition, it is also a career noted for passionate obsession and excess, shadowed by the possibility of sudden death. She will also indulge in two intense love affairs, powerfully erotic, which highlight the dual nature of her life as she bonds sexually with both the naive and loving dancer Christian and the dark, harsh matador Diego, known as El Diablo, The Devil.

Toreraan excerpt

PreludeInterview for Corrida Magazine, 1981



When Lucretia Maria Calderon completed her career as a torera and matadora, a unique chapter in the corrida de toros-the ancient art of bullfighting-came to a close. Unbowed by situations of derision and prejudice, undaunted by wounds, Senorita Calderon, who last fought nine years ago before retiring at the age of twenty-seven, agreed to this interview at her small ranch outside of Sevilla.



Thank you, Senorita Calderon, for allowing us to speak with you in your home.
I'm glad to.
Are you enjoying your retirement?
Do you want an honest answer?
Of course.
I would rather right now be dirty and bloody in the sand.
So you embrace the old maxim about matadors...
Yes. "The true matador never retires, just becomes either wise or dead." I was wise, I suppose, to know the day when I had slowed enough for the bull to catch up to me.
Well, we can go back in time, at least in memory, for an hour or two here on your sunny veranda.
I'll do my best not to bore you, but you must promise me the same. Fair warning. Foolish questions will get short, profane answers.
I suspect you've been asked a lot of foolish questions in your time.
My share.
Such as, "Why become a bullfighter?"
Yes, that is the stupidest of all. I warned you, ask better, or put down your microphone and margarita and fuck off right now.
(Laughs) I'll phrase it differently. Tell me about the things that drew you to the ring in the beginning. Better?
Bueno.
The thought of doing dangerous things always appealed to me even as a small girl. Risk taking and challenges inspired me. Watching my grandfather and the other men in the corrals test the animals, I began to wonder about what a matador in the bullring consciously experiences while confronting the charge of a beast weighing nearly a thousand pounds with lethal horns. After all, the toro bravo, or fighting bull, is said to be faster than a racehorse for the first few hundred feet of a sprint and can turn more quickly than a polo horse.
Of course my mama and even my papa were less than overjoyed when I announced how desperately I wanted to be a torera. They placed obstacles in my path hoping that I would change my mind. My mother demanded that I finish my studies in the arts. She always dreamed that I would follow in her footsteps to become a prima ballerina. My father, though a former matador himself, never openly encouraged me.
In the end, it was a lot of hard work, determination and my grandfather's connections which facilitated the pursuit of my dream. The men in my family spent countless hours and days learning and practicing to be bullfighters. The more I watched and learned, the more I desired to master the art. I like to think that my years of dance prepared me for being one of the best matadors in the ring. When you look at the positions matadors are assuming when twirling and luring the bull in with cape, it's almost art, like a ballet, but really in a woman these are more graceful, more feminine and more natural positions.
Let's talk about the dirt and the blood, and your legacy there. Your arena name. La Encarnado Beso.
Yes. The Red Kiss.
I know red became your signature color. But the kiss?
Well, I delivered the kiss of death with honor to many bulls, did I not? Many brave, many difficult and cowardly. But La Encarnado Beso? It was nothing quite so mythical or profound as that.



Chapter OneJuly, 1965



Lucretia stood before the bullring stands, sword lowered, its point just above the sand. She shifted her booted feet, then became very still. In the other hand she held the muleta-her brother's-the red cloth frayed a little on the fringe, the stick holding it bent from the time he was tossed and gored, ending his career before it had begun. She inclined her head, requesting permission from the ring president to perform the kill.
Permission was granted with a nod of the man's head, but with a hint of amusement in the president's eyes and around his mouth. Indulging the dilettante woman torera-no doubt wondering if she would blanch when it came time to put the sword in.
Just watch me, senor.
"Viva La Encarnado Beso!" Some fool shouted it from the stands, and though she'd brought that signature on herself, she wished the idiot would shut up.
After the bull is down, shout all you want.
Lucretia raised her gaze to sweep the stands, taking in the blur of expressions on the faces of the spectators, ranging from gaiety to frowning disapproval, but most of all excitement. It didn't matter if the watcher wore colorful and expensive clothes or the plain shirt and trousers of a peasant, a thrill and a madness rested on their features. Other cheers and catcalls rippled through the air, threaded through with music in the background as trumpeters and other players high above the ring added their strains of drama and festivity.
She wanted to turn and show her total lack of fear to Diego, who had fought well earlier today. He would be standing somewhere near the barrera, the red-painted wooden fence that circled the arena, ready with the day's other matadors and banderilleros to lure the bull away from her if she should go down.
What a night we had last night, and what a morning. I wonder what he is thinking, seeing me here on the sands where he has triumphed so many times?
She wondered if perhaps he secretly wanted to see her fail, so that he could swoop in with the other full matadors and be her rescuer. She knew his reputation-hard and driven, living up to his arena name, El Diablo, The Devil. But she also remembered the stubborn, fiercely determined boy he had been when they had first met, so many years ago. How she had admired him!
Men. Her grandfather Raul, who could have had a decent cheap seat as her manager, had paid far too much for a seat in the first row of the gallery. Would he be watching her intently now, feeling the fear that she could not allow in herself, perhaps? Yes, perhaps. But also wanting to see her display style in the climactic moment.
Before driving her from her hotel room here in Pamplona to the Plaza de Toros and the day's fight, her grandfather had pestered and primped her, and gone on and on until she thought she would go crazy, tipping the Córdoban hat on her head to the right, then to the left, seeking for the best angle atop her blonde hair, which had been braided tight at the back of her neck. He'd made sure the Spanish leather chaps tied properly so that the tassels at her waist hung at the front in a dignified manner.
He had looked at her with emotion in his eyes-those eyes that she had so often looked to for the affection that had come to her so rarely at home-and perversely it had made her feel rebellious and petulant.
"Basta, Abuelito! I look like shit, and you know it."
"For one day keep the devil out of your mouth, Luci," he'd admonished. "Today you are a torera. Wear the moment with pride."
"Screw that!" Lucretia had brushed him back-gently, despite the outburst.
He'd simply smiled.
"You are champing for your bull." He had reached forward to arrange the tassels again. "Your blood is rushing. I may have just been a picador, but you think I don't remember?"
"Look at me, in this black and white costume," she'd gone on, "while the matadors will be glittering in their traje de luces. No suit of lights for a woman! Doesn't it make you laugh, Grandpa? While I was dancing in France, I'd go on about bullfighters, and the others in the troupe would laugh at me. ‘What pansies in their pretty sequins!' I used to tell them to screw themselves. So here we are, and my reward for defending the honor and machismo of the fighters is to go into the ring dressed like a tradesman."
She had tugged the black Andalusian jacket down farther over her plain white shirt. Affixed only by the top button, it hung over the shirt in an open triangle.
"What does that matter? Your muleta is worn, but only because it's been held bravely so many times before. And your sword is sharp, since you've been going at it nonstop with a whetstone for a week."
Still steaming, she'd stormed across the room to where she had left her everyday things, rummaging for the small cosmetics case her mother had insisted a lady should never be without. She'd pulled out a bright red lipstick and flourished it before her grandfather.
"Now, Luci..."
Turning away from him toward the mirror, Lucretia had applied the sanguine color to her lips with angry slashes, until satisfied that the vivid red leaped out in contrast to her drab-colored costume.
"It's a woman who fights today." She had favored him with a fierce smile.
"Now, Luci, I've told you. Dignity. Having that on your mouth makes you look like a..."
"Puta?" she had offered. "If someone in the stands calls me a whore, Grandpa, I'll tickle his balls with my sword."
"Your mother," he'd answered doubtfully, "is going to regret having made you carry those cosmetics around."
"Good." Lucretia had continued to smile, tipping her hat so that it tilted the other way. "Now I am ready to go."
Lucretia brought her eyes down from the stands, returning her attention to the moment at hand. The fight had gone moderately well to this point, with the first act, the trial of the lances-that of the picadors on horseback spiking the bull-having produced only one gored horse, to the delight and horror of the crowd. The picador had escaped unhurt. How many times had Grandpa been unhorsed in his day, she wondered? A hundred? More? And yet he sat in the gallery today, smiling and cheering. A picador, like a matador, ended up wise or dead. But Lucretia had seen his wounds when the old man washed. One fine day, she would bear equal badges of bravery. The horse, which could not be saved, had been covered in canvas. She could see it easily from where she stood, the canvas shroud no disguise to the presence of death. Her own brother's specter might be hovering above that lifeless form, a ghost in the ring even now. But she would not think such thoughts.
For the second act, the driving in of the banderillas-harpoon-shaped sticks with steel points placed into the humped muscle at the top of the bull's neck-Lucretia had insisted on doing it herself, though her grandfather had hired good banderilleros to place them for her. She had seen during the work of the picadors that the bull favored his right horn, hooking constantly with it, and she wanted to correct that with the placement of her sticks just so-preparing the bull for the final act, which had at last arrived. The bull had bumped her as she had worked the sticks, raising bruises she would not fully feel for hours yet, and the crowd had roared, again wondering if she would display cowardice.
Never. Let the bull be as difficult as it can. If he gets me, it will be my own damn fault. But he will not get me.
The salutation made and permission gained, Lucretia turned to the bull, which had moved into the center of the ring in the brief interval after the placing of the sticks. A difficult beast, yes, but one which she felt immense gratitude toward, as he had shown courage from the outset, charging into the ring with the power of a conqueror, wanting to fight. Lucretia had dreaded the embarrassment of a bull who would not charge, who only wanted to stand still or to escape. For all the careful breeding and choosing of fighting bulls, you could never be sure how they would react to the ring and the crowds, the attacks of the picadors.
Now he stood there waiting for her, wanting nothing more than to hook her on his horns, toss her, trample her, gore her and destroy her.
Yes, you are a worthy one. I salute you.
Lucretia inclined the sword in that salute, then walked gracefully to the center of the ring, showed the muleta, and shouted "Huh! Huh!" to capture his attention, and draw him in for the final passes. Adrenaline rushed through her as she raised the muleta held in both hands with the sword supporting it. The pase de la muerte, the classic pass of death. For an instant, the crowd, her memories, the men in her life, all of that vanished from her thoughts, as the bull thundered to her. The smell of sweat and blood poured over her, along with the intense animal scent of the enraged bull itself. Going high on her toes, she raised the sword and muleta straight up, and the bull followed, plunging past right under her arms. He hooked at her toward the right, just as she had expected. She had placed the sticks perfectly, so that even protruding from the bull's neck muscles she could evade them with a turn that would have given pride to her old ballet teacher. A roar, the exhale of the frustrated bull mixed with cheers that erupted from the stands, cascaded over her.
Ah! Come at me, toro.
From the band up in the stands came the sound of Dianas, the music played to applaud a good pass. No specific words or phrases could be heard among the crowd now-they had merged into a single throbbing cry and shout, like the sound of the sea.
The bull turned. She stood waiting in the position of another pass of death, her feet together and unmoving. Some toreros, and even seasoned matadors, would shuffle their feet in anticipation and uncertainty, but she would not be so weak. Only strength and grace.
The bull came on, and she rose again, but the bull had learned from the first pass and went higher as he passed her, hooking the bottom edge of the muleta and dragging her in close to his body. Even though his horns had passed her, he thrashed his head right and left, seeking to catch some part of her body on their points. Lucretia pirouetted and actually rolled herself standing along the length of the bull's form, scraping the sticks and scratching her face. Blood appeared on her Andalusian jacket-not her blood, but the bull's. There indeed was a badge of honor. A fighter who walked away at the end of the conflict un-blooded had surely kept a coward's distance. She stumbled slightly as the bull passed her fully and the dubious support of its body was gone. The slip made her angry at herself, but the crowd sent another cheer to high heaven, and more Dianas showered down from the band.
Now they will see me work!
Shifting the muleta to one hand and the sword to the other, she performed a high pass, the pase por altos, and then in succession did three low naturales, causing the bull to turn and pivot in circle after circle. Lucretia worked close-dangerously close, her grandfather would no doubt tell her-but she didn't care. She had entered what the matador called the State of Grace, where her body seemed to move of its own volition, as if turned on a string held by God himself. The plunging, charging, twisting bulk of the bull passed her in what seemed slow motion. She knew she must not become giddy in the moment, but at the same time the feeling of invulnerability made her laugh and shout again and again, taunting the bull with each miss.
The moment is here. Watch me, God, if you are here, for I will be an instrument of death with honor.
She performed a remate, which turned the bull and fixed him in a dead stop. Without hesitation Lucretia raised the sword and went in right between the horns, aiming the point at the one tiny spot between the bones of the bull's neck where it could penetrate. A fraction to the right or left, and it would grate on bone as hard and unyielding as concrete. It went in as if passing through butter. For a moment the beast stood stock still, then he tipped, and over he went, crashing into the sand.
The whole stadium stood, sending roars of approval that Lucretia thought would deafen her. The band played Diana after Diana. She wanted to roar right back at them, but Grandfather's favorite word returned, calming her. Dignity. Turning, she bowed, then stood straight and raised her sword to the crowd.
Flowers, among them a multitude of roses, Panama hats, coins, and God only knows what other tokens, rained down onto the sand. Lucretia ignored them all, conscious only of the fact that someone pressed one of the bull's ears into her hand, symbol of a fight well fought. The exhilaration of it all brought wild joy into her-she blew a kiss from her crimson lips to the stands, which made the crowd delirious, shouting "La Encarnado Beso! Viva! Viva!" This time she didn't mind the nickname. A rose fell right at her feet, and she picked it up, raising it as she had raised her sword in salute.
She looked for Diego...where was he? Ah, leaning against the red barrera fence, lounging there as if he never had a doubt.
El Diablo and La Encarnado Beso.
Shall we celebrate, Diego? The Devil and The Red Kiss?
She took off her Córdoban hat and sent it spinning up into the crowd, then shook out her braided hair to let golden locks tumble down to her shoulders, which raised the crescendo of the cheers to an even greater fever-pitch. A wild extravagance-buying another hat would cut into what would be meager profits from a woman torera's pay. But what did she care? Today a woman fought! This day belonged to her.

 During the reign of the Emperor Nero in the First Century AD, Psyche, a Numidian courtesan, meets Gaius Petronius, the Emperor's Arbiter of Elegance---the man who will write the enduring testament to Roman decadence, The Satyricon. Over three days, Psyche and Petronius contrive erotic spectacles that will ultimately be for the Emperor's pleasure. They are deeply attracted to each other, but Petronius is forbidden to touch Psyche, who has been selected for the Emperor alone. So they plot for their final spectacle to be one that transcends the flesh, and joins them closer than most lovers could ever dream. Beneath an Elegant Moonan excerpt

Chapter One
Psyche woke after a restless night of intense summer heat. Unusual for the air to be so relentlessly steaming here in Baiae-after all, it was to the seaside that the aristocrats of Rome came to escape the furnace-like summers of the city. But the month of Julius had seen baking heat that left the citizens of the bay-town sluggish and weary, and the month of Augustus had come in with no relief. Even business here at the House of Quartilla had been slow, with the courtesans sleeping most of the day away, and the night revelers less rowdy than the norm. Psyche, with her Numidian blood, never thought it got too hot for fucking, but clearly not everyone felt the same.
At least this morning a light sea-breeze stirred the curtains at her window casement. She sat up on her bed and watched the hazy clouds in the pink dawn sky for a while, before sliding to the edge of the pallet and putting her bare feet down on the tiles. A fine coating of sweat sheathed her black skin-she reached for a linen cloth draped over the bedpost and patted her forehead, shoulders, and breasts. Psyche never wore clothes to bed, unless a customer specifically requested it. She had serviced only one client last night-an equestrian from Pompeii who liked to stop in and visit the House of Quartilla on his way to business up the coast. A middle-aged man and not too vigorous a lover, he'd been gone in the pre-dawn, wanting to resume his travels before sunrise and hopefully dodge some of the heat. That had left Psyche with a few precious hours to doze alone-always a treat for a popular courtesan.
She yawned and stood up. Today would be a busy day. Special guests from Rome were due, and Quartilla wanted her to venture down into the market early with some of the house slaves to tote back special food, spices, incense, and aphrodisiacs the mistress of the brothel had ordered to please the new arrivals. Quartilla was usually stingy with every sesterce, but these guests rated the most lavish treatment. Quartillia had called all the girls into her chambers a few days ago and explained that a small party of Roman soldiers, escorting a high court official, were traveling to Baiae to arrange a very private festival for the emperor himself, Nero. Quartilla was beside herself that the brothel had been singled out for attention from the aristocracy of Rome. To think that her house had been picked as a future place for the emperor to spend a few days relaxing and enjoying the entertainment and company of a special group of courtesans to keep him sexually amused! A small band of his right-hand men would be sent ahead a few days before to make all arrangements.
"This," Quartilla had said, while preening in her lavish, polished-metal mirror, which leaned against the wall from floor to ceiling, "is a gift from the goddess Fortuna herself. It will truly put my house of delights on the map. What man would not want a woman who has shared a bed with the emperor?"
And would Psyche herself be one of those women? She shrugged at the thought. Very likely she would be, as her black skin, piercing jet-colored eyes, and luxurious crown of night-dark hair had caused many a Roman cock to rise at the sight of her. But she had not felt caught up in the giggling, breathless excitement the other girls displayed. The emperor had an unsavory reputation, to say the least. Psyche had felt far more interest upon learning that the representative coming to scout the House of Quartilla for his Imperial master would be none other than Gaius Petronius, the Arbiter Elegantiarum of Nero's court, who had written a series of clever bawdy tales that the scroll-sellers down in the town called the Satyricon. Psyche herself haunted the bookstalls constantly-she was a voracious reader, a rare attribute for a courtesan. She enjoyed not only scrolls of poetry and comedic stories, but sequestered herself in her room every chance she got to read and muse over Plato, Aristotle, and Homer.
Quartilla actually encouraged this-the mistress of the brothel was, Psyche thought, flighty and lazy, and delighted to have a courtesan of such formidable intelligence in her house. Quartilla often delegated the plans for revels to Psyche, sitting back herself like a smiling, overstuffed bird to watch and garner the praise for the clever sexual displays concocted by her "Numidian scholar's" fertile imagination.
So Psyche's anticipation for the arrival of the Roman entourage held little excitement about its royal aspects, but much about its literary ones. She felt a secret thrill at the thought of soon meeting Gaius Petronius-and sincerely hoped he wouldn't prove to be a debauched and vacuous dolt. Surely not. The wielder of such a brilliant stylus would surely not disappoint her.
She slipped into a light summer stola, pinning it at her shoulder and allowing the fabric to drape down over her ample curves. Just a practical summer dress for this errand-no need to be the alluring courtesan. She strapped on her sandals and didn't even bother to comb out her wild hair, taming the flying strands with a shawl. She was off then to gather up a small troop of slaves. While there was pink still in the morning sky, she led them out the main archway of Quartilla's, heading for the market.
Once there, she dispatched the house-slaves to pick up various items, while she herself focused on some additional shopping. She always liked to squeeze in her own purchases along with Quartilla's-a sesterce here or there on the house bill would slip by even the sharp-eyed brothel mistress.
She was browsing happily, searching for fruits from her own land that were sometimes brought in on ships traveling from the coast of Africa, but settling for olives and sweet breads, when she saw a group of men riding over the hill that banked the entrance to this small Bay of Naples town.
Citizens in the cobbled streets parted way for the soldiers as they led their horses to water. Many watched, curious to know why the emperor's guard had traveled so far from Rome to this sleepy burg. The leader of the group gave courteous greetings to the fishermen and their wives, who watched from under the arches of nearby buildings. When he dismounted, he stood beside his men and surveyed the town. They nodded in response to pointed directions and, leading their horses, made their way toward the villa Psyche had just left. The curious villagers turned away with knowing glances. It was a given-if they were headed to Quartilla's house of courtesans, there could only one thing they were looking for. Early in the morning for it, but Romans were Romans, and no doubt were in the market for pleasure at any hour.
Psyche stepped back into the shadows as they passed. The sweet, overpowering smell of the wild star jasmine from the merchant's stall beside her, rich and heady, made her breathe deep for a moment. The soldiers rode as if they and their horses were near exhaustion. It was a long journey from Rome. Or at least that was what she had heard. She couldn't claim ever to have traveled to the great city herself, but someday she would. She saved a gold aureus here, a copper as there, and one day she would have enough to go and take in the city. Drink handfuls of crystal clear water that flowed in fountains from distant mountains where the gods surely bathed.
The Romans passed, proud and regal, staring straight ahead as if the people and slaves in the streets did not exist, all except the leader. Petronius...it must be!
He seemed different to her from the other Romans in the traveling party. He had the broad handsome face of an Italian, with thick, curly black hair and cheeks covered in the first few days of a beard. His eyes as he passed seemed to take in everything, as if he were taking notes. He smiled at children who scurried up to touch his white horse.
She watched him as he patted the steed and scratched it behind the ears. There was something about him that she felt drawn to. She had spent time in the company of many distinguished men, but had come away always largely unimpressed. But here under the mid-day sun, she followed this man like a dog hungry for a scrap.
Psyche strolled along behind him at an even gait, away from his peripheral view. She studied him, his strong jaw line and flashing green eyes as he joked in passing with a peddler about the cost of his wares. His voice carried across the courtyard as they left the market and bustling street behind. Psyche watched them as they made their way to the arched gate of the brothel, and there Quartilla herself met them on the stone walkway. She must have had someone watching from one of the high windows to give her warning. Flowers in her hair and a bright red dress on, Quartilla was at her finest and in her element.
Waiting until the men disappeared into the gates, Psyche hurried back to the market to collect the slaves and goods. Her heart beat in her chest like a caged finch, and she wondered what he would be like.