Forbidden to the Gladiator

by Greta Gilbert

  ‘You did.’

  No, he did not. She still had no idea of the true meaning of pleasure, for he had failed to show her.

  He heard the clinking of a key ring, then the sound of voices in the hall.

  ‘Send for me again,’ she said, swinging off the bed. ‘Then you can show me in full.’

  The guard clanked his sword against the bars.

  ‘Time is up, little goats,’ he said and Cal found that he could not slow his breaths. She was leaving him. She was stepping out into the ugly world with nobody to protect her and no beautiful memory to comfort her in the long days to come.

  ‘Mae’n ddrwg gennyf,’ he told her. I am sorry. It was not enough. He owed her a debt and he would not rest until he paid it.

  ‘Until next time,’ he said.

  Her eyes lit with joy. ‘Until next time, then.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Time was an inconstant thing. Sometimes it passed on the back of a turtle. Other times it fluttered by on winged feet. For Arria, the next two months passed like days. She knew that at any moment she might be summoned to Cal’s cell and feel his arms around her once again.

  On Oppius’s orders, she had abandoned the ordinary carpet she had begun to weave and started a new one to feature a design of her choosing. ‘If those imperious patrician tarts want to pay large sums for tasteless carpets, I am no one to stop them,’ he had said.

  Arria had no notion of what might or might not strike the fancy of a patrician woman. She could only weave what haunted her mind: a sculpted, scarred man with a shaved head and dazzling eyes.

  He was always with her. In the morning when she awoke and stretched her limbs, at midday, when she walked to the courtyard, in the evenings, when she finally set down her shuttle, closed her eyes and dreamed of pleasure.

  Cal.

  Every time she thought of him, she felt her heart smile. He had wanted to kiss her from the day she had pressed her face to the bars, or so he had said. She was his beautiful sorceress. Had he said that as well, or did she just dream it?

  The pattern for the carpet had burst from her fingertips. She had not even sketched an image to help guide her. Each row seemed to emerge directly from her heart: a scarred warrior, rippling with strength, poised to defeat whatever foe should come his way.

  On the first day of March she completed it and Oppius practically ripped it from the loom.

  ‘It resembles me, in truth,’ he said, studying the outline of Cal’s muscular form. ‘But what is this flaw here? This line?’ Oppius traced the long diagonal scar. ‘It makes no sense.’

  To Arria, it made more sense than anything else ever had. The scar was special. It belonged to the man who had found her worthy enough to kiss, to hold, to touch. A man who could have virtually any woman he wished for and had for some reason chosen her.

  She floated through her days, waiting for his summons, certain he would send for her soon. This is what it feels like to be wanted, she told herself and basked in the feeling, along with the knowledge that he would keep himself alive. He owed her a debt, after all, and she knew he would not rest until he paid it.

  * * *

  But when the summons finally came, it was a command from Oppius to ready herself for the market. ‘Epona, you, too,’ he said, and soon the two women found themselves stumbling behind the cart once again, their metal collars pinching.

  ‘You should take great care now,’ warned Epona. ‘Your happiness has made you even more beautiful. Men will see you. You must try to make yourself less attractive.’

  Epona hunched her shoulders and demonstrated a sneering frown. Arria chuckled softly.

  ‘You must not get attached to him,’ Epona warned.

  ‘Of whom do you speak?’

  ‘Come now, Arria. Since you returned from your night with that gladiator, I do not think your feet have touched the ground.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘He is a gladiator. Do you know what that means? You must try to keep him out of your heart.’

  ‘I fear it is too late for that,’ said Arria.

  ‘Men are beasts,’ Epona said and spat.

  Arria shook her head, but did not take heed. Something had changed in Epona after her night with the tribune. She had lost her tart humour and spent her days studying her spools of thread, as if trying to unravel them with her thoughts.

  ‘Grandmother says you worship Ephesia,’ said Arria. ‘That she gives you strength.’

  Epona smiled absently. ‘I have always loved horses.’

  ‘Do you know how to ride?’

  ‘Of course I know how to ride. Every Chatti does. It is our birthright.’

  They arrived at an open stall and unloaded their wares, and Arria watched the driver lead the horses to a hitching area.

  ‘If only we could climb atop those horses and ride away to freedom,’ Arria said. The idea swirled around them like a hot wind. ‘You cannot tell me you have not thought the same.’

  Arria glanced around the busy marketplace, aware that any effort to escape would be futile. If the mounted guards did not stop them, then a reward-seeking slave hunter surely would. And she did not even want to think of the punishment that would await them after.

  ‘Such thoughts can drive a person mad,’ Epona said at last.

  ‘Must we choose, then? Whether to endure our fate or go mad resisting it?’

  ‘Shh...’ whispered Epona. ‘When the time is right.’

  Arria scowled. Grandmother had said the same thing. And in five years, Arria would likely be saying the same thing to another woman doomed to stand at one of Oppius’s miserable looms. ‘Find your pigeon,’ Grandmother had told Arria, but the more she thought of Cal, the more restless she had become. He had not just given her a sense of hope, he had given her a taste of a joy.

  She could hardly pass an hour without remembering the taste of his lips, the feel of his body against hers... She could not even bear the thought that those memories would be all she would ever have, or that she would live out the next ten years waiting for ‘when the time is right.’

  The time was now. She needed to free Cal and get her family and depart. Before her soul petrified. Before she quietly accepted her life as a slave.

  A small tribe of litter bearers marched up to the stall and stopped.

  ‘Good day to you, Master Oppius,’ chimed a rarefied voice. Two familiar figures clad in pink and orange linen converged before Oppius, who gave them a sweeping bow.

  ‘Honourable Ladies. It is a great pleasure to see you both once again.’ His eyes glittered like newly minted coins. ‘I hope you are enjoying your new carpet.’

  ‘In fact, my daughter and I have returned to see if you have any more such carpets,’ asked the elder.

  ‘I do indeed, Domina,’ said Oppius. He directed the women’s attention to Arria’s newest creation and Arria watched their expressions change from surprise, to confusion, to something resembling awe. They stood before the carpet for many long moments, their mouths agape.

  ‘It is a work of genius,’ the younger pronounced at last. ‘The perfection of the man contrasted with the tragedy of his scar. I simply must have it.’

  ‘How much do you ask for it, Oppius?’ queried the elder.

  ‘One hundred and fifty denarii,’ stated Oppius. It was an outrageous sum, but the woman did not even flinch. She gestured to a guard, who quickly produced a large coin purse from beneath his toga. He counted out coins into Oppius’s hand until the purse was half emptied.

  ‘Tell me, Oppius,’ said the elder woman conspiratorially. ‘Who is the weaver? It is worth the rest of that purse if you will give me her name.’

  Oppius’s eyes grew as wide as plums. ‘I would be happy to tell you, Domina, for such a generous offer.’ He waited patiently for her guard to place all the coins into the purse, then took
it in hand. ‘But I fear that you will be disappointed when I tell you that the weaver is that woman standing right beside you.’ He gestured to Arria.

  The young woman stepped backwards in horror. ‘A slave?’

  ‘It is you who wove the carpets?’ asked the elder.

  ‘Yes, Domina.’

  ‘But that cannot be,’ said the younger. ‘This is the work of a master of the craft. An artist.’

  Arria bowed her head.

  ‘How long have you been weaving?’ demanded the elder.

  ‘Since I was eight years old, Domina.’

  ‘Under whom did you study?’

  Arria’s chest squeezed. ‘My own mother taught me the basics, Domina. The rest I learned on my own.’

  The young woman whispered something into her mother’s ear and her mother turned to Oppius. ‘I trust you know who we are?’

  Oppius nodded. ‘I do indeed, Domina.’

  ‘Good. I should like you and this weaver of yours to pay a visit to our domus tomorrow morning for some further business.’

  ‘Of course, Domina,’ said Oppius and before he could even finish his bow, the women had boarded their litter and were floating back through the curious crowd.

  ‘Perhaps they wish to hire you to weave a carpet for them,’ said Epona after Oppius had left them. Her words were careful, but Arria could see the flicker of hope in her grey eyes.

  ‘It is possible. Perhaps they only wish to question Oppius about my origins.’

  ‘It is possible,’ repeated Epona.

  Possible. Another dangerous word. A word so bright that it might as well have been the name of the sun god himself. Neither of them would dare voice the idea that had invaded both their minds. It was possible, quite possible, that Arria might be purchased by a family of patricians.

  Epona studied Arria for a long while, then gazed out at the bustling marketplace. ‘Why do you think the house servants ignore us?’ It was an unusual question, though Arria knew Epona better than to think that she ever spoke absently.

  ‘I think they ignore us because they feel guilty,’ Arria replied. ‘They labour in relative comfort. They are allowed to eat the remains of Oppius’s fine foods and the heat of his hearth warms their bones. I think they see the injustice of our lives and feel badly for us. It is out of guilt they cannot look at us.’

  ‘Is that really what you believe?’

  Arria nodded. ‘Why? What do you believe?’

  ‘I believe that they do not see us at all, that they have forgotten about us completely. We are out of their sight and out of their minds. They do not have to know us, so they can forget we exist.’ Arria’s mind raced. She feared that Epona was right. ‘When life starts to make sense,’ Epona continued, ‘it is easy to forget when it did not.’

  She grasped Arria’s hand. ‘Do not forget about me, Arria, and I promise that I will not forget about you.’

  ‘I will not, dear friend,’ whispered Arria. ‘I promise.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning, Arria followed Oppius as he set off down Kouretes Street towards their appointment with the Fates. The spring sun shone earnestly above them, though winter’s chill still gripped the city, along with Arria’s very limbs. She wished she had a warm gladiator to wrap around her.

  Any day now, she assured herself.

  Oppius’s pace slowed and he began searching the facades of the terrace houses opposite the baths. The sprawling mansions housed the oldest, richest and most powerful families of Ephesus and Arria’s heart began to pound as they approached the most elegant facade of them all.

  A tall, handsome man heralded them from beneath a marble archway. ‘Oppius and the weaver, I presume?’ He raised a well-trimmed brow, but did not await an answer. ‘The honourable Nerva Traiania and Vibia Secunda are expecting you. Follow me.’

  He turned on his heel and they followed the man down a narrow corridor and into a large marble atrium bathed in sunlight.

  Arria peered overhead, expecting to see sky. Instead, she saw several milky panels through which sunlight filtered. She could hardly keep herself from gaping at the expensive glass. Whoever the owner of this illustrious domus, he was rich enough to make it summer even when it was not.

  As Arria’s limbs thawed, she followed their guide past the long rectangular pool that occupied the middle of the atrium. At the bottom of the pool, a mosaic of a woman peered up at her. She must have been a goddess, for she was perfectly proportioned, and wore a flowing white stola that seemed to ripple in the water. Strangely, the urn she held was empty and Arria read something like a warning in her tile-black eyes.

  ‘They are here!’ shrieked a voice from the other side of the pool. ‘Come, Mother!’ The familiar young woman hurried along the other side of the pool, converging with Arria and Oppius outside a large, open door. ‘Father, our guests are here,’ she called into the room. ‘The merchant and his weaver.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Thank you, Vibia,’ said a familiar voice from inside. ‘Bring them in.’ The group filed into a large, richly decorated tablinium office where a man in a purple-striped toga sat puzzling over a scroll.

  Oppius stepped forward and cleared his throat. ‘Greetings, Governor Secundus.’

  Arria’s breath caught in her throat. Had he just said Governor Secundus? No, it could not be. She peered at the patrician. He ran a hand through the perfect rows of his thin, greasy hair and looked up. ‘Oppius, you old thief. What are you doing here?’

  Oh, but it was.

  Governor Quintus Vibius Secundus. His cheeks were still as full and his nose still as bent as the night he had tugged Arria’s braid and called her a criminal.

  Oppius crossed to the governor and bent to kiss his signet ring. Arria peered at the governor’s large hand and thought she perceived the smallest of scars in the exact place where she had bitten him.

  ‘Honourable Governor Secundus,’ said Oppius. ‘I am here at the behest of your good wife, Nerva Traiania. It is a pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘Husband, you know this man?’ asked the elder woman.

  The governor chuckled. ‘I do indeed, Nerva. We share a passion for the fighting pits. Oppius and his brother tend to pick the winners.’

  The governor’s wife frowned, but his daughter tittered amicably. ‘In that case, Father, you will not be surprised when we tell you that Oppius also picks fine weavers.’

  ‘Does he, now, Vibia?’ the governor asked, smiling indulgently at his daughter.

  ‘He is the master of the woman whose carpet adorns our triclinium wall.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the Lovers’ Carpet,’ the governor said with a slight roll of the eyes. ‘It is the talk of all our banquets. Well, let us have a look at this famous artist.’

  Oppius grabbed Arria by the arm and yanked her forward. Arria fixed her gaze upon the ground and held her breath. ‘Come now, weaver, do not be shy,’ said the governor. ‘Let me see your face.’

  Arria lifted her eyes to the governor’s and saw a flash of recognition. A wicked smile traversed his lips.

  ‘We bought another of her carpets yesterday, Father. It is a sublime creation. Atticus, bring the carpet!’ Vibia cried.

  In seconds, the handsome man who had met them at the door appeared and unfurled the carpet for the governor’s appraisal. ‘A masterpiece indeed,’ the governor proclaimed and Arria wondered if he recognised the gladiator depicted in the carpet’s design. ‘I believe now that I have guessed my daughter’s intentions,’ he said. ‘Why hire the boat when you can own the boatman? Or should I say boatwoman?’

  Arria bit her tongue. The master of this fine domus could have been anyone in the world. Why did it have to be the one man in Ephesus with cause to wish her harm?

  ‘Am I to understand you wish to purchase her, Governor?’ asked Oppius.

  ‘Oh, Father, please?’ begged Vibia
. ‘Will she not be a fine addition to our domus?’

  The governor opened his arms in a gesture of defeat. He lifted a small, golden lamp sitting at the edge of his desk and shook it, filling the room with the soft jangling of coins. A few spilled out on to the desk: a half-dozen sesterces, two denarii, a gold aureus. It was enough money to feed a family for months—right there in the governor’s change pot.

  ‘What say you, Oppius? Will you sell me this weaver of yours?’

  Arria watched Oppius put on his bargaining mask. ‘I would love nothing more. However, as my finest weaver, her loss would, of course, have an impact on my business.’

  The governor stood and stepped out from behind his desk. ‘I am sure we can come to some agreement. Come, let us take a stroll through the domus. I will show you my newest fresco.’

  The two men exited the tablinium together, followed by Vibia and her mother, and Arria found herself alone in the room with the tall, handsome slave who had met them at the door. ‘I am Atticus,’ he said, offering a bow. ‘I admire your work.’

  Arria returned the bow. ‘I am Arria.’ She glanced at the governor’s desk.

  ‘Do not even think of lifting one of those coins,’ Atticus warned.

  ‘I would not dare,’ said Arria.

  ‘He left them there on purpose, I mean. They are a test of our honesty.’ Arria stared at the coins as if they were hot coals. ‘It is well you should fear them. You must think of every temptation you behold inside this domus as a test, dear woman. It is the only way you will survive. Now come.’

  Arria’s mind raced as she and Atticus fell into position behind the two women.

  ‘She will need a good scrubbing,’ Arria heard Nerva saying, ‘and we must find her some proper clothing.’

  ‘She will be such a joy to display at parties,’ chattered Vibia. ‘Will not the Memmii and the Cornelii families be fascinated to watch her at her work?’

  ‘I can already feel their envy!’ said Nerva.

  On and on the women prattled, their excited banter muffling the low discussion taking place between the governor and Oppius just steps away.