Blood Debts

by Ashley Gardner

  But this noisome corridor was not the same as my dry little room at the ludus where Xerxes had scratched erotic pictures onto the walls for me. It was wet and stank, and we kept going down, down into blacker darkness. I expected to find raw sewage at any moment, and the rush of water from under every latrine and domus in the city, carrying away leavings of its citizens. Romans considered gladiators excrement, but I had no wish to become it in truth.

  The tunnel began to slope upward again, and at long last, I no longer waded through liquid. After the tunnel dried out, a slit of light cut through the wall and made me blink.

  I’d learned how to keep flashes of light from blinding me—an opponent could move his shield to catch the sunlight and beam it into the small eyeholes of my helmet. If I let such a thing distract me, it would be for the last time.

  The man I propelled along obviously hadn’t had arena training. He screwed up his eyes and tripped, and would have fallen had not my firm grip kept him on his feet.

  The chink of light belonged to a wooden door whose vertical slats had warped as they dried in the sun. The door was locked, but the latch that held it was easily broken with one shove. We emerged into a narrow street that looked like all other narrow streets in Rome. The smoke from a tavern mixed with the stench of slops and a waft of spice from a nearby warehouse.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  The man peered about, barely able to open his eyes in the bright sunshine—he must have been in the tunnel a long time. “Bottom of the Caelian Hill,” he said breathlessly. “Near the old wall.”

  The Caelian was a smaller hill across from the Palatine, the base of it filled with tiny lanes and too many houses. Finer houses spread out as the hill rose, and an aqueduct marched across the top, its arches raised against the sky.

  I studied the man I held. He was grimy, his smell unfortunate, his face black with muck, his skin dark from both the sun and whatever were his origins. I’d thought he would be older, but a fairly young face turned up to me, his dark eyes above unshaven cheeks filled with pain. I’d cut his skin when I’d broken his wrist, and the blood had stained his tunic and the pathetic remains of his sandals. He might have been twenty at most, which was a man by Roman standards, but his look was that of a youth.

  He was also a slave, I realized by the tattered remains of his garments. A runaway one probably. Not that I would immediately haul him back to his master—if the master had been good to him, he wouldn’t have run.

  He gaped as he took me in, finally seeing what sort of man had hold of him. “I didn’t mean … I didn’t mean …”

  “To try to rob me in the dark?” I finished for him. “An easy mistake.”

  “I thought—” He broke off, his gaze going to the scar that ran down my neck. “Who are you?”

  “You’ll have to get that wrist seen to,” I said, ignoring the question. “The best medicus for setting bones is Nonus Marcianus. He lives at the bottom of the Aventine, near the fountain of the three fish. Tell him Leonidas sent you and that he should go to Cassia for his payment. Can you remember that?”

  The man stared at me in shock. “Leonidas?”

  “Yes, that Leonidas,” I said impatiently.

  He shook his head in confusion. “Never heard of you. I meant that the name is unusual. Greek—Spartan. But you don’t look Greek.”

  The fact that he didn’t know of Leonidas the Gladiator surprised me. I had been the most famous fighting man in all of Rome until the last year, and everyone in Rome went to the games. I’d traveled with my lanista for exhibitions outside Rome many a time, so people the length of the empire had seen me. Either this man was from a very remote outpost, or he’d been living in the sewers a long, long time.

  “Go to Marcianus,” I said firmly. “Remember, fountain of the three fishes. Ask there for him.”

  The man nodded, his greasy hair falling into his eyes. Nonus Marcianus would not thank me for sending him this squalid specimen, but I knew he’d see to him without hesitation.

  As the man finally shuffled away, I heard light footsteps. Sergius came running down the street to me, having popped through another door.

  “I lost you!” he said breathlessly, panic in his voice.

  I held out my hand, hiding my relief. “Now I am found again.”

  The relief startled me. I had fully prepared to walk through the tunnels in search of the boy if I had to, and the thought of not finding him had made me cold.

  I put my speculations about these feelings aside as I led Sergius onward. Both of us were dirty and smelly from the tunnels, but the people we passed as we walked under the aqueduct and out through the gate were just as stained from travel, tired and ready for journey’s end.

  I wondered if any of the travelers had the slips of papyrus they’d take to a shipping agent or money-changer to redeem the equivalent of the funds they’d paid into an account in their own cities. They’d be unlucky if they’d been told to go to Selenius to collect. If it was discovered the slips were forged, they would be worth nothing.

  It set me to thinking. Had a traveler approached Selenius with a forged chit, and Selenius indignantly refused to honor it? Had the man with the forged paper grown enraged and murdered him?

  Or was Selenius the forger? He could give the false slips to confederates who’d take them to the far corners of Rome, where agents might not realize the forgery and give out the coins. A nice scheme, if true. Selenius and his friends could divide the money without it costing them a single as.

  Perhaps someone in the provinces had caught on to the fact that he was being robbed. That man might have come to Rome to confront Selenius, even to kill him.

  I had little doubt that Cassia had already considered these speculations. While I traveled to the country, she’d be finding out who Selenius’s confederates or angry customers might be. How Cassia would discover these things, I didn’t entirely understand, but she knew every slave and every scribe in every house from the Palatine to the top of the Esquiline and every villa beyond that.

  We weren’t going far, but I tagged along behind a merchants’ caravan, holding tight to Sergius’s hand, carrying him when grew he tired. Even this close to Rome, even in these peaceful times, even in the middle of the afternoon, robbers could hide and strike a lone, exhausted traveler. I didn’t worry for myself, but having to look after a child would hamper me if I had to fight.

  The merchant didn’t mind me joining them—he welcomed the muscle against robbers. Carrying Sergius must have made me look trustworthy, because the merchant didn’t seem to worry about me trying to rob him.

  I strode in silence, and Sergius offered no conversation. I realized as we went that I didn’t know how to talk to children. I didn’t much know how to talk to grown men either, so that wasn’t such a surprise. But I hadn’t given up the vague idea I’d have children of my own one day. It would be a quiet upbringing if I couldn’t think of anything to say to them.

  Sergius eventually settled into the crook of my arm and fell asleep against my shoulder. It puzzled me he was so trusting of me, if men at his brothel had used him as I suspected they had. But then I was Leonidas, the hero on his cup come to life. Perhaps he saw me as his champion, or maybe he was too simple to understand I could be as dangerous to him as any drunkard in a brothel.

  Marcella’s farm lay five miles outside the city. I left the Via Latina at a crossroads, saying farewell to the merchant and suggesting a safe house along the way to spend the night. We parted, and I made my way over a hill and into a green valley.

  I’d always marveled that Xerxes had come out here most evenings to look after the farm and his wife, and then hastened back to the ludus the next morning for training. He’d been a slave, sold to the ludus by his former master when it was clear he’d do well as a fighter, but he’d been allowed to marry and move into Marcella’s farm. Our lanista believed in giving us rope, but only so much. Xerxes wouldn’t have gotten far if he’d tried to run.

  But Xerxes had al
ways returned, right on time for training—he was a stickler for duty and his honor. He’d died for that honor, leaving Marcella alone with five children to raise.

  On the other hand, if Xerxes had tried to run away and been caught, he’d have been sent to the mines or quarries, which would also be death, only slower. At least in the amphitheater, he’d gone out a hero.

  Marcella didn’t see it that way. She’d loved Xerxes and deeply grieved his passing. Still did.

  Her farmhouse was a square building presenting a blank face to the world, with its doors and few windows overlooking a protected courtyard. At night, she brought in the animals and her equally wild children, and locked the place tighter than the best fortress on a hostile border.

  Marcella was in the courtyard with one of her daughters, a mite with long black hair and Xerxes’s merry eyes. She and Marcella were milking a goat that wasn’t happy with the process. Sergius, who’d woken, looked about with interest.

  Marcella rose from the ground, her mouth open as she saw me walk into the courtyard. Her daughter caught the goat before it could dart away, holding it with her arms around its neck.

  “Who in the name of all the gods is this?” Marcella planted her stare on Sergius.

  I set the boy gently on his feet but he looked as skittish as the goat. “This is Sergius. I … found him.”

  Marcella only raised her brows, waiting for an explanation.

  I would never have called Marcella pretty—her dark hair was too thin, her body fleshy rather than curved, her face too flat. But she had a vitality that made a person forget she was plain. I’d met courtesans praised for their astonishing beauty who’d be invisible next to Marcella. I understood why Xerxes would have done anything for her.

  There were five little Xerxes on this farm, three boys and two girls. Marcella ruled them with a firm but kind hand.

  “And you decided to bring him to me?” Marcella demanded as she ran her dark gaze over the thin boy.

  I shrugged. “Xerxes always told me he needed more hands in the fields.”

  Her lips firmed. “This lad couldn’t lift a rake. He’ll need a lot of feeding up before he’s any use on a farm.”

  Sergius stared up at her, his mouth open, a mixture of fear and interest in his eyes. Marcella joined us and crouched down next to him. “I’ve just made a stew, child. Would you like some?”

  Sergius glanced at me for confirmation, and when I nodded, he turned back to Marcella. “Yes.”

  “Oh, he can speak,” Marcella said. “That’s a mercy. Fabricia, turn her loose and take Sergius inside. If your brothers and sister remember to come in for dinner, we’ll eat.”

  Small Fabricia unwrapped herself from the goat, who tottered two steps and then halted to graze on stray bits of grass. The little girl, who hadn’t lost her smile since I’d walked in, waved at me and took Sergius by the hand. She towed him off, Sergius looking back at me uncertainly, but I saw his curiosity about not only his surroundings but Fabricia as well.

  I held out one of the few coins I carried. “I’ll send more money for him when I can. And visit him.”

  Marcella straightened up, pulled pieces of straw from her hair, and accepted the coin. She’d need it, and she knew it. “I suppose you’ll tell me the story someday. How is your other stray—I mean Cassia?”

  Marcella had the idea that I let Cassia live with me out of kindness. I shrugged. “Cassia is Cassia.”

  “Good. I like her.”

  She studied me with her lively dark eyes, as though she expected me to say more about Cassia. I kept silent, not wanting to blurt out anything about murders and forgeries, not until I made sure I wouldn’t be arrested for the crime. I didn’t want my ill fortune coming back to haunt Marcella and her brood.

  “You are well?” I asked Marcella when the silence had stretched to awkwardness.

  For a moment, Marcella’s animation deserted her, and I saw a blankness that I sensed many times in myself.

  “Well in body,” Marcella said. She put a hand on my wrist. “You are kind to ask.”

  Her touch meant nothing more than gratitude. I knew that. Marcella had only ever loved Xerxes, and he her.

  I had no intention of offering bodily comfort to Marcella, if I could even perform on command, and she had no intention of accepting it. I’d once suggested she find another husband to help her, and she’d laughed at me, telling me she’d pushed out enough children, thank you very much.

  Marcella withdrew her hand. “I might have enough stew to tempt even your appetite. If not, I’ll round up something.”

  “No need. I’ll eat when I reach home.”

  Marcella gave me a doubtful look. “It’s growing late. You won’t reach Rome before dark.”

  “I walk quickly,” I said with a faint smile. “I don’t want to leave Cassia alone.”

  Marcella regarded me without speaking for a moment. “I see. Greet her for me. And don’t worry—I’ll look after your boy. That is, if you promise to return and tell me how you found him, and why you decided you should be responsible for him.”

  I nodded solemnly. “I promise.”

  She burst out laughing, something Marcella could do spontaneously. I didn’t always know what she found funny, but she had a comforting laugh.

  “Go on with you, Leonidas. May the gods look favorably upon you.”

  “And you,” I returned. We exchanged another look, she still finding something very amusing, and I went.

  I had taken a long time to walk five miles to Marcella’s, as the merchants had moved slowly to conserve the strength of their donkeys and their own feet. Traveling back took less time, as I moved at my own pace in the falling darkness.

  It was dangerous to walk alone at night, even for a large and terrifying man like me. I’d easily take on any lone attacker, but a dozen men could have me on the ground before I positioned myself to fight. Bandits weren’t known for following the rules of one-on-one combat. Gladiators fought plenty dirty, but we were nothing compared to desperate brigands.

  I relied on the fact that I looked like a man who didn’t have two coins on me to keep the robbers away. I wore a simple tunic belted at the waist and sandals, the dress of a freedman. No one would mistake me for anyone of high birth and fortune. In Rome, a man’s clothing denoted what he was—slave, patrician, senator, a retired gladiator. The penalty for pretending to be in a different class could be dire.

  I rarely had the chance to walk alone under the stars, and I found myself enjoying it. The air was cool, the sky open above me, the space of the gods filled with thousands of lights, some brighter than others.

  As I drew closer to the city, the tombs of prominent Romans surrounded me, cold monuments to what once had been living, breathing people. I was tired of death, but these marble and concrete tombs did not bring me melancholy—they were monuments to honor memories, not bloody bodies strewn in my path as I walked from the amphitheatre, surviving once more.

  I did not worry about gaining entrance to the city. Wagons and carts were only allowed in to make deliveries or take wares out again in the middle of the night. The edict made sense, as any other time of day, the heavy vehicles would block the streets, and we’d be bottled in.

  Citizens paid for the convenience of moving about more easily during the day by nights filled with noise. Warehouses backed onto apartments, and a single domus might have storage houses all around it, with wares delivered after dark.

  I was never bothered by the noise—I slept through it all—but it drove Cassia mad. She’d been raised on a villa in Campania where her father had been a slave, and where all had been, she said, blissful quietude.

  One day, perhaps we’d have enough money to live in a small house in the hills—a modest home if not a grand villa. Of course, I’d have to find a way to buy Cassia or free her from our benefactor. She didn’t belong to me; she’d been lent.

  I caught up with another merchant a half mile from the gate, and earned a ride on the back of his cart filled wi
th unknown metal objects in exchange for my protection. I dangled my feet from the back of the cart, whatever was in his bags poking me in the thighs.

  We went through the gate without hindrance, and I slid off the cart near the Circus Maximus. The merchant headed for a warehouse on the Aventine, and I continued around the Circus and up to the Subura, after a farewell and a thanks. I still didn’t know what was in the wagon—bowls, urns, statues of gods?

  I walked up the stairs to our small apartment, and inside.

  Cassia launched herself up from the table and at me, her dark eyes wide, worry in every line of her. I felt her slim arms around my body, her many-curled head land on my shoulder.

  “Leonidas,” she said brokenly, in a very un-Cassia-like way. “They found Selenius. The vigiles said they’d scour the city for you, and you didn’t come home. I thought … I thought …”

  To my astonishment, she burrowed her face into my tunic, trembling and holding on hard.

  Chapter 5

  “They can’t be searching for me very diligently.” I rested my hand on Cassia’s back, finding it supple and warm under her linen gown. “I walked from the Circus without seeing a one of them.”

  The vigiles were night watchmen whose main job was to keep public order and look for fires—if a fire broke out, they hastened to pull down houses to prevent the spread of flames. A mob of them might track down a killer, but if their commander thought they had better things to do, they’d let others find and drag the criminal to the magistrates.

  “I traveled with a merchant and his family on the way,” I went on, feeling the need to explain. “It took more time to reach Marcella’s.”

  Cassia unwound herself from me, and I let my touch slide from her. She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, which were red-rimmed and wet.