by Kate Quinn
“Who?”
“Vercingetorix. A Gallic chieftain—nearly defeated Julius Caesar. Hero of my childhood.”
“How did he die?”
Arius smiled without amusement. “In the arena.”
“Oh.” There was a little silence. “What else?”
“There was—there was a Roman fort. Nearby. We paid tribute—cattle, grain, iron. My brothers, they liked to raid the Romans. They got cocky, killed a few sentries. The Romans killed them.”
The arrows, the advancing shields, the screaming men and screaming horses . . . Madoc falling beneath a circle of stabbing spears, Tar-cox trampled by a tribune on a tall horse.
“And you?”
“I was thirteen. Stupid. Made a stand over my brothers’ bodies instead of running to warn my father. Thought I was Vercingetorix the Invincible. Romans captured me, of course. My father, killed. The village, burned. The rest of us . . . sold.”
The smoke, the blood, the screams of the women. A thirteen-year-old boy grabbing up a sword too heavy for him and running at his enemies.
Stupid boy. Arius turned his eyes away from the memory.
“And then?”
He had almost forgotten Thea. “The salt mines. I was big for my age; went to haul rocks in Trinovantia. Then in Gaul. Kept making trouble, kept getting sold. Rock-carrier. That’s the Barbarian’s glorious history.”
His head was full of mist. He wanted more wine. She said nothing, and he was grateful. Hearing the quiet whisper of her breath, he glanced over. The bowl in her lap tilted, a shining disc in the dark. “Why?” he asked simply.
For a long time he thought she wouldn’t answer. Then: “Have you ever heard of Masada?”
“No.”
“It’s a fortress carved out of a cliff top in Judaea. It’s hot, dry country, baking under the sun like an iron plate. I was born there. Fifteen years ago.”
Fifteen. She sounded older.
“Masada was full of Jewish rebels. The Romans decided to smoke us out, but they couldn’t. Not until they built a ramp up to the top of the cliff, and used Jewish slaves to build it so we couldn’t hurl down our rocks and pitch. Six months’ worth of Jews built that ramp, and then they brought up the battering ram to break down the gates.”
“You remember?”
“Not much. I was too young. I remember peering over dusty stone walls to watch the little armored men swarming around like ants . . . I remember being happy. I pieced out the facts later, from rumors.”
“What happened?”
“This part—this part I remember. I remember it perfectly. A hot night. Such a hot night. Like tonight. I’ve hated hot nights ever since. My father was talking with the other men in low voices. My mother looked grave. Even my sister Judith was worried—she was fourteen, old enough to worry. I was only six. I was still playing with dolls.”
Her profile was perfectly still. “It was night when Father came back. He talked to my mother for a long time, in the bedroom with the door shut. He came out alone, and drew Judith aside. I wandered into the bedroom. I saw my mother on the floor, with her throat cut. I ran out screaming. Just in time to see Judith stab herself while my father covered his eyes. Then he turned and looked at me, and told me to be a good girl and come give him a hug, and when I saw he had a knife in his hand I ran.
“I ran to the next house, where my friend Hadassah lived, and it was the same there. Everyone stabbed. The same everywhere, in every house in Masada. So when the Romans battered their way in the next day, they found a fortress full of dead Jews—and one six-year-old girl sitting in a room full of bodies, waiting for her family to wake up.”
“You—you were the only one?”
“A few others lived. I don’t remember.”
His throat felt thick. “Why?”
“Better to be dead than alive when the Romans came crashing in with their swords. Better to leave them with a thousand corpses rather than a thousand captured rebels to parade in chains past their Emperor. Better to be dead than a slave. That’s what they decided, when they all went home and killed themselves.”
“But you . . .”
“A Greek merchant bought me. He gave me the name Thea; taught me to read and write. He was kind, really. Most of my masters were kind. It hasn’t been a bad life.” Her voice was even.
“The blood?” Looking at her blue bowl.
“My people have an old proverb.” Lightly. “ ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ And blood for blood, because I should have died with the rest of them; I should have been brave like my sister and fallen on a knife, but I ran like a coward and I’ve been paying back in blood ever since. Is there any wine left?”
“No.”
“Pity.” She levered herself up, grasping at the wall. Like a priestess carrying a sacrifice she picked up the bowl and swayed out the door. Arius, only slightly steadier on his feet, ducked after her. She was kneeling by a camellia bush, draining the bowl out into the earth. He stood by awkwardly, feet planted apart for balance.
“There.” She rose too quickly, staggering, and he caught her by the shoulder before she fell. The light of the distant lamps revealed that she was tall, the top of her head level with his eyes, and as angular as a doe. The point of her shoulder was sharp under his hand.
“Good luck to you tomorrow.” She offered a smile. “I’ll be watching.”
Her eyes were black, dilated too far. He’d seen them before, those eyes. The same brave desperate gaze—on the Amazon he had slain in the arena. A nerve prickled along the back of his neck.
Careful.
“Good night,” he said roughly, and left her.
THEA
THE next day, when it seemed too bright and glaring to believe that the previous night had ever happened at all, I watched Arius kill Belleraphon.
It was brutal, stomach-turning, utterly unforgettable. He strode out quietly, dwarfed by Belleraphon’s strutting, preening elegance, and then launched an attack of such savagery that my knees buckled in the stands. Belleraphon’s grin slid away as his shoulder was laid open; he began to fight in earnest, but it wasn’t enough. Arius’s sword took the top half of his shield, took another wide cut out of his ribs, took half the fingers on his left hand. Belleraphon’s dancelike grace was hewed away a piece at a time, cut down to raw desperation, and even that wasn’t enough. He wavered, a broken, bleeding thing, and he died on Arius’s sword.
The Colosseum rose with a roar, stamping for him as they had stamped only last week for Belleraphon. They screamed, they shouted, they wept, they tore gold from their fingers and silver from their purses to rain down on the solitary figure in the sand. Men cuffed tears from their eyes and swore he was the god of war come on earth to walk among men. Women tore their stolas to bare their breasts, sobbing that they would love him forever. In the Imperial box, the Emperor nodded approval. Arius threw his sword into the sand, and they shrieked their love for him.
Miserable, in the middle of such glory? No one would ever believe it.
Three
LEPIDA
BEAUTY is fate’s gift—and every time I looked in my mirror, I knew Fortuna loved me.
I dressed carefully: lilac silk to set off my black hair, a chunk of amethyst on each hand to showcase slender fingers, strands of amethysts on silver wire emphasizing the length of my neck. Lovely—and then I had to ruin the effect with a hideous brown cloak over the top, and that long-faced, blank-eyed Thea at my back.
“I’m not carrying that.” I wrinkled my nose at the basket she held out to me.
“Slave girls carry baskets on the way to the forum, Lady.”
I took it grudgingly, looking in the mirror again. At least no one would recognize the beautiful Lady Lepida Pollia when she went incognito to the gladiator barracks. “Get behind me,” I hissed at Thea as she fell into step at my side.
“Slave girls on the way to the forum don’t walk behind each other,” Thea said, impassive. “They walk in pairs.”
That g
awky sunburned slut never smiled at me, but I always felt the smile lurking, just the same. I sniffed and hurried ahead, away from the rows of gracious marble villas and toward the seedier district on the edge of the Subura where the gladiator schools were. Even a warm summer day couldn’t make Mars Street pretty.
A perfumed slave boy tried to leave me waiting in the anteroom, but I gestured to Thea and she tossed him a copper that got me admitted. No one kept Lepida Pollia waiting. I was shown into a narrow room with a writing desk, and behind it the fat lanista in midtirade.
“—abusing your followers? Hurling wine cups at powerful fans, say, when they beg for souvenir locks of your hair? Or pitching drunken young patricians into the Tiber when they challenge you to a match?”
Arius sat on a wall bench with a jug of wine in one hand, head thrown back. He drank off a swallow with his eyes closed, and I drew in a breath at the sight of his arms. Rough, brown, muscular, scarred—
Gallus still hadn’t seen me. “I’m not averse to giving you your head, dear boy. A little money of your own, perhaps. Roaming privileges in the evenings. But only if you behave yourself, and—”
I cleared my throat. Gallus gave an irritable glance. “Have you been sent with a gift, girl? Put it over there.”
“I’m Lady Lepida Pollia,” I said, sweeping my hood back in a gesture that showed off my rings. “And perhaps I have come with a gift. We’ll see.”
I stole a glance at the Barbarian, but he took another swallow of wine without looking at me. Too dazzled, of course. Gallus bounded to his feet at once, bowing over my hand, offering me a chair, gesturing a slave boy forward to take my cloak. His eyes flicked past me, looking for my father, then looked back again with greater interest.
“It’s dreadfully hot in here. My fan, Thea.” I patted my forehead, and Thea came forward to hand me my peacock feather fan. The Barbarian was looking at me now, missing nothing, not even Thea as she faded back into the corner. I slouched gracefully, shrugging off my palla so he could admire my white shoulders. “Aren’t you going to wish me a good morning, Barbarian?”
Gallus nudged him. Arius shrugged. “Good morning.”
“I see you’ve had other visitors.” I glanced around the room at the gifts sent by besotted fans: silver plate, a cloak of Milesian wool, a tooled sword belt. “My father sent the Falernian wine. I noticed at the banquet that you had a taste for it. Such a discerning palate for a barbarian!”
“Wine’s wine,” Arius said when Gallus nudged him again.
I made an airy gesture, showing off my bracelets. “Anyway, I’ve come to say good-bye. I’m leaving for Tivoli tomorrow. I found out that you won’t be fighting again until fall anyway, so I might as well escape the heat.”
“Quite,” Gallus agreed, passing forward a little plate of candied pears. “No use wasting the Barbarian in the summer games, is there? Paltry little festivals, with the Emperor gone. Now, the Romani games in September . . .”
“Quite.” Popping one, two, three little candied pear slices into my mouth. “Would you like me to get you a prime spot in the Romani games, Barbarian?”
Gallus prodded him. Arius looked at me unblinking, and I felt a little thrill. Such a granite face! I’d see it cracked someday.
“Of course he’d like that, Lady Lepida,” Gallus broke in smoothly. “How kind.”
I could hardly look at him. Arius folded his sunburned arms across his chest, and I imagined them around me instead. Would he hurt me? I’m sure he would. “Thank you,” I murmured to Gallus. “Of course, if he ever wants to thank me, he should send a message to my father’s house in Tivoli. Thea, my cloak.”
Thea came forward. Was she staring at his arms, too, imagining them wrapped around her? I rather think she was. I gave Arius a last dazzling smile and took myself away. Gallus was berating him again before the door even shut. “—got that father of hers wrapped around her little finger, so you’ll be polite the next time she—”
I smiled as we stepped out into the morning sun. “Excellent,” I said. “A pity we’re leaving for Tivoli, but perhaps it’s better that way. Gallus won’t let him fight in the summer games—so the Emperor and everyone will be clamoring for him in the fall. Just like he’ll be clamoring for me.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“He does want me, you know.” Thinking of that impassive gaze. “Not that he says anything, but he’s never talked to a lady before, has he? Just whores and slave girls, like you. And by the way”—as we crossed the end of the forum back toward my father’s house, dodging round the shouting vendors with their wooden trays—“I shan’t be taking you with me to Tivoli.”
“My lady?”
“I’ve decided to take Iris instead. She can do my hair and bring me my breakfast, and you can stay here to run one or two little errands for me. Let’s just say I want to make sure Arius doesn’t forget about me.” I smiled sweetly. Thea’s long horse face was impassive. I’d have that face cracked, too, someday. “You won’t mind seeing him again, will you, Thea? Not at all, I think. And you can walk behind me now.”
I’M expensive,” she said by way of introduction. “But I’ll do you for free.”
He recognized the blond curls, the soft painted face, the transparent lemon-yellow dress. Laelia, one of the city’s most exclusive courtesans. “How’d you get here?”
“Your lanista showed me in.” She perched beside him on the bed and favored him with a glittering smile. “I like gladiators.”
He edged back along the bed as she ran a soft hand down his arm. “Madam—”
“Call me Laelia.” She leaned against him, one hand tracing a circle on his knee. “I believe you’re nervous, Barbarian. Never had a woman like me before?”
Never had any woman before. To another pair of eyes—darker eyes, maybe; quieter eyes—he could have said it. Not to these blue eyes, flickering with excitement.
“So tell me.” She hooked one knee over his and rubbed her foot along his leg. “How do barbarians make love?”
Make love. How would he know, hauling rocks in Roman mines since he was thirteen? He’d seen how the Romans did it, laughing and panting and thrusting, with their friends cheering encouragement and their knives at the woman’s throat. He’d seen it often enough. He knew how the Romans did it, all right.
Just once, he’d tried with a woman. A prostitute at the mines, when he was fifteen. He’d hurt her. He hadn’t meant to—but she bolted. He hadn’t tried again.
His every muscle coiled tight as a perfumed, painted mouth closed on his.
Stop, he told himself. But his hands clenched on her shoulders.
“You’ve bruised me.” She looked up at him with a smile of parted lips and gleaming teeth. “Like it rough, do you?”
He rose, so fast he spilled her on the floor. Caught her by both wrists, heaved her up.
Hurt her, whispered the demon. That’s how the men do it.
He flung her out the door before she could protest, kicking it shut with his foot. He sank down against the wall, raking his hands through his hair. On the other side of the door he heard a stream of shrill curses. He closed his eyes, pushing his head down into his folded arms. Waited for his muscles to stop trembling. Waited for his blood to stop roaring. Waited for the demon whispers to die down to simple, straightforward, uncomplicated murder.
Killing he could handle. Killing was easy.
THEA
MY mistress and her father left the next morning in a welter of wagons and slaves and silver litters, and I was free. Free! The July sun baked me golden brown, the dust rose off the streets and choked my lungs, the sweltering nights gave me my usual nightmares, but I was free. No Lepida to trail with a fan and a handkerchief, no bee-sting jabs from her tongue. No Pollio with his moist hands in dark hallways. No work to do, since the exacting steward ceased tracking our comings and goings and retired to the circus to watch the chariot races all day. The male slaves slipped off to the taverns, the maids tripped out to meet their lovers, and no on
e cared a jot.
I went walking in the evenings when purple twilight cooled the air, sitting on hot corner stones listening to street musicians and parting with my few coins to pay for the pleasure they gave me. I even sneaked into the Theatre of Marcellus to hear a famous actress sing a round of Greek songs, memorizing her every graceful gesture to practice for myself in the heat-shriveled Pollio gardens. In my mind I could see my mother smile as she said, “What a pretty voice you’ll have when you’re grown.” And then I’d fall silent and perhaps creep back inside to my blue bowl with the frieze of nymphs on the side, because my mother was no longer here to sing me lullabies, and over the years it had somehow become my fault.
I saw Arius the Barbarian, of course. His lanista flashed him all over the city like a prize stallion: dragged him into the theatre to watch the comedies, into the Campus Martius where everyone strolled to see and be seen, into the Circus Maximus to watch the chariot races. Wherever he went there was a hush of deliciously savored fear, a respectful drawing back, and afterward the buzz of speculation.
“He won’t last the next fight,” people scoffed in taverns. “Beating Belleraphon, that was a fluke.”
“And the Amazons?” his fans retaliated hotly.
“Anyone could beat a team of women!”
“No, he’s something special. Just wait till the Romani games in September—” The argument went on, even though he ignored his fans as if they were shadows and drank alone in taverns despite the hundreds who would have kept him company.
His face started to appear everywhere, painted badly on the sides of wooden buildings around the Colosseum. Crudely chalked graffiti greeted my eyes on alley walls: “Arius the Barbarian makes all the girls sigh!” Vendors hawked garish little portraits on gaudy ribbons. Taverns offered him free wine, and whores offered him free time. Arius, a slave and a barbarian, a man who would be cut up and fed to the lions when he died instead of meeting his gods in a proper tomb. Lower than sewer trash, but so important: His fights would calm the crowds when they grumbled too loudly over the Emperor’s taxes, his presence would titillate the most bored patricians at dinner parties and keep them from scheming, his blood would be sold to epileptics as a cure for their foaming fits, and brides would fight for one of his spears to part their hair on their wedding day and thus guarantee themselves a happy marriage.