True Freedom

by Carol Ashby

  She stroked his cheek again. “I think you look better without your beard. Perhaps you can shave today.”

  Marcella looked up from stirring the porridge. “He can borrow Gaius’s razor after breakfast.” Her gaze shifted between the two of them. One corner of her mouth pulled up, and then a full smile appeared. “I like my man clean shaven better than bearded, too.”

  When the mistress stroked his cheek a third time, that was temptation beyond what a man should have to bear.

  He leaned back in the chair. “If that’s what you want, I’ll shave, mistress.”

  She ran her fingers through his hair. One more thing he wished she wouldn’t do because he enjoyed it too much. “You keep forgetting, Leander. I’m Calantha, not mistress, while we’re here.” Her fingers slipped through his hair again. “What’s my name now?”

  He tipped his head back to look into her gold-flecked eyes and saw the kindness she showed her nieces. “Calantha.”

  “And what does that mean?” The kindness slipped toward teasing. Her eyes were too entrancing when they sparkled with a tease.

  “Beautiful flower.”

  “Very good. And you’re my Leander, the lion who protects me.” Her fingers petted his cheek. “But this beard is too much like a lion’s furry face. I like my lions without fur.”

  She moved away from him to get her own bowl from Marcella. He sighed as he turned his eyes away. It was too hard when she touched him like that.

  She’s the mistress, not a beautiful flower for me to enjoy watching. God, help me remember that.

  After breakfast, Leander placed the crutch Gaius had made under his left arm. With halting steps, he hobbled out to the bench by the table under the tree. He’d told Marcella he thought the brighter light would help, but with his right arm in a sling, he didn’t want to make a mess inside. He was a right-handed man, unaccustomed to doing precision work with his left.

  Mistress Calantha carried Marcella’s footed brass mirror, a small towel, a bowl of water, and Gaius’s razor.

  He didn’t want her to watch him. “Thank you for bringing it all out...Calantha. I can do it alone now.”

  “Are you sure?” She arranged the bowl and mirror on the table and twirled the razor between her fingers before setting it down.

  “I’m sure.” He nodded for emphasis. Having her close was too distracting. It would be hard enough as it was not to cut himself.

  He scooped a little water from the bowl with his left hand and wet his beard. He waited to pick up the razor until she started back to the house.

  The mirror was too low, so he scrunched down until he could see his jaw. He twisted the razor handle until he thought he had the blade at the right angle for cutting.

  It wasn’t. The first swipe of the razor didn’t cut any hair at all. It just slid across his beard. He turned the handle, and the next try started to nick him where he first pressed it to his cheek. This was harder than it looked.

  He set the razor on the table and bent over to splash a little more water on his beard. As he drew the blade across his face, the first half inch scraped away, but then the blade skittered across the hair again.

  He pulled a breath and blew it out. This was going to take a while. If she hadn’t commanded he shave, he’d give up and just grow the beard. For a long moment, he twirled the razor and stared at it. He’d been shaving for years with his right hand, usually without a mirror. No reason he couldn’t figure out how to do it with his left.

  He set the razor down and splashed on a little more water. Then he reached for the razor handle.

  Mistress Calantha’s hand on his left shoulder made him jerk. Her left hand touched his, and he froze.

  “This won’t do, Leander. I don’t want a half-shaved shaggy man or one with cuts all over his face serving me, so I’m going to shave you myself.”

  He turned his eyes up to hers. “You shouldn’t be shaving me, mistress. That isn’t something a noblewoman should do for her slave.”

  “Nonsense. And you’re supposed to call me Calantha. I want you to feel better, and I always feel better when I look my best.”

  He started to open his mouth, and she mock-glared at him. “You’re not going to argue with your mistress again, are you?” The fake glare flipped into laughing eyes and a warm smile.

  “No, m...Calantha.” A smile started to lift the corners of his lips; then he stopped it.

  Mistress, not Calantha. Mistress.

  “I used to love watching the slave do this for Father. I’m sure I can remember how to do it for you. Now, turn and face me.”

  He swung his legs out from under the table, and she moved closer. Too close.

  She rested her left fingers on his right cheek to steady his face as she began to draw the razor across his left cheekbone. “Now hold perfectly still. I don’t want to cut you.”

  He held his breath. She leaned in, her eyes serious as she focused on where the blade touched his cheek, her lips parted a little as she concentrated. He tried not to look at her lips.

  She finished the first sweep of the blade and moved back to rinse it off in the bowl. “Not bad for a start. Much better than you were doing, anyway.”

  Her gaze shifted from his cheek to his eyes. “You’re a very trusting man, letting a woman who’s never done this before so near your throat with a razor.” A laugh bubbled out of her as she leaned closer to his face. “I don’t see the slightest trace of fear in your eyes, but I guess nothing really frightens you. My fearless lion, that’s what you are.”

  Little did she know! The razor didn’t frighten him, but her closeness was unnerving.

  He forced some air to push his cheek out to make a smoother, tighter surface for the second stroke. She bit her lip as the laughter bubbled up again. “You look so funny. I guess Father did, too, now I remember.”

  Again, her fingertips on his right cheek steadied his face but made his pulse gallop. She drew the razor across.

  “There, not a drop of blood yet. That’s good for us both. You don’t need to lose any more, and I don’t need to faint on top of you.” Teasing eyes met his. “You’d catch me, though.” Her eyes flipped to serious. “I can always count on you for that.”

  She was right. He’d do anything he could for her. “Yes, m―.”

  It was hard not to say it aloud. She’d scold him again if he did, but she wouldn’t mean it. The kindness in her eyes even when she did―it was almost like Ariana’s, except with his sister he never had to fight against thoughts about what he longed for that kindness to mean.

  She finished shaving his first cheek. “So far your trust has been justified. But now, I need to get your top lip. So, stretch your lip down.” Her own upper lip lengthened and she tipped her head back slightly, just like he’d have to do.

  He’d seen himself do that in front of a mirror, and he’d be the first to admit it made him look worse than normal. When she did it―she was just as beautiful as ever.

  He did as ordered, and she placed the blade at the base of his nose. “Hold that face, and I don’t think I’ll cut you.”

  She slowly drew the razor down several times, and his mustache was gone.

  Her fingertips skimmed up his shaved cheek and across his upper lip. Her touch was a feather-light caress. He’d never imagined how good that could feel, and for Calantha to be doing it―it was a blend of warm delight and hot distress for him.

  He closed his eyes. My mistress, not Calantha. She’s only the mistress trying to help me until I don’t need help. She means nothing more by it.

  But try as he might, he couldn’t quite force her back into the mistress box when each touch was a caress, even if she didn’t mean it to be.

  “What do you think?”

  He opened his eyes to find her holding the brass mirror before his face.

  “Do you like yourself better with a beard or without? I can’t quite decide myself. Maybe I should leave it half of each until I’m sure.”<
br />
  “Whatever you want.” If she wanted him to look absurd, that was up to her. He’d lost any right to vanity when he was made a slave.

  “I’m only teasing. I won’t leave you looking silly, even though you’d let me without a single complaint.”

  She drew her fingertips across his clean-shaven cheek again. Without the beard, the tingling where each finger touched was even harder to ignore.

  Her hand moved to the unshaved side and applied gentle pressure. “Turn your head a little and hold still so I can get the other side.”

  He obeyed. She seemed in no hurry to finish, but he wished she would. The mistress box he tried to keep her in was shrinking with every gentle touch. Why did she have to be so kind? Why did she have to be so pretty? Why did she have to look at him like he was a free man instead of her father’s property?

  He closed his eyes and puffed out his cheek. The blade slid across it several times. Five more sweeps and she’d finished his chin. She was working faster.

  God, let this temptation be over.

  It was easier with his eyes closed. Her laughing eyes were almost as bad as her touch.

  “Are my lion’s eyes closed because he’s afraid I’ll cut him?” She drew her fingertips across both cheeks and his chin. “I think I’ve done a good job so far. Be brave and look at me.”

  He suppressed a sigh. The mistress’s order must be obeyed, even when it made things harder. His eyelids opened, and he looked past her.

  “Look at me, Leander.” He obeyed, and her eyes moved closer as she peered deep into his. “That’s better. No, I don’t see any fear, so maybe you’re just tired. I’m almost done. Tip your head back, and I’ll get the beard under your chin.”

  He complied, and that forced his gaze onto the lovely face that enthralled him. She leaned over to dip her hand in the water. Then she drew her wet fingers across his throat. That was worse than touching his cheek.

  “I saw you wetting your beard, so I guess that must help. Hold still.”

  She placed the blade against his throat and began to pull it up.

  He watched her eyes as they focused on the blade. As it neared his jaw, she glanced up. She looked deep into his eyes.

  And then it happened. The blade nicked the edge of his jaw, and he started to bleed.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry. And here I promised I wouldn’t cut you.”

  He threw his left hand up to hide the blood. “It’s nothing. I’ve done it many times myself.”

  She grasped his wrist and pulled. He resisted. “Let me see what I did.” He still resisted. “Really, Leander. Let me look. I’m not going to faint on you.”

  He relaxed, and she lifted his hand away from the cut.

  “It’s not much, really.” She wet a corner of the towel and wiped the blood away. “You’ve been very good for me, you know. Since I helped Marcella tend your wounds, I can look at a little blood without fainting. But now I’ve mastered that, I don’t want to see you bleeding ever again.”

  She dabbed at the nick again with the wet towel. “It’s stopping.” She set down the towel and picked up the razor. “I’ll try not to cut your throat any worse as I finish.”

  “I trust you.”

  The warmth in her eyes almost set him ablaze. “I know, but not as much as I trust you. I would trust you for anything.”

  She rested her fingertips on his forehead, pushed lightly to tip his head back, then left them there. “Now don’t move.”

  He closed his eyes and felt the several sweeps of the blade needed to shave his throat. At long last, it was done.

  “Open your eyes.” She was holding the mirror for him again. “If something happens to Father and we have to stay here forever, do you I think I can earn a living shaving men? Don’t tonsores make good money?”

  “You won’t have to do that, mistress. I’ll take care of you.”

  She rested her palm on his smooth-shaven face. Her thumb stroked his cheekbone. “I know you will. And it’s not mistress it’s...?”

  “Calantha.”

  She turned and gathered up the mirror, towel, and razor. After flinging the water out of the bowl, she flashed him a smile before strolling toward the cottage.

  As she walked away, the smile her touch had pulled from him drooped. He’d take care of Calantha until he returned her to her father, and then he’d once more be only a litter bearer for Mistress Julia. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

  God, give me strength to be content with what must be.

  Chapter 38: More Than They Told Him

  Late morning of Day 25

  The back of Marcus’s neck tingled as they approached the entrance to the first ludus. There was no reason someone would be following them, but he glanced over his shoulder anyway.

  What if they found Callidus here? Would he say something in front of Africanus and the lanista that could implicate Marcus in the kidnapping plot? How much did Brutus’s slave know already? He and Aulus were alone with Brutus when they revealed what they’d done that got Julia kidnapped.

  Was there a risk if Africanus learned too much? Brutus must trust the big Nubian since he was sending him everywhere with them, but Marcus didn’t. Only deep friendship made a man trustworthy, and Brutus’s favorite gladiator did not like him.

  The feeling was mutual.

  Marcus’s gaze settled on the back of the gladiator’s head as he walked several paces ahead of Marcus and Aulus. He froze his face so Aulus wouldn’t ask why he was frowning.

  Every time Africanus looked at him, there was disapproval in his eyes. He never said anything he shouldn’t, but he never seemed to speak to anyone without a particular reason. Even then, his words were few and to the point.

  Those words were almost always addressed to Aulus, even when Marcus asked the question or made the comment that provoked Africanus to speak. Such disrespect from a slave was not something he normally tolerated.

  But the gladiator was almost friendly toward Aulus. Anything Africanus might say that would get Marcus into trouble would drag Aulus right in with him. Maybe that would be enough to keep him from saying or doing anything to cause them problems.

  Africanus stopped at the ludus doorway and waited for them to catch up. “It’s enough to ask if a new man has joined the ludus. Don’t explain why you’re asking the question. The lanista here knows me, so he’ll know Master Brutus wants you treated well. That should be enough to get an honest answer. If it’s yes, ask to see the man.” His unreadable eyes focused on Marcus. “You met him, so we’ll find him even if he’s using another name.”

  What Africanus said was the wisest way to proceed, but it still felt wrong for a slave to be telling them what to do.

  “I did, but it might put him on his guard if he sees me. I’d rather he remain ignorant of his discovery until we can have the Urban Cohort pick him up for interrogation. He hasn’t seen Aulus, so it’s safe for him to go in and ask.”

  “I can ask, but I won’t know if it’s him.” Uncertainty clouded Aulus’s eyes.

  Marcus’s gaze flicked to Africanus, then back to Aulus. “Africanus saw him.”

  When he looked at Africanus again, he raised his eyebrows. “You do remember what he looks like, don’t you?”

  Africanus’s mouth twitched. “Of course.”

  “I’ll wait out here. Pretend you don’t recognize him if he’s there. Then come out here, and we’ll decide the next step.”

  Aulus drew a deep breath and held it before releasing it. He directed a shaky smile at Africanus. “Let’s go.”

  The two men went inside, Aulus leading.

  As they disappeared from view, Marcus weighed the options. Perhaps they could tell Callidus there would be no legal charges if he’d tell them where they could find Julia and they got her back unharmed. The safe return of his sister would be enough to satisfy Aulus. But how much would it cost for a lanista to make sure Callidus died during practice before he could tell anyone who hire
d him?

  Tribune Titianus kept his nose from scrunching as he led his troop of eight men from the Forum through the edge of Subura closest to the Amphitheater, but he let his mouth turn down. This was the shortest route to the Baths of Titus and Trajan, but the stench of this part of Rome was sometimes enough to make even a slave who tended the sewers gag.

  His frown deepened when he spotted a familiar figure lounging in front of a third-rate ludus that provided arena fodder for stingy sponsors unwilling to pay for good talent.

  Marcus Drusus straightened as Titianus approached.

  “Drusus. I would not expect to find you in this part of Rome.”

  Drusus’s mouth smiled, but his eyes stayed too cool. “I don’t come here often.”

  Titianus crossed his arms. “So why today?”

  A tic at the corner of Drusus’s mouth was replaced by another smile with warmer eyes. “I’m waiting for a friend.”

  “Who’s the friend, and what is he doing here?”

  “Aulus is looking into hiring a bodyguard.”

  Titianus raised one eyebrow. “Why now?”

  The tic returned, this time followed by a frown. “I would think that’s obvious. With Julia kidnapped, he’s concerned he might be next.”

  The door of the ludus swung open, drawing Titianus’s gaze. Aulus Secundus and a tall African with impressive muscles entered the street.

  Secundus’s head bounced back. “Tribune. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Titianus’s gaze locked onto the gladiator. “You fight for Antonius Brutus, don’t you?”

  The big man crossed his arms. “Yes.”

  With his hand fingering the handle of his gladius, Titianus stared into Secundus’s eyes. That flicker of unease should not be there. “What were you doing?”

  “Africanus was talking with the lanista about something for Brutus.” Secundus’s stiff smile didn’t match his eyes.