The Gladiator's Temptation (Champions of Rome)

by Jennifer D. Bokal

  This foolish conversation had to stop. “I am not going to Novum Comum,” said Baro. “Paullus, look at him. Be reasonable. This man is not a lanista. He knows nothing of the sport. I doubt he even has thirty thousand sesterces.”

  “This decision is not yours to make,” said Paullus.

  Baro gestured to his leg. “I am injured. I cannot travel. Though this man knows nothing of gladiatorial combat, he is right. A nobody has defeated me, and my career is over.”

  “Is that what happened out there? You lost to be with a woman?” asked Paullus.

  Baro knew no words to change his deeds. He lay back on the bed and let the throbbing of his leg fill his body.

  “Answer me,” said Paullus. Spittle foamed and collected in the corner of his mouth. “Tell me that it was a chance blow that brought you down and not a choice.”

  “It matters not why I lost,” said Baro.

  “It was all trickery and deceit,” said Albinius, his eyes wide. “How can you keep a gladiator who is not to be trusted? You should sell him.”

  Paullus would not sell Baro. That was part of his contract. It left the lanista with few choices. Was this to be the inglorious end of Baro’s career? Would the last time he stepped onto the sands be in some hellhole a month away from the comforts of Rome, while he fought to forward the career of Albinius the Rube, no less? As if fire had been poured down his gut, a burning rose from his center, scalding the inside of his chest and throat.

  Then Baro recalled why he had orchestrated this moment from the beginning. It was for Fortunada, his golden one. He had done it all for her. At least she was well worth it. “Paullus, you know that being a gladiator was never meant as a life for me, just a means to an end. Return my coin to me and we will part as best we can.”

  “I cannot,” said Paullus.

  “Cannot,” asked Baro, “or will not?”

  The lanista lay on the bed, not moving, barely breathing. His skin was still deathly pale. “Cannot,” he said, “because there is nothing to give.”

  He would look Paullus in the eye. Baro propped up on his elbow, the pain be damned. “Explain yourself,” he demanded. Although there was no explanation needed. Baro understood it all. The doors. The jewelry. Paullus’s newfound fortune was spent, and the need for more had ruined him.

  Paullus said, “The money is gone. All of it—mine, yours, the other gladiators’—lost to bad investments and worse wagers. Today you were to win it all back, except you did not.”

  For a moment, Baro felt nothing. It was as if he were weightless, floating with the clouds atop a warm current of air. The numb feeling of disbelief remained with him only a moment. Then he crashed back to earth, the wind knocked from his lungs. “All of it,” he gasped, “gone? I am without any of my coin?”

  Paullus’s color drained even more. “You are,” he said. Deep creases formed in the flesh around his mouth. “We have lost everything.”

  “We?” Baro said. “It is you who lost everything.” He felt rudderless, yet Baro refused to pray. What could the gods do for him now? “This is worse than when my former wife left. At least she betrayed me for someone she thought she might love better. But you?” Baro could not keep the disgust from his voice. “You robbed me for doors and a few bracelets.”

  Paullus flinched as if slapped. “You can help win the money back. You are still the Champion of Rome. That will be worth something beyond the fight in Novum Comum. Besides, if you are away from the city, people will forget today’s loss.”

  “It seems as if we should renegotiate the terms I am willing to offer,” Albinius interrupted. A sneer twisted his thin face. “I would like to offer twenty thousand sesterces.”

  If only Baro could stand, he would happily see that smile wiped from his lips.

  “You can offer whatever terms you want,” said Baro. “I will fight no more.”

  Paullus took short, gasping breaths and gripped his shoulder. “Let us all discuss this on the morrow. The passion in this room runs too high.”

  “On the morrow, then,” said Albinius as he moved to the door. “Expect me with the first light.”

  It mattered not what either of these men said, nor what negotiations they might make. Baro would be free of his contract, and now he knew how.

  Chapter 7

  Fortunada

  With Jana in tow, Fortunada walked down a wide lane. Villas, hidden behind high walls, stood on either side. The red tiles of their roofs were visible, but nothing more. From her vantage point at the top of the Palatine Hill, she could see the Forum Boarium near the Capitoline Market. The wooden stands of the arena now sat empty. The primus—the last fight of the day—had ended not long ago. It had been Baro’s fight, and she was certain of his victory. With his supreme confidence, there was no other outcome.

  For herself, she was less sure of the battle she waged. Stopping in front of the quaestor’s villa, she nodded to Jana, who then knocked on Fortunada’s behalf. A small barred window set into the door opened, and a pair of eyes peered out.

  “My lady Fortunada is here to see Quaestor Nonus,” said Jana.

  The window closed and the door opened. “Come in,” said a male slave. “Wait here and I will inform the dominus of your arrival.”

  Those in need of help were expected to call upon the quaestor, one of the most influential men in Roman politics, in the early hours of the day. Still, once the idea of legally fighting Albinius for the children entered her mind, she could think of nothing else. It propelled her from her villa at this irregular—if not improper—hour for counsel. The quaestor, Nonus, was a cousin of sorts from her father’s generation, and he might not see her today. Or truth be told, at all. In Rome, women had no legal redress. All the same, he was family, and in Rome that mattered more than the law.

  The echo of footfalls came from a corridor, and Fortunada rose from her seat.

  “Fortunada,” said Nonus as he entered the atrium, “what brings you here? The children, are they well?”

  “They are healthy and happy,” she said. Wanting to dispense quickly with the pleasantries, Fortunada continued, “Apologies for bothering you at such an hour, but I have come for advice.”

  Nonus gestured to the bench from which she had just risen, and Fortunada retook her place. The quaestor, she noticed, did not sit. With a deep breath, she said, “Albinius, my former husband, has returned to Rome and wants to take the children with him.”

  “You are unhappy with this development, I take it?”

  “I am. He was gone for more than three years. Have I any way to prevent this from happening—a charge of abandonment, perhaps?”

  Nonus crossed his thickly muscled arms over his broad chest. “It is possible,” he said. “Have your father call upon me in the morning, and we can discuss the options.”

  “My father is traveling to Germania,” said Fortunada. “He has been gone for weeks and will not return for several months, maybe more. Is there any way you can advocate on my behalf?”

  “There is not,” said Nonus with a shake of his head. “Your father is the head of your familia, and is the only other person who can claim legal rights to the children. When your father returns, we can present a case and try to get them returned to you.”

  “Until then, I am supposed to allow Albinius to take my children north?”

  “Why would he do that? I thought you said he returned to Rome?”

  Fortunada waved his question away with a flick of her hand. “He purchased a ludus in Novum Comum. It is a legacy for Genaro, or so Albinius says.”

  Nonus took a step toward Fortunada. “If it is your aim to have your children returned to you, you cannot let them leave the city with their father. Once he leaves Rome, he will have taken custody, and you will not have the law upon your side. Although in truth, your case is weak at best.”

  “Have I no other options?”

&
nbsp; “Is Albinius still married to his second wife?”

  “He divorced her as well,” said Fortunada. She already knew what advice Nonus was about to give. “My uncle Sersa thinks I should remarry. He even offered a dowry.”

  “Then it is settled. You can keep your children and get a husband in the bargain.”

  “What if I do not want to remarry Albinius?” she asked.

  Nonus let out a long breath. “I will give you one final piece of advice, so heed my words well. If you turn down the opportunity to remain with your children because you are angry at their father, the law will be against you if you ever attempt to get Genaro and Cornelia back.”

  Fortunada rose. She needed to leave now, lest she begin to weep and curse in front of this man, who understood nothing of a mother’s love. “Gratitude for seeing me at this hour. I hope I have not inconvenienced you too much.”

  “Not at all, my dear,” Nonus said. He tucked Fortunada’s arm into the crook of his elbow and led her to the door. The same male slave from before worked the bolt free.

  Outside, the sun had slipped below the horizon, and night began to take its first steps across the city. Even if she and Jana hurried, it would be full dark before they reached home.

  Standing at the door, Nonus said, “I wish I could have given you better news.”

  She wished he could have, too. “Knowing the truth is always better than false hope,” she said. With a final wave, she turned down the lane and began the walk back to her villa.

  Chapter 8

  Fortunada

  A lone torch burned, casting a golden circle of light upon the loom. Those in the villa had long ago taken to their beds, but too many thoughts filled Fortunada’s mind to allow her a moment of rest. Jana sat nearby, silently waiting should Fortunada be in need of anything.

  Certainly, the maid knew she was having an affair. She accompanied Fortunada everywhere, even to the inn, where she waited in the tavern on the ground floor. Like a good and devoted servant, she never spoke a word of where they went to anyone, even to Fortunada. If Fortunada’s dalliance with Baro truly had been circumspect, Jana might not even know the identity of her mistress’s paramour. Nor would she know that Baro had become more than a lover, but the embodiment of love itself.

  Yet, what counsel would Jana give if Fortunada divulged that her reasons for not wanting Albinius went beyond the man himself? She knew not, nor would she ever. It was not the maid’s place to be burdened with the problems of her mistress.

  It left Fortunada no one in whom she might confide. By weaving, Fortunada hoped to find a solution to her unsolvable problem. And if that was too much to ask, then she hoped to lose herself in the rhythm of the loom. Besides, if only she had a few more sleepless nights, the tunic for Genaro would be done within the week. The length of fabric grew as Fortunada recalled every moment of her visit with Nonus.

  Were the laws of the republic so blind to the rights of mothers to act as if her love mattered for naught? It was a stupid, childish question—and one for which Fortunada knew the answer. Legally, she was not a person. Because Fortunada had been born a female, her father could have sold her into slavery as easily as raised her. When she was married to Albinius, he could have legally killed her rather than go through the trouble of returning her dowry and asking for a divorce. Why, then, did she hope to have any rights when it came to her children?

  She knew that answer as well; did she not? It was for Genaro and Cornelia that she rose from bed each morning.

  If it is your aim to have your children returned to you, you cannot let them leave the city with their father, Nonus had said.

  Thread in hand, Fortunada stopped. Like the cloth she wove, all her options were bound tightly. Yet, the bit about not leaving the city was like a loose thread. If it worked free, then she could unravel the whole.

  A knock on the front door stopped her thoughts. She froze and waited. It came again. Visitors in the middle of the night never boded well. The myriad of possible disasters rushed at Fortunada, and for a moment, she could not breathe. She rose from the loom and crossed the atrium, then opened a small window set into the door.

  Wearing the same tunic as he had before, a bleary-eyed Albinius stood outside. The sweetly fermented stench of wine wafted off him, like a putrid fog on the Tiber River.

  “I think I lost my belt,” he said. “Can I come in?”

  “Your belt is not here,” Fortunada said, although she could not turn him away, not when his willingness to remarry her kept her with her children. Working the bolt free, she opened the door.

  Albinius staggered into the villa. “Did I wake you?” he asked.

  “I was weaving,” she said.

  “A bit late for that, is it not?”

  “And thinking,” she added.

  “About us?” he asked.

  “About life.”

  He nodded as if he understood. Did he? Did he also reenter the marriage with trepidation, if not outright disgust? When compared to Baro, Albinius—drunk and stupid—became the worst sort of consolation.

  “I have been thinking, too,” he said.

  Fortunada stood taller, her hands clasped over her heart, hoping beyond hope that he had changed his mind about the marriage and the children. “Yes?”

  “Have you any wine?”

  “No. You are drunk and I refuse to get you drunker.” Opening the door again—this time for him to leave—she said, “Good night to you, Albinius.”

  “You cannot keep me away from the villa.”

  “Lower your voice,” she hissed. “You will wake the children.”

  “That is why you refuse to grant me entry! So you can selfishly keep the children to yourself. I demand that you bring them to me. I would see them again.” Albinius stalked through the atrium and called out, “Genaro! Cornelia!”

  Stupid, drunk, and belligerent. This last twist was new. Fortunada grabbed his shoulder. “You cannot wake them. It is the middle of the night. Besides, do you really want your children to see you like this?”

  Albinius wrenched away from her grasp. “They are mine, and I will see them whenever I please. Have your maid bring them to me.”

  Jana stepped from the shadows. “Is there anything you require, my lady?” she asked. “Wine, perhaps?”

  Like a snuffed-out candle flame, Albinius’s irritation disappeared. “I am thirsty,” he said.

  Ceres bless Jana! “Yes, some wine would be lovely,” said Fortunada. “You may bring it to the triclinium.”

  “And two goblets,” Albinius added to Jana’s retreating shadow. “Remember when we were first married and we drank wine together until late at night. What fun times we had,” Albinius said to Fortunada.

  She did recall those first days of marriage. They had had not a care in the world, and she truly had enjoyed Albinius’s company. After giving birth to Genaro, Fortunada lost her taste for drunken late nights and morning hangovers. Albinius did not. His insistence on staying the same was matched only by her need to change. In the end, their marriage soured as their opposition increased. He had become the bad child, and she, the shrewish mother.

  Though she had some fond memories of their first marriage, what did it say about her taking him again as her husband? They were both different people. She had cared deeply for Albinius, yet as he stood next to her, swaying slightly, she knew that those emotions would not be resurrected. “Come,” she said. “Jana has certainly set out the wine by now.”

  Built in the typical fashion, Fortunada’s villa was a single rectangle. A corridor ran around the whole, with rooms on each side. The inner rooms opened to a garden that sat within the middle and was used by the family. The outer rooms, those with no exterior windows, served as quarters for the slaves, and the rest were used as storage. The distance separating the atrium and triclinium was the greatest in the villa, and Fortunada found herself w
alking down the darkened corridor with Albinius for several moments. As she wrapped her palla more tightly over her shoulders, she thought it was a pity that there was nothing she wanted to say to him. Well, nothing other than that he should leave and never return.

  Two reclining sofas sat inside the door of the triclinium. A candle burned upon the table, and next to it stood a pitcher and two cups filled with red wine so dark it looked like liquefied rubies. “I have great news to share,” said Albinius as he took a seat on one of the sofas. “I knew no one else whom I wanted to tell, beyond you.”

  “Endearing sentiments,” she said. “Fueled by drink, no doubt.”

  “I forgot,” he said, lifting a goblet to his mouth. “You need your sleep lest you become disagreeable. Are you not the least bit curious about why we need to celebrate? I have the highest hopes that I have found a gladiator willing to come to Novum Comum—a famous gladiator.”

  Fortunada froze. Was this a trap? As discreet as she had been with Baro, their movements could easily have been noticed. Although who would tell Albinius? As he had just stated, he knew no one in Rome anymore. Besides, Baro was too famous, too expensive, and—if he had gotten his way—he was now retired. Taking a seat on an opposite reclining sofa, she leaned back in a gesture that she hoped looked nonchalant. “I really care not who your gladiator will face.”

  “As the wife of a lanista, you should take some interest in the gladiatorial games. I really was impressive today. Although the other lanista has not completely agreed to my terms, he will. He has no other choice.” Albinius gazed through hazy eyes into the bottom of his cup. He reached for the nearby pitcher and refilled the goblet.

  She watched him drink, and such a deep chasm opened within Fortunada, she thought she would drown in his spilled wine.

  For three long years Albinius had ignored the very existence of his children. His interest now was temporary. If only she could convince him to go to Novum Comum . . .

  Yes, that was it. Not only did she need to keep the children in Rome, she also needed to convince Albinius to leave.