by L. A. Witt
Several of the men stop their bouts and start toward the women and children, weapons still in hand. The first woman regards them with fear bordering on contempt, keeping her children back. The second keeps an eye on her son as he trots toward the sparring areas, but I can’t imagine anyone in the familia doesn’t notice the looks she and Sikandar keep exchanging. Or the fact that the infant in the obviously Roman woman’s arms is a black-eyed miniature of the Parthian.
But the third woman, she doesn’t seem to notice any of us at all. She watches her son interacting with Philosir and Hasdrubal, and she laughs when he does as the men tell wild, animated stories about fighting off dozens of men at once while defeating lions with their bare hands. Aside from the first woman, none of the visitors seem remotely concerned about the gladiators handing wooden swords to their children or picking them up on their shoulders.
This is the closest any gladiator comes to behaving as a gentleman, when a woman is among us. Particularly a noblewoman. Maybe it’s the last shred of decency dividing us from the beasts we might one day fight. Or maybe we all just know better than to do anything that might earn us our lanista’s wrath.
Odd, though, seeing women in a ludus like this. With their children in tow and the sun still up, they can’t possibly be here to make use of any of us.
“Who are they?” I ask the men beside me. “And why are they bringing children to a ludus?”
“Children love us.” Quintus glances at me. “Women never brought children to your ludus in Rome?”
I shake my head.
Lucius sniffs. “Well, the children here might be fascinated with us, but that woman in particular?” He nods toward the third mother, the one who seems least concerned about us. “I think she does this just to drive her husband mad with flaunting the child all over the city.”
Before I can ask what he means, Quintus snickers. “Women like that ought to be careful. Playing with the reputation of a politician is dangerous business.”
“A . . .” I glance at Lucius and Quintus. “She’s a politician’s wife?”
“Aye,” Lucius says. “Married to Calvus Laurea himself.”
My breath halts in my throat, and I slowly shift my gaze back to the woman.
So this is the Lady Verina. Women have never turned my head, not even when I was younger, but I can certainly see why any man in Pompeii, never mind the ludus, would bed her. Waist and breasts inspired by Venus herself. Long dark hair braided down her back. Beautiful blue eyes that her son has clearly inherited. “So she brings her son to the ludus?” I ask. “Just to taunt her husband?”
Lucius shakes his head. “Not her son. Grandson.”
Quintus gives a grunt of agreement. “Calvus Laurea hates the boy being seen in public, so she flaunts him every chance she gets.”
“I’ve heard Calvus would just as soon throw the boy to the wolves,” Lucius mutters. “Personally, I think he ought to throw that bitch to the wolves and keep the boy.”
I raise an eyebrow, and both men glance at me.
Quintus lowers his voice to a whisper. “The boy, that’s Kaeso. He’s the bastard son of their daughter Statia. Girl’s long dead, and the gods only know who sired him.”
Lucius sniffs derisively. “And Verina has no shame about trotting him through town at every opportunity.”
“Can’t blame her for fucking with her husband,” Titus says. “I’ve heard he’d be better suited to our profession than his.”
Quintus laughs. “If only so he might get a sword in the gut.”
“He’s a politician,” Lucius says. “He may not be the most scrupulous man in Pompeii, but he’s no fucking lanista.”
“Laurea is a snake is what he is,” Titus spits. “I’ve known scores of gladiators who were perfectly respectable citizens until they ran afoul of that creature.”
“And they wound up as gladiators?” I ask.
Titus nods. “Auctorati, just like the three of you. Don’t matter if a man crosses him on purpose or not. Calvus Laurea never forgets, and he ruins every last one of them. Bankrupts them, destroys their reputation—”
“And they die in the arena with the rest of us,” Quintus grumbles.
My skin crawls and my guts twist. So what do the Fates have in store for a falsified auctoratus who knows of this man’s wife’s alleged indiscretions? If Fortune grants me anything in my life, let it be a death that isn’t on a cross.
“This politician’s wife,” I say as I watch the woman and her grandson. “Seems like she goes to a lot of trouble and risk just to taunt her husband. Especially considering all the women who find other ways to use us against their husbands.”
Lucius laughs dryly. “And you know, that one’s probably the only woman who comes near a gladiator and never fucks one of us.”
“Is that so?”
He nods. “Pity, too. What I wouldn’t give . . .” He releases a breath and watches her.
I watch her too, though without quite the same fascination. She’s beautiful, yes, and any man would be a fool to turn her away, but all I can think is, So you’re the one. The reason I’m here.
But who is the reason she is here?
I watch her eyes. Follow wherever she looks, waiting for that exchanged glance to reveal the name I’m to give to Calvus.
Nothing. She gives me nothing. Her gaze drifts from one man to the next, but her expression only changes whenever she looks at her grandson and smiles. Either she’s incredibly adept at hiding her affections, or the man she’s bedding isn’t here. Or that man doesn’t exist at all, and she’s only here to flaunt the grandson her husband would prefer to deny.
But something tells me Calvus won’t accept any of those answers.
The women and children leave, and we’re back to our intense training as if there were never any disturbance. I can’t forget her, but like the men, I have to concentrate on the upcoming Ludi, and before long my mind is back on the sparring at hand.
The afternoon is growing hot, the sun beating on my back and shoulders. Muscles ache, bruises throb; even the dulled and wooden training weapons are biting in harder and leaving darker marks these days. We’re days away from roaring spectators and sharpened blades, and it shows in every man’s fighting stance and every intense, punishing match.
Hasdrubal jabs his weapon into my side, driving a grunt out of me, and I raise my index finger.
“Ha!” He retreats, waving his sword triumphantly. “Beat the fucking left-handed son of a whore.”
I chuckle and take off my helmet. “Maybe you’ll survive if we ever face each other in the arena, then.”
“Oh, I will.” He gestures menacingly with his weapon. “If I don’t, I’m dragging you with me to Tartarus.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “I’d like to see you try.” Then I gesture at the water trough. “Enjoy your victory. I’m getting a drink, and then I’ll put you back in your place.”
He snorts, but says nothing, and I leave my weapons and helmet beside the circle before I go to the trough.
I ladle out some much-needed water. If it’s this hot today, it’ll be even worse during the games, I’m sure of it. Good thing I’ll only be out on the sands for one fight at a time rather than continuous sparring under this heat.
As I drink the warm water, movement catches my eye. I turn just in time to see Drusus.
He steps out of the corridor leading from his house, but he doesn’t cross the training yard. Instead, he stops at the gate leading out the rear of the ludus.
He’s alone. His bodyguards are nowhere to be seen. The leather armor is there as it always is, but in spite of the oppressive heat, he also wears a heavy gray cloak around his shoulders.
He pulls up his hood, slips out the gate, and disappears.
As I stare at the closed gate, something twists in the pit of my stomach. If Drusus is leaving this place unescorted and unguarded, he’s going somewhere he doesn’t want anyone, not even his most trusted men, to know about. But a lanista’s bodyguar
ds aren’t just for show. The streets are arguably more dangerous for lanistae than most of the rest of us. Especially with the Ludi Appollinares just days away; the gods know what the other lanistae—or Drusus himself—might do to gain an advantage over another familia before the games even start.
“Hey, Saevius!” Hasdrubal smacks a shield with a sword. “You gonna drink the whole trough, or we gonna spar?”
“Be right there.” I throw back the last of the water and then glance at the back gate one more time. Drusus won’t walk among his own men without bodyguards, but he’ll go out into the city alone? Shaking my head, I turn to the trough again and hook the empty ladle on the rack above the water.
Perhaps the man’s more of a fool than I thought.
Fucking fools, half the men in my familia.
The Ludi Appollinares begin today. Last night was the feast that’s always held before the beginning of a Ludi, and those lavish banquets are the only times gladiators dine with noblemen. Tradition dictates that today’s entertainment were last night’s guests of honor, and the munerator saw to it we were provided with as much fine food and wine as we could eat.
And of course, the men ate and drank themselves senseless.
“Oh, Bacchus,” Hasdrubal groaned midway through the meal. “Why can’t I drink this every day like a rich citizen?”
“Because you’re a slave, fool,” Quintus said, chuckling into his own cup.
“Besides,” Philosir said, “do rich citizens really enjoy it the way we do?”
“What do you mean?” Hasdrubal asked.
“Think about it.” Philosir took a long drink. “We’re men who only taste wine once a season, and we’re men who might die tomorrow.” He raised his cup with a clumsy, drunken gesture. “And does wine taste any better than it does when it’s both your first and your last?”
A murmur of agreement went up among the men, and we all raised our cups.
We ate, and we drank, and we carried on just like the freedmen and citizens around us. Which means half the men, especially those who’ve not been gladiators long, are ill and lethargic today. Idiots will be lucky if Drusus doesn’t kill them before they even get into the arena. Fortunately, their opponents aren’t doing much better, but the crowd will want fast, lucid fighters who can actually put enough force behind a blade to tear flesh.
In the tunnel beneath the stands, Drusus barks orders and has men scurrying to get weapons into the hands and greaves onto the legs of gladiators getting ready to fight. He’s as sharp and alert as some of the gladiators are sluggish. No one would ever guess Drusus drank as hard as all the others did last night.
He’d wandered by me at one point during the feast and made a clumsy, wavering gesture at me. “Y’know, it ain’t often a gladiator can eat like this.” Slurring badly, he added, “You’ve barely touched a thing. What’s wrong with you?”
I’d shrugged and torn off a piece of a fig with my teeth. “If my opponents wish to gorge themselves tonight to their own disadvantage, then let them. I’d rather live long enough to eat tomorrow night’s gruel.”
Drusus had laughed and smacked my arm. “Well, since I’m not providing the wine, but I will be out money if you get killed tomorrow, carry on with . . .” Another clumsy gesture at the table. “With not carrying on.”
Then he was gone, and this morning, so is any sign that he was ever drunk at all.
And curse me, I can’t help looking at him every chance I get. Before last night, I’d only seen him within the ludus. Among the men over whom he holds the power of life, death, and everything in between. Last night, he was among not only lanistae and fighters, but nobles, politicians, plebeians. Every walk of Pompeiian society had gathered for one giant feast, and all throughout the evening, I couldn’t help watching Drusus.
He stood out, and he blended in. As drunk as the plebs, as dignified as the rich men. As bold and intimidating as the fighters, as refined and elegant as the nobles.
And here, beneath the amphitheatre and surrounded by fighters and lanistae, he still stands out even while he blends in. It’s impossible to ignore or deny that even though he clearly belongs among us, there is also something about Drusus that sets him apart from all the other men down here. His decrepit, decaying brethren serve only to emphasize Drusus’s fine, smooth youth and the way he stands tall and proud even when every man in sight towers over him. Watching him now, I swear that elegance that let him walk boldly among nobles last night is even more conspicuous here. In both worlds—the lavish banquet and the filthy tunnels beneath the amphitheatre—he’s like a god strolling among those who think they’re gods.
Though I regard him with the same respect-bordering-on-fear I’d have for any lanista, I can’t help the way I look at him now and again when I’m sure no one, especially not Drusus himself, is looking at me. Or the way looking at him ignites an odd tingling beneath my skin—and belt—that isn’t just fear.
Neptune’s left tit, you damned fool. I shake my head and turn away from Drusus. For a heartbeat, anyway. I may not have put myself under the spell of Bacchus last night, but my concentration suggests otherwise.
I tear my gaze away from Drusus—again—and focus on the games and chaos going on around me.
The sun pounds the hot sand of the amphitheatre. The corridors beneath the stands, especially the tunnel leading out into the arena, gradually shift from a crowd of agitated, barely contained men to a steady trickle of the wounded and the triumphant who limp two, four, six at a time past those of us who have yet to fight. Lanistae berate those who fought poorly, grumble about the expense of replacing the fighters whose corpses still litter the arena sands, and warn the rest of their gladiators of the consequences of defeat.
With the rising heat in the crowded corridor, the air is thick and putrid. The sand at our feet is dark with the blood of the condemned noxii, who after meeting their sentences in the arena are dragged out on hooks for disposal. One retiarius leaves the arena victorious, but three steps into the tunnel staggers, drops his net and shield, and falls to one knee. He groans as he clumsily removes his helmet. His lanista helps him back to his feet. Two more unsteady steps, and the gladiator heaves into his helmet.
I grimace and look away, thankful he’s not part of my familia, or I might have found myself wearing that damned helmet. He isn’t the first to retch after his fight, and he’ll surely not be the last, but the smell is an unwelcome addition to everything else in the steamy air back here. Thank the gods the two men who had their bowels ripped open were removed quickly, but even now, that foul smell lingers.
Above our heads, the crowd roars and the arena shakes as spectators stomp their feet in the stands, their thunderous approval drowning out the clashing of metal in the fight for which they’re cheering.
No different from Rome, then. Perhaps tighter confines, perhaps a different group of fighters. No chariot races. No emperor. But for all the sand and the blood and the stench and the noise, it’s no different at all.
A female fighter stands beside the gate, armed and armored, ready to fight. The crowd will certainly whistle and catcall when they see her—and, likely, her opponent—but the men back here don’t dare.
The gate opens, and the woman puts on her plumed helmet just before she charges out into the arena.
A burly lanista elbows Drusus. “Surprised you’re not sending any ladies into the ring. Seems like your deal, eh, Drusus?”
Expression unchanging, Drusus turns his head toward the other. “Why? Are your men lacking in opponents who might equal them?”
The humor instantly evaporates from the other’s face. “You want to say that to my men?”
“I can’t imagine it would come as any surprise to them,” Drusus says. “But do let them know that if they want to be trained by men to fight men, there’s always room in my familia.”
“We’re talkin’ ’bout fighters,” the other lanista says with a sneer. “Not the cocks you hire to service you.”
Drusus closes his
eyes and releases a sharp breath. The other lanista chuckles triumphantly, exchanging glances with one of the men beside him, both of them snickering over apparently getting the best of—
Drusus punches him in the gut. The other lanista doubles over, and Drusus knees him in the face, then shoves him backward. Everyone scatters, staying well out of the way as the stunned, bleeding lanista tumbles onto his back.
Drusus stands over him, his expression as calm as it ever is, and puts a foot on the man’s throat. He bends, leaning down, and the other lanista squirms and thrashes as Drusus puts more weight on his foot.
“If I ever put a woman in the arena,” Drusus growls, “rest assured, she’d make short work of half the men in your familia.”
The pinned lanista responds with sputters and gagging sounds.
“Hey, get off him!” One of the other lanistae starts toward Drusus, but Drusus just puts more weight on his foot, and the would-be attacker wisely backs off.
Drusus shifts his attention back to the man below him, whose face is quickly turning purple. “Are we clear, Aetius?”
As much as he can with a foot across his throat, the other lanista nods vigorously.
“Sure about that?” Drusus asks.
Another nod and more sputtering.
Drusus lifts his foot. The other two men help the coughing, purple-faced lanista to his feet and quickly lead him away to put some space between him and Drusus.
“What did you think would happen?” one of the others says as they walk away. “You fuck with Drusus, you’re lucky he don’t cut your throat.”
Drusus just smirks and watches the fight in the arena.
Hasdrubal’s fight is coming up, so Titus and I help him put on his equipment. I make sure the bronze greaves are secured over his shins, and Hasdrubal adjusts the thick leather manica on his right arm until it’s as comfortable as the damned things ever are.