by Tanya Bird
Tertia knew better than to argue with her daughter when she was in a mood. ‘Balbina will be better by morning.’
Shaking her head, Mila replied, ‘Better or not, I will drag that woman from her bed if she does not rise tomorrow and relieve me of my suffering.’
Her mother reached up, tucking loose hair behind Mila’s ear. ‘Go and fix yourself up, and put something clean on. You are representing the household tonight. It will not do to have you looking like a—’
‘Slave?’
Tertia’s mouth pinched with disapproval. ‘You might be interested to know there will be a gladiator display this evening.’ She turned back to the dress.
Mila eyed her mother suspiciously. ‘That is awfully convenient. You never mentioned it before.’
‘Well I am mentioning it now.’ She sifted through reels of cotton. ‘I am safe to do so now that Nerva has put an end to your indiscretions.’
Mila raised her eyebrows. ‘Indiscretions? Mother, you make me sound like a common whore.’
Tertia turned to her daughter, pulling her close and kissing both cheeks. ‘I love you, but there is a fire in you that terrifies me. Do not mess up your life chasing things you do not understand.’
Mila stared at her mother. ‘Why does everyone make such a big ordeal of a few fights.’
‘A few? That is laughable.’
‘Even upper-class women are taking to the arena nowadays, and they have much more to lose.’
Tetra squeezed her daughter’s hands. ‘Be obedient and meek this evening and you will be fine. Off you go.’ She turned her daughter towards the door and gave her a push.
‘Perhaps they will need an extra gladiator for the display,’ Mila called over her shoulder.
Her mother shook her head, eyes returning to the dress. ‘Go.’
The house belonged to Jovian Fadius and his wife, Prisca. Jovian had recently joined the senate and was keen to show off his new status to his peers. One way to do this was an elaborate dinner party. The second way was to serve up tetrapharmacum at the dinner party, a dish both expensive and complex. The four key ingredients were pheasant, wild boar, ham in pastry and sow’s udders. The problem was, in order to get udders large enough to be stuffed with the other ingredients, the sow needed to be suckling piglets, and finding someone willing to part with a breeding sow before her piglets had even weaned was no easy feat.
Mila stood against the wall, staring at the tray brought out to noises of appreciation. Even Aquila joined in the fuss, despite the fact that she did not care for the dish. All the food was laid out on the table. Mila knew most of it would return to the kitchen because, as always with these occasions, there was far too much of it.
‘Afterwards, we shall move out to the garden for a special treat,’ Prisca said. She gestured for a servant to cut the tetrapharmacum, a ritual where the udder was slit open so the other ingredients tumbled out.
‘What a treat,’ Aquila said to her host. She brushed imaginary lint off her new garment. Her face was painted, eyes darkened, her auburn hair half up and glossy. If she were anyone else, Mila might have thought her pretty.
A servant girl carried the tray around to each guest, attentive to their fussy requests. Once everyone was settled with food, then came the clicking of fingers, waving of hands, and tapping of cups, causing servants to arrive from all directions to tend their domini.
‘What a pretty girl,’ Prisca said to Aquila, as Mila stepped up to the table to remove her domina’s shawl.
Aquila wore the same frozen smile she always wore when someone paid the girls a compliment. She did not like to be reminded that the daughters born of her husband’s indiscretion were as beautiful as the woman who birthed them. ‘She is a hard worker’ was all she said on the subject.
‘Good help is not easy to come by,’ Prisca replied, but there was not much sincerity behind the words.
Aquila nodded with enthusiasm. ‘Is it just me, or does it feel like slaves have more rights than their domini nowadays?’
‘We have Emperor Nero to blame for that,’ one of the men chimed in.
Mila stepped back from the table and returned to the wall, aware of her dominus’s gaze on her. A more naive, younger her would have hoped Rufus might speak up in defence of his slaves, given he fathered two of them, but she knew better. The best she could hope for was his silence.
Prisca did not seem interested in continuing the conversation, emptying her cup and giving it a gentle wave. A servant stepped forwards to fill it again.
More food was brought out, and Mila felt her own stomach groan as new scents filled the room—fish, honey cakes and, her favourite, fruit tarts. She kept her eyes on the ground in front of her, wondering when she would be permitted to escape to the kitchen and eat something. There was every chance she would not eat until late that night after her domina was tucked away in bed, her belly full.
Jovian stood, a grand gesture that commanded the attention of the room. ‘Fill your cups, then let us move out into the garden.’
Prisca seemed to perk up at the suggestion. She was the first to stand.
Mila stepped up to the table and ladled the watered-down wine into her domina’s cup.
‘The air is cooling. I will need my palla,’ Aquila said, standing.
Mila fetched the shawl and draped it over her domina’s shoulders before stepping out of the way. The servants followed the slow-moving guests out into the large garden where torches burned, casting light across a paved area which would act as the arena for their entertainment. Despite the company, Mila could not stop the stir of excitement as she stepped back into the shadows to watch.
‘Remus!’ Prisca cried, looking far more alive than she had moments earlier. ‘Look at you. You are as fit as you were when we watched you at the Flavian Amphitheatre last year.’
Mila saw Aquila exchange a knowing look with one of the other guests, but her eyes quickly returned to Remus Latinius, who strolled over to the gushing host.
‘Lady Prisca,’ he said, giving a slight bow. ‘That was four years ago, and yet you haven’t aged a bit.’
It was a shallow compliment. No doubt part of the performance.
Prisca waved a modest hand. ‘I am an old bat in comparison to the young beauties I have seen hanging from your arm.’ Her tone was a pitch higher suddenly.
‘My wife adores the games,’ Jovian said, covering the awkward silence that followed. ‘If she were a pleb or a slave, she might have fought herself.’
Light laughter tinkled in the small area at the same moment Remus spotted Mila in the shadows. A flash of recognition passed over his face, replaced by a look of question. She looked away, but not down. There was no way she was going to let him think she was intimidated by him.
Entertainers were sourced from gladiator schools throughout Rome, and yet it had never occurred to Mila that Remus might be there. It seemed beneath him. He was Remus Latinius, undefeated in the arena.
‘Tell me it is you fighting this evening,’ asked one of the men. ‘It would be such an honour.’
Rufus cleared his throat before speaking. ‘Yes, I took my son to watch your final fight. Afterwards, Nerva spoke of nothing else.’
‘What boy does not dream of being Remus Latinius?’ Prisca said. Up went her cup.
‘I’m glad I won, if only for your entertainment,’ Remus said to Rufus.
Prisca laughed. ‘You won every battle. That is why you stand before us a freed man.’
There were hints of bitterness in her tone.
Remus glanced at Mila but did not let his gaze linger. ‘I’ve two excellent fighters for you tonight. If you’ll all be kind enough to remain in your seats during the performance, there is less chance of someone losing an arm.’
‘What a tease you are,’ Aquila said, ‘parading yourself before us and then serving up mere slaves.’
Despite his smile, Mila saw the change in Remus’s expression. He had been a mere slave once.
‘I fought enough in my yo
unger years to last a lifetime. Now I’m forced to leave the fighting to the younger men.’
‘Forced by whom?’ Prisca asked. ‘You speak as if you are an old man. I happen to know for a fact that you are only twenty and five.’
‘That is old for a gladiator,’ laughed one of the guests. ‘The fact that he stands here alive at all is a miracle.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Jovian said, shifting in his chair. ‘Enough embarrassing the man. As he is no longer a slave of Rome, we cannot force him. We are a civilised people, are we not? Now then, tell us, will this be a battle to the death?’
All the guests laughed, and Prisca tutted.
‘What a gruesome dinner party that would be,’ Aquila said.
‘Not one guest here would forget it,’ Prisca replied.
More laughter.
Mila ran her fingers along the wall, allowing herself another glance at Remus, surprised to find him looking back at her. She acknowledged him with a discreet nod, and he walked over to her. He did not say a word as he came to stand beside her, focused on the show that would soon begin. Mila straightened and folded her hands in front of her to keep them steady.
A drum, hidden among trees, beat slowly. Everyone fell silent, waiting. The beat quickened, matching the tempo of her heart. It was a performance in every aspect, building suspense amid the guests who searched the shadows, waiting for the men to appear. Finally two gladiators burst from the side, causing everyone to jump and then laugh at their own reactions. Swords and shields clashed, the noise deafening to those unfamiliar with the sound of warfare.
Mila studied the guest’s faces. They were like children passing a dead mule on the street, repulsed and yet fascinated, unable to look away even if they wanted to.
She snuck a sideways glance at Remus, who leaned on the wall a polite distance from her.
‘Which one is your domina?’ he whispered, not looking at her.
She turned, nervous that Aquila would hear them talking. Thankfully the clang of swords meant no one was paying attention to what was going on behind them.
‘Does she know you’re sneaking about Rome with her son?’ When she did not reply, he probed, ‘I’ve been trying to figure out if Nerva is your lover.’
Her face screwed up in disgust. ‘No.’
Remus looked at her, eyes lit with mischief. ‘I’m guessing she isn’t aware of your secret gladiator escapades.’
Another glance to check no one was listening. ‘And I would prefer to keep it that way.’
He smiled, facing forwards again. ‘I was wondering when I might run into you again.’
She hated how pleased she was by that comment. He had been thinking about her.
Before she could reply, Aquila glanced over her shoulder, waving her empty cup. Her gaze landed briefly on Remus before returning to the fight. Mila walked over to her, careful not to impede anyone’s vision in the process. There was a small table next to the lounge with a jug of wine and a platter filled with colourful fruits. Mila picked up the jug and began to fill the cup held out to her.
Halfway through pouring, she heard Remus shout behind her, ‘Down!’ She looked up to see a sword spinning towards Aquila and knew there was no way the woman would move in time. Without thinking, she lifted the jug like a shield against the runaway sword. Of course, ceramic stood no chance against steel. While she did manage to stop the weapon from colliding with her domina’s face, there was nothing she could do to stop the spray of shards and wine that covered both Aquila and herself, as well as the expensive fabric covering the lounge and one side of her dominus’s robe, which her mother had bleached for the occasion.
The drums ceased and everyone went still, even the gladiators. Mila’s stomach fell as she took in the sight before her: Aquila, sprayed red, with shards of ceramic peppered through her hair. From the moment her domina looked up, she knew she was not going to be praised for her quick reflexes.
Aquila shot up, slapping Mila’s face with such force that they both lost their balance. It was much harder than usual due to the humiliation fuelling her foul mood.
‘You stupid girl!’
The thing Mila hated most about being hit was not the pain but the fact that she had to take it without complaint or retaliation. She could easily grab the hand hurtling towards her, twist it at an angle that would make her domina cry out. But to what end? Instead, she took the blow and had the good sense to keep her gaze down afterwards.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Remus take a step towards her and then stop himself. Rufus did not move, knowing better than to get involved when there was an audience.
‘Aquila,’ Prisca sang. ‘Do not beat the girl. You would have been complaining of more than a ruined dress had she not done something.’
Aquila looked about, as though suddenly aware of everybody watching. She straightened, attempting to calm herself.
Prisca waved two servants forwards. ‘Find our guests some clothes and show them where they can get cleaned up,’ she said to one, then turned to the other. ‘Take the servant girl to the laundry and bring her something clean also.’
Mila did not raise her eyes to her domina, not trusting herself to hide what was in them. She felt Rufus watching her as she turned and followed the woman back inside. They walked through the house, not speaking, because anything they said would be heard by someone. That was how it worked in large households.
‘Wait in here,’ the woman instructed. ‘Take off your clothes and I will bring some water for you to wash.’
Mila nodded and undid her belt, stepping out of her stola and slipping her tunic over her head. She rolled them into a ball and looked down to assess the damage to her undergarments. Just a few spots, but as luck would have it, her mother had been blessed with extraordinary stain removal skills.
The servant returned with clean garments, a towel and a basin of water.
‘What is your name?’ Mila asked, taking the items from her and placing them on the wooden bench top.
‘Sabina.’
Mila smiled. ‘Thank you, Sabina. I shall have everything laundered and returned to you as soon as possible.’
Sabina lingered. ‘Your domina would have been very sorry had the weapon marked her face.’
Mila glanced at her and nodded. She knew better than to share her own thoughts with a stranger.
‘I better go help with the clean-up,’ Sabina said before leaving.
After she had gone, Mila cupped her hands in the water and brought it to her face, watching the liquid turn red from the wine as it passed through her fingers. She touched the cheek Aquila had struck. It was likely red, but probably would not bruise. It was nothing compared to the knocks she received when fighting, and yet the sting lingered for other reasons. Every time that woman struck her, it fanned the fire within her, the one her mother was afraid of. She placed her hands palm down on the bench and stared into the red water.
‘You know, this is the second time I’ve seen you with your clothes off in a matter of weeks,’ came a familiar voice.
She turned to see Remus leaning in the doorway, watching her. She did not give him the satisfaction of covering up; instead, she picked up the towel and dried her face and hands. ‘That must be very distressing on your sensibilities. I know how fragile you gladiators can be.’
His grin widened, and he continued to watch as she dressed. Everything was too big, so she tried to disguise the problem with her belt.
‘How’s your face?’ he asked, stepping into the room.
She continued to fasten the strap. ‘Rosy, I imagine.’
He came to a stop in front of her and placed a finger under her chin, raising her face so he could inspect it.
The angle of her head made her feel short, and she realised as they stood close that she only came to his chest. His broad frame did not help matters either. She held her breath as his eyes moved over her face.
‘You might have a mark tomorrow.’ His hand fell away, and he stepped back from her.
&
nbsp; She watched him. ‘A slave with a marked face is a sign that all is right in the world.’
He laughed at that. ‘Is that so?’
She took a step back as well, finding he was still too close. ‘Reflections on earlier dinner conversation.’ She looked past him to the door, conscious that she might be overheard.
‘I think I should get my men out of here before they’re accused of conspiring to kill.’
She could not stop the small smile that formed. ‘That is probably wise.’
He tilted his head, studying her for a moment. ‘I’ve figured it out. Nerva is your brother.’
‘He is not my brother,’ she said, much too fast.
He held up his hands. ‘Then I’m sorry. Maybe it’s chance that you share the same eye colour and handsome jaw as Rufus Papias.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘What do you mean handsome jaw?’
Satisfied with her reaction, he turned to leave and then stopped. ‘Where will you be popping up next?’
She shrugged. ‘Probably nowhere you would find yourself. I usually fight in alleyways. Though not the ones with thriving brothels you would be familiar with.’
He nodded his appreciation at her wit, eyes never leaving her. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but you’re good. Not great, because you’re untrained, but you are good.’
She lifted her chin. ‘Thank you. That means a lot coming from a retired gladiator past his prime.’
Light danced in his eyes, and he continued to watch her for much longer than was polite. ‘Good to see you again, Mila.’
Something in the way he said her name made her brain freeze up. She dug around for some intelligent words. ‘I shall try to keep my clothes on next time we meet.’
And then that came out.
He winked at her before heading to the door. ‘I wasn’t complaining, by the way.’ He left without so much as a glance behind him.
Mila gripped the bench and watched the empty doorway, suddenly aware of the heat in her cheeks and dampness of her palms. She turned back to the basin and splashed more water on her face, waiting for it all to pass.