by Tanya Bird
Nerva smiled. ‘Visitors struggle to hear her, so they lean closer to listen, and that only makes matters worst.’
‘Contrast to her sister, then.’
‘We would never have let Mila near the door. She would have scared away all our guests.’
He was speaking of her in past tense, and that made Remus nervous. ‘How is she?’
Nerva studied him. ‘Is that why you are here? To check on her?’
Remus glanced over his shoulder at the closed door, unsure how to answer.
‘She is not here,’ Nerva said, letting him off the hook.
Remus nodded. ‘Where is she?’
A man had stopped in front of the house to flog his tired mule. They both watched for a moment before continuing their conversation.
‘My father sold her to Jovian Fadius. She was handed over yesterday.’
Remus kept his face neutral. ‘Sold,’ he repeated, getting used to the word. ‘What’s Jovian Fadius want with an unruly slave?’
A smile tugged at the edges of Nerva’s mouth. ‘It is nothing untoward as far as I can tell. She is to serve his wife.’
He was afraid of that. ‘Makes more sense.’
‘I too have been trying to figure out the whole thing. Do you have a theory?’
He laughed through his nose. ‘That woman’s unpredictable at the best of times. Who knows?’
Much to Remus’s relief, the flogging stopped and the mule began walking again.
‘I won’t keep you,’ he said, extending an arm. Nerva took hold of it briefly.
‘I imagine I will see her at some point. Shall I tell her you came by to check on her?’
‘No,’ Remus replied, much too quickly. ‘Thanks for your time.’ He stepped around Nerva and walked down the steps.
‘I never thanked you for helping her,’ Nerva called to him. ‘Your kindness will not be forgotten.’
Remus paused on the last step and turned. ‘Hopefully she walked away with some sense.’
Nerva laughed. ‘Hardly. I spent the best part of my childhood knocking that girl to the ground. I learned very early on that she just gets back up.’
Nodding, Remus turned away and began his descent down the hill.
Chapter 12
‘It will not do to have you dressed in such a way,’ Prisca said. She was seated on a lounge in the tablinum, her finger tapping on the fabric as she assessed Mila. ‘My servants wear only the finest fabrics. They are representing me and this household.’
Prisca had a number of personal servants, including a mute bodyguard she had bought from the market, despite her husband’s protests. According to Sabina, Prisca liked the look of him. The fact that he could not speak was seen as a bonus. He was without a doubt the tallest man Mila had ever laid eyes on, his shoulders filling the average doorway. When she asked why his tongue had been cut out, Sabina had told her that no one knew because he was unable to tell his story, could not write, and was not one for charades.
Her domina had recently granted freedom to one of her body slaves who had served in her father’s household for more than fifty years. While the story should have offered hope, Mila felt only pity for the old woman who, with no living family, had been exiled from the grand house on account of her unsteady hands, under the pretence of reward.
‘I will wear whatever pleases you,’ Mila said, keeping still beneath her domina’s scrutiny. It was only day two in the household, and she was still trying to figure her out.
‘Mmm. Sabina,’ Prisca called out, gesturing to the woman standing by the wall. ‘Send for the seamstress to come measure her. Tell her I want something bright. Look at that pretty face, washed out by dreary fabric. No, it will not do.’
‘Yes, Era.’ She glanced at Mila, indicating that she should follow.
‘Off you go,’ Prisca ordered, winding a thread of hair around her finger and then letting go. ‘I think I shall have a lie-down.’
A lie-down? Mila had never met a person who slept that much. She had only risen from her bed a few hours earlier.
‘When you are done, come wait at my bedside.’
Mila bowed her head. ‘Yes, Era.’ She followed the woman out into the atrium where a young boy lingered.
‘Go and fetch the seamstress,’ Sabina instructed him.
The lanky boy looked up at Mila. ‘Are you going to live here?’
‘I suppose I am,’ Mila replied, attempting a smile.
‘I’m Nero,’ he said, trying to appear a little taller.
Mila took him in. ‘That is quite a name.’
‘He wasn’t born with that name, but we had to call him something. The women at Latebra used to call him Rat. When I met him, it was the only name he knew.’
Latebra was a well-known brothel in region three. Staring down at him, Mila asked, ‘Does your mother work there?’
‘I don’t remember my mother.’
‘Likely dead,’ Sabina added. ‘He showed up there one day looking for work in exchange for food. One of the girls gave in and fed him, so he kept coming back.’
Mila watched the boy, who was taking her in, assessing her. ‘Well, I definitely prefer the name Nero.’
‘Some of the men here still call me Rat,’ he said, shrugging. ‘Except when Albaus is around.’
‘Albaus?’
‘The bodyguard,’ Sabina explained. ‘The mute. Albaus is fond of the boy. Not his real name either, but we couldn’t go on calling him the mute.’ She glanced at Nero and waved. ‘Now off you go.’
The boy strode from the room, and Sabina turned to Mila. ‘He was caught stealing from a vendor at the market one day and I made the mistake of speaking up for him, even paying for the stolen bread. He must have followed me home, because the next day when I emerged from the house, he was waiting for me. That was two years ago.’
‘How old is he?’
Sabina shook her head. ‘No one knows. I would guess around eleven.’
‘And our dominus just let him stay?’
They began walking.
‘It wasn’t that simple. He had to prove he could work first, that he could be trusted. He works as hard as any man here.’
Mila knew he was one of the lucky ones. ‘And he does not know what happened to his parents? Perhaps he has other family in the city. He might be freeborn.’
‘Maybe, but without even a first name, what are we to do?’
Sabina stopped walking and turned to Mila, folding her arms across her small bosom. ‘I hear you’re a gladiator, that you almost died in the arena.’
Mila looked around before speaking, a habit formed over a lifetime. ‘I fought once, with blunt swords. I was quite safe.’
Sabina studied her. ‘You have certainly captured the attention of our domina. She is drawn to rebellious types.’
Before Mila had a chance to respond, Nero returned, out of breath, forehead shiny from his efforts.
‘She’s on her way,’ he puffed.
‘Good,’ Sabina said, shooing him away again. ‘Go see the cook. He will make you some porridge.’
‘With honey?’
‘I dare you to ask him.’
The boy jogged off towards the kitchen. Sabina waited until he was out of sight and then turned back to Mila.
‘Are you ready?’
‘For what?’
Sabina exhaled, shrugging. ‘Whatever our domina has in store for you.’
Mila glanced about at the expensive furnishings, plush pillows, mosaic floors and life-size sculptures. ‘I suppose I will soon find out.’
Mila slept on a thin mattress on the floor next to Prisca’s bed. It was the first time in her life she had slept away from her mother and sister for an extended period, and something resembling panic pounded in her gut. She did not really sleep—she lay awake, listening to the sounds of strangers breathing. She wondered how her domina fell asleep with such ease, confident Mila would not stab her in her sleep.
Sabina slept on the other side of the bed, clean water and chambe
r pot at the ready. It was as though Rome existed only for the upper class.
There was no privacy, no mother to hum familiar tunes, no sister nestled against her, fists tucked beneath her chin as she slept. There was no escaping to the garden, no Nerva to make jokes with, no fighting, no freedom in any sense of the word.
What have I done?
She always fell asleep eventually, only to be woken early by Sabina. They had to rise before their domina, then wash, dress, and eat the porridge that would sustain them until evening if the day proved busy. Mila would dress in her new tunic and tangerine stola, belting it in the fashionable way the seamstress had shown her. Next the women prepared their domina’s clothes for the day, brought fresh drinking water, and sat in silence by the window, waiting for her to wake.
Prisca Fadius liked her sleep. For a woman who did little, she was always exhausted. In the mornings, she would stir, ask for water, drink it with her eyes still closed, and then lie back down and sleep some more. During that time Mila fidgeted, unable to keep still, not used to being idle. So much silence. Not enough work. She would sit next to Sabina, watching her embroider, foot tapping incessantly, the air in the room too thin.
Two weeks into her new life, she sat in that same chair, heel bouncing as she pictured her sister helping in the kitchen back home. There was that punch to the gut again. The dull routine and self-destructive thoughts were enough to make her question her survival in the Fadius household. She thought she might lose her mind to it all.
The sun was already high in the sky when Prisca finally climbed from her bed, enquiring after her husband.
‘He left early this morning,’ Sabina replied.
‘And my sons?’
‘At their lessons.’
Mila was brushing Prisca’s hair with far more caution than she normally showed her sister. The thick, dark hair felt like silk, and she could not shake the thought of how it would have felt in Remus’s callused hands.
‘Good,’ Prisca replied. ‘I would like to see Mila fight this morning.’
The brush stilled in Mila’s hand. ‘You want to see me fight?’
Sabina held the polished bronze up so Prisca could see her reflection.
‘Of course,’ her domina replied, meeting her eyes briefly in the reflection. ‘I knew the first time I laid eyes on you that you had skills beyond that of a household slave. I have an eye for these things, and I was right. Your reflexes when that sword almost hit Aquila’—she shook her head—‘it was like poetry. And her face?’ A smile. ‘Absolutely priceless.’
Mila placed the brush down and began to braid the hair.
‘My question is,’ Prisca continued, ‘when does a slave girl have time to learn such skills? I cannot imagine Aquila permitting such a thing.’
Mila did not want to bring Nerva into the conversation, but there was no other viable explanation, and she had to be honest if she were to be trusted. ‘Nerva Papias is a year older than me and used to invite me to spar with him when we were children.’
A mischievous smile tugged at Prisca’s mouth. ‘Only when you were children?’
Mila swallowed. ‘And more recently.’
Prisca laughed, her brilliant teeth flashing. ‘There is no need to be shy about it. I too started with my brothers. Then suddenly you come of age and everyone is frowning and telling you your behaviour is disgraceful.’ Her smile lingered but it changed form.
‘Would you like to dress now?’ Sabina asked, not reacting to the information.
Prisca got up from the stool and waited to be undressed. Mila went to fetch the clothes laid out on the bed while Sabina lifted Prisca’s tunic over her head. Mila waited, taking in the firm, naked body in front of her. If it were not for a few faded stretch marks around the hips, one would never suspect she had given birth to two sons. She noticed a small, angry scar above Prisca’s left breast.
‘Even a blunt sword can do damage,’ Prisca said, running a finger over the scar.
Embarrassed at being caught staring, Mila’s gaze fell and she stepped closer to help Prisca into the lower subligar and upper strophium. When Mila reached for the tunic, her domina stopped her.
‘That is all I need for now,’ she said, her glowing skin on display.
Mila glanced at Sabina before asking, ‘Do you wish to eat before dressing?’
Prisca’s eyes shone at her. ‘No, I wish to fight before dressing.’
Mila stared a moment before shaking her head. ‘I cannot… that is… it would not be appropriate for me to… hold a weapon to you.’
Prisca laughed and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Nonsense. It is entirely appropriate if I deem it so. Nero,’ she called, glancing at the empty door.
The boy appeared as though he had been waiting for the mention of his name.
‘Yes, Era?’
‘Fetch the wooden swords and shields. Meet us in the garden.’
Mila stiffened and looked over at Sabina, who gave a small shrug.
‘Right away, Era.’
He left at a run, incapable of walking anywhere it seemed. The fact that he knew where these items were kept suggested it was not the first time he had been sent to fetch them.
Prisca’s eyes swept over Mila, the glint in them matching her smile. ‘Are you ready?’
To fight her domina? No. She most definitely was not ready.
Mila felt like a pell, the ones gladiators used for practice. She stood, seemingly anchored to the spot, while her half-dressed domina lunged forwards to beat her with a wooden sword. She blocked a few of the blows, but she could hardly fight back. That would never end well for a slave.
Thump, thud, thump.
Mila winced as pain shot through her chest. She might have recovered from her injuries, but her ribs did not take kindly to being thumped in the same spot they had broken.
Prisca lowered her shield, straightened, and exhaled.
‘I am assuming you did not fight at this standard against a gladiator trained by Remus Latinius. You are holding back.’
Of course she was holding back. If she injured her domina, she would be locked up. Slaves had been killed for less. ‘I am afraid I am not as fit as I was.’
Prisca gave her a hard whack with her sword, watching her flinch, noticing the tightening of muscles when she did it. She smiled and softened her knees. ‘Nonsense. You are just afraid. I understand why, but as your domina, I order you to put in the effort. Do not make me fetch Albaus,’ she added, smiling coyly.
Mila nodded. ‘Ready?’
‘Do you normally ask your opponent if they are ready before you strike them?’
Mila swung her shield and then plunged her sword at Prisca’s thigh. Her domina blocked both attempts, and then her sword came to a stop against Mila’s ankle.
‘There goes your foot,’ Prisca said smugly.
Mila stared down at the sword. She really was out of shape, and she was not enjoying it. ‘Did your brothers teach you that?’ she asked, meeting Prisca’s gaze.
‘My brothers taught me in the beginning. When I overtook them in skill, I found a real trainer.’
Mila was silent for a moment. ‘How far did you go?’
Prisca retracted her sword and straightened. ‘Not far enough. Do you know what people say when women like me take to the arena?’
She knew very well. She had heard Aquila weigh in on the topic a number of times—and she had not held back. ‘Yes’ was all she said.
‘When you have money, everything comes at a higher cost.’ She glanced over at Sabina, who stood with Nero against the wall. ‘I was good, you know—very good. If I had been a man, I might have been my father’s favourite son.’
Mila should have been thrilled at this revelation, except she suddenly understood why Prisca had bought her.
‘You do not know how lucky you are. No father or husband to hold you down. No social responsibilities.’
Nothing to hold her down? The woman must have been deluded to say such things to a slave. How was not bein
g allowed to marry being listed as an advantage?
She looked down to hide her feelings on the topic, but she could feel Prisca studying her.
‘How would you like a chance to earn your freedom?’
That made Mila look up. Prisca had spoken the words so slowly, so gently, that she thought she may have imagined them.
A smile spread on Prisca’s face as she pushed her hair over one shoulder.
‘I thought so,’ she said, satisfied by Mila’s reaction. ‘Again, but this time I would really like to see what you are capable of. Impress me and I will give you a chance to fight in the greatest amphitheatre in Rome. Disappoint me and the swords go away forever.’
Mila regarded her for a moment. ‘I could be put to death if I hurt you.’
Prisca shrugged. ‘I will not make you. You get to choose. Gladiator or slave?’
‘And if you get hurt?’
Laughter. ‘You have a very high opinion of yourself.’
Mila raised her sword and shook her head. Gladiator or slave. It was not really a choice. ‘All right. I will fight you.’
She saw the same fire in Prisca’s eyes that she had heard her mother describe many times. Perhaps they were not that different after all.
She did not ask her domina if she was ready that time—she attacked.
Chapter 13
The sun was low in the sky when the essedari left the arena on foot. The horses were unharnessed and led away, the chariots locked up. Slaves were running about collecting horse manure when Remus stepped into the arena with Titus. Remus liked to keep fit and strong. He wanted the men he trained to know he could put them flat on their backs if the need arose. While he did not like Titus as a person, he liked him as a partner. He was one of the few men who challenged him—and he liked to be challenged.
Felix sat in the cavea, watching them. Afterwards, Remus would wash and they would go to the tavern to eat, drink cheap wine, and hopefully return with some women who went there in search of gladiators. But first he would teach Titus some manners.
Before they had even begun, Brutus appeared beneath the portico.